I have so many little half written poems and ideas, I’ve decided I want to collect them here. Maybe one day considering I’ve got so much poetry I’ll decide to complete these little odds and ends and actually publish a poetry book. Now onto the bits and pieces…
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I earned every fang in my bloody mouth. I earned every scar and raw throat. I earned my viciousness. I cannot be soft, the person capable of that was lost long ago.
***
Becoming cold was unexpected. I’ve been hot my entire life. Hot blooded. Hot headed. Always burning. I don’t know when the ice started to encroach. Cannot pinpoint the moment I became frozen. I still rage inside. The inferno still licks underneath my skin, but it is met with chilling control.
***
I don’t know how to avoid being a wrecking ball, freight train girl. I don’t know how to be soft or easy or submissive. I’ve always been chaos and destruction. Those things are as natural as breathing. I can turn life upside down, can make storm clouds on sunny days. Smoke, ashes, tears, pain, it’s everything I’ve always known. Even the things I create begin with destruction. Because everything has to change, to be molded through suffering, through degradation and pain, to be worth anything. If not then I’ve been through Hell, and gained no knowledge from it.
Because if I am not allowed creation, I will destroy everything. And isn’t that the very same thing.
***
I chase feeling like it's the last drop of water in the desert.
***
He is cracked bones and crooked teeth, not pretty or alluring. She is smoke and moonlight, ephemeral at the very best. One so hard to catch, to collar and own, too busy dancing in rain to care either way. The other calm and quiet. He is seeking, searching, never quite finding answers to questions he doesn’t know to ask. And the collision is closer to train wreck than heavens glory. Teeth gnash, tears spill, throats burning from words screamed. The earth didn’t move when they met, but the stars gave a quiet sigh, as though things were finally just right. She was no Goldilocks, and he wasn’t the Bear, but somehow they fit together, their sins bared.
***
I don’t think it’s the usual creeping edginess. This feels like change, unwavering. Like a black, crashing tide. Planning to drown us all, drag us into the abyss.
I can’t say I’m scared, I’m used to the drowning. To the flailing worry, the claws forever dug deep into my chest.
I think the life raft would the the true horror, the illusion of safety, even as the monsters lurk just under your feet.
I dont live in delusion, unaware, maybe that isn’t for the best. Maybe the deluded have been gifted peace beyond what the rest of us can understand.
I’ve watched others be rescued on boats, lights and helicopters, flashing to save them as they inhale the blackness down into their lungs. Gasping. Reaching. Always reaching.
I don’t know panic like that, the water has always been home to me. The safety is unknown. Better the monsters we know, than the evil unseen.
Maybe I am meant for the depths, the constant battle, it feels natural.
***
The Cursed
You won’t know peace, but you may impart it on others.
Visions will haunt you, the energy will catch you off guard.
Your words will scare people, horrify them when they come to fruition.
Loneliness will permeate every corner of your life, the few that stay you will push away.
The true curse, you feel, so strongly it tortures you. You feel with a vibrancy few can imagine.
The Seer
It’s inherited, the way that you see, a generational curse, though it’s often framed like a blessing.
It will not be your only gift, just the strongest. The older you are, the more it shows it’s self.
In the hardest of times, the visions, the knowing will be almost without pause.
The path will seem foggy and dark at times, you will bring light to others, answers to some.
They won’t always believe you. Another cross to bear.
The Gift
You can see the corners of people, their dark motivations. You can protect those who listen.
The knowing is a boon, used wisely, your dreams will come to fruition.
You will recognize those who are meant for you with ease. Love a recompense for your suffering.
You are comfortable with the darkness of your gift, it nourishes you.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you will fall in love with your sight. Rely on it more than the oxygen in your lungs
***
What’s the point of burning down a kingdom already ruins. Why turn crumbling building to ash. There was no shining eyes, and children’s laugh here. Why March an army down already empty and decimated streets.
***
The pain in our lack of divinity is haunting. We are not old gods, reincarnated to new purpose. We are not fae, dancing in the forest, luring in the mortals. We are not dragons, hoarding our riches, breathing fire on our enemies. No magic still exists in this world, it is stifling, the humid air crushing our lungs.
We are the monsters, the villains of the story, crushing and bashing everything that gives us life, that breaths hope into this universe. We cannot allow life to exist without pain. We’re not even special in our evils.
The dreamers, those of us born with stars in our eyes, that breathe in magic at our first breath. We become destroyed, tortured, ripped up filth on the street. Doormats to the worst of the universe. We’re not allowed to create change, to heal the curses set around us.
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When you feel like you’re needed. You don’t have to worry about being wanted.
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The world is designed to make you forget your divinity. Forces us to suppress our rage, our lust, anything that could fuel us. Force us to work our bodies and minds into exhaustion. Keep us fighting over pointless things so we never unlock our true potential.
I’m a Goddess, built in perfection, wrapped in unholiness. I will not be stripped of my power, it is intrinsic. No God nor man could take it. It is built into the very foundation of my soul.
***
My casket calls me, a siren song, ever entrancing. Years and years of willpower against it, tied to the beams of a ship I never chose to be on. There are days where I feel it hover, Death watching, waiting to welcome me home. It would take so little, and yet, hesitation has always stopped me. As if Life, flowers in her hair, is fighting for me, begging me to see it through until the end. It’s a lovers embrace, a mothers embrace, a promise that the call is nothing more than lies.
I am tired. The casket is my eternal bed, giving me relief for the first time. No dreams.
***
That is all for today folks. Hopefully you’ve enjoyed another look into the poetry of Taila. Maybe one day I’ll compile it all and release it into a single book. You never know what I’m going to decide to do next.
Taila Out.
