Thompson, Stacey

The Proverbial Womb

posted Jun 4, 2013, 10:53 AM by Michael Wood   [ updated Jun 4, 2013, 10:53 AM ]

A War

posted Jun 4, 2013, 10:51 AM by Michael Wood   [ updated Jun 4, 2013, 10:51 AM ]

The Roads that Crossed

posted Jan 26, 2013, 7:31 PM by Stacey Thompson   [ updated Jan 26, 2013, 7:31 PM by Michael Wood ]

So here we are at the crossing of roads, 
and what lies ahead, I may never know.  
If I take the plunge and close my eyes 
and turn my head as I start to cry. 
Please understand that this is all of me, 
it's written out for all to see. 
And then comes the thought inside my head, 
that I must lie where I make my bed. 
I tore down the walls piece by piece, 
documenting everything without skipping a beat.  
Without missing a moment that changed my life.  
My writing is the husband and I, the wife.  
My words are like children...that I have raised, 
throughout the years, throughout the days.  
It was there for me like a caring mother, 
showing me the ways in which to love her.  
Taking out a pen and dancing around, 
creating music without making a sound.  
Creating art from the written word, 
and now I'm asking that it be heard.  
I've giving back the gift that I received, 
by quietly letting go of all I need. 
Turning in my pen for a desk out there, 
where they come and judge and stop to stare.  
And somehow you become this other self, 
who's giving advise while accepting help.  
You become known as the author of that book.  
But even you have to take a second look.  
For has the time come that I moved ahead? 
Stepped into life and get out of bed.  
For all along you mistook the very meaning, 
I was referring to my day dreaming. 
When my head is healed up by my tiny hand, 
and I'm staring at a page hoping to take a stand.  
Hoping to fill it with all my words, 
hoping they'll listen to all they've heard. 
I want so badly to be know as the fighter. 
The girl who fought to become a writer.  
The woman who struggled with the idea of self, 
is now taking advise while giving help. 
And she's writing a book for all to read, 
while tending to her planed seed.  
So here we are at the roads that crossed, 
with everything given and nothing lost.  

A Man and His Drink

posted Jan 26, 2013, 7:24 PM by Stacey Thompson   [ updated Jan 26, 2013, 7:24 PM by Michael Wood ]

It was a match made in heaven, a man and his drink.  
Thought the gentlemen in the bar, as though they could think.  
For years upon years there was such a man, 
who believed in escaping, as his only plan.  
He sunk deeper and deeper, and no one seemed to mind.  
For this man, he was, one of a kind.  
They built this man up, stronger than steel.  
Taught him they ways to escape what he feels.  
Tears serve no purpose when your fighting for your life.  
Thinking about your family and missing your wife.  
Where your in the final moment that it's him or it's you, 
there's no doubt what this man will ultimately do.  

But what happens next is where the story begins, 
when he reflects on his life and admits all his sins.  
What happens in this room when the man stops the fighting 
and he comes to terms with what he's been hiding.  
When the bottle becomes his only escape, 
the man looks away, consumed by the hate.  
Enraged by the thoughts that run through his head, 
as he lay there at night alone in his bed.  
Remembering the war and reliving the violence, 
laying there drunk, vulnerable from the silence.  
This man did not ask for these memories to stay, 
he fought in a war that did not go away.  
He's been miles from home but now that he's here, 
isn't he safe from the terror and fear?

But what happens if this man slowly loses his way.  
And with everything thats been said, he's got nothing to say.  
What happens to this man when he turns away from the cup. 
And proudly proclaims that he's had enough.  
What do I do when I feel all his pain, 
when  I finally recognize that he lives with such shame.  
He felt guilty tonight because he wanted to drink, 
and it's all that his brain, wanted him to think.  
But what he doesn't see from the outside looking in, 
is that this is where the strength can really begin.  
Taking control of another is easy to do, 
but how much control can you have over you? 
This my friend was the very first stride, 
now hold on tight as you go for a ride.  
Down memory lane where nothing has changed 
but you get to write on the script of this page.  
It was a match made in hell that man and his drink.  
Or so you have thought, or so you now think.  

She fought in a war...

posted Jan 26, 2013, 7:19 PM by Stacey Thompson   [ updated Jan 26, 2013, 7:19 PM by Michael Wood ]

She fought in a war that she probably shouldn't, 
with the eyes of a girl and the strength of a woman. 
And all she's got left is the words in her head, 
and how they made judgments by the things that she said.  
She fought with every...fiber in her being, 
hoping in the end it would have some kind of meaning.  
Maybe somewhere...far down the road, 
the story will make sense as its being told.  
Maybe somewhere...else in time, 
I wasn't yours and you weren't mine.  
Maybe I'm mad and kind of pissed off, 
cause things didn't go the way that I thought.  
Writing and painting is my way of expressing, 
all of the feelings that I've been repressing.  
See I know a little something...about pain, 
about the embarrassment, engulfed by the shame.  
I too have days where the walls meet my fists, 
my cup is half full, but it's half filled with piss.  
My mind has taken me to another dimension of time, 
where I was brought back to face what was mine.  
The residual fear that creeps in my head, 
and grabs hold of my thoughts as I lay there in my bed.  
I feel like screaming but I can't make a sound. 
But no one would know, because no ones around.  
I deal with the guilt, embarrassment and shame. 
But yours and mine, they don't look the same.  
I may have fought with all of my might, 
but this time it wasn't worth putting up a fight.  
This time I needed to take a step back, 
and make up for myself everything that you lacked.  
I had to stop putting my faith in your hands. 
I had to stop screaming and making demands.  
We both fought in wars that maybe we shouldn't, 
but I am approaching this war as a woman.  
And as a woman who is so filled with feeling, 
Laying there at night staring up at the ceiling. 
I beg of you please remember my story. 
Remember my strength and all of my glory.  
Remember the time when I begged on my knees, 
begging you to feel and empathize, please.  
It wasn't until then that I understood your pain. 
But from that point on things haven't been the same.  
And I have changed so much since that lonely time. 
Aggressively claiming back what is rightfully mine.  
And I find myself in a familiar place. 
With a different setting and a different face.  
But once again faced with the decision to peruse, 
one day meeting the healthy version of you.  
See I fight in wars that I wish I just wouldn't, 
with the girl to lead, the way for the woman. 
And show her the strength that evolved out of pain, 
with nothing familiar, but everything's the same.  
I may have fought and I may have lost, 
but I didn't give up despite the cost.  
Because this woman derives strength from the child withing, 
and that is why this fight, she'll undoubtedly win.  


posted Jan 10, 2013, 10:20 AM by Michael Wood   [ updated Jan 10, 2013, 10:20 AM ]

He fought in a war that I could not understand,
with the eyes of a boy and the heart of a man.
His innocence they took and emotion denied,
as he watched them kill brothers, he silently cried.
His tears were no use when they had to push ahead,
and with everything he felt, nothing was said.
He drank away the pain and all of the sorrow,
and all of his dreams for a better tomorrow.
With every passing sip the memories had faded,
leaving him broken and terribly jaded.
Feeling like a failure too afraid to come forward.
Wishing their expectations could somehow be lowered.
Silencing the phone whenever it rings,
but the distance doesn't seem to change anything.
Feeling alone as if nobody cares,
oh please help my friend for he's terribly scared.
He's stronger than this but too weak to come back,
for the emotion it takes he unfortunately lacks.
The system that changed him is ready to help,
but change worthy beliefs, begin with himself.
And if he doesn't think he can heal, than where should he turn?
Cause deep down inside I'm getting concerned.
I worry all the time that it will all be too much,
And in the end I will lose out on the man that I love.
If my writing could save him, I'd put it on this page.
If only there was some way to help him be saved.
For the war took away, so much more than time.
It took away from me, the man I call mine.
And though he wasn't injured where anyone can see,
the wound isn't healing from PTSD.
It's stabbing him in the back, and messing with his head,
as he lay there in pain, alone in his bed.
My heart bleeds for him and I can't help but feel,
like something is wrong because this doesn't seem real.
One day he's good and on top of his game,
and the next day there back to being the same.
The depression and the anger he rightfully owns,
but the tragedy of war has invaded my home.
We cannot lower our expectations to meet your demands,
the devastation of war knows not where it lands.
But the wife of a solider, the wife of a marine,
has a voice deep inside her that desperately screams.
He is not the same, and my darling needs help.
After everything he's seen and everything he's felt.
He watched as his brothers were killed by his side,
with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
He heard how they screamed and took their last breath,
and he stared in the face of the evil of death.
Those men gave their lives for their country, their friends.
They'd go back and do it all over again.
And some returned home but some became ghosts,
but what kills me inside and hurts me the most.
Is the idea that he fears admitting the truth,
it changed him inside and there was nothing he could do.
Helpless he feels just like in the war,
wishing he could have done just a little bit more.
Maybe things would be different and maybe they wouldn't.
Maybe I was meant to write this, but maybe I shouldn't.
I've been keeping his secret now for a long stretch of time,
protecting his emotions as if they were mine.
Feeling the pain that I knew he once felt,
playing the card from the hand he was dealt.
Was the joker really laughing, with that smirk on his face,
or was he having another one of those kind of days.
I couldn't help but notice that my friend he was crying,
and inside my friend is silently trying
To reach out for help, for someone to listen.
Someone to show him, all he's been missing.
Because he fought in a war, that I'll never understand,
With the heart of a boy and the eyes of a Man.

Stacey H. Thompson

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