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Stacey Thompson
The Roads that Crossed
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
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...
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. |
A WAR
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