My first attempt at metaphoric writing
Outside the glass house looking in, odious inklings stir,
as imageries, drag me, racing backwards looking for that
place where time was stagnant, tethering itself to peace,
if in fact, the peace was a reality and not an imagined safe
place in your head.
Distorted, yet longed for days when droplets fell from
your eyes in both gladness and despair the days that took
your ability to breathe, to dream, finding yourself, not
knowing you, but only whom they thought you should be,
and the frustration of not achieving that mark, moved always
just out of your reach. Escape was desired, yet feared.
The insatiable hunger for a mother's compassion and indications
of love that seemed never to appear on the wind blown horizon of
your child's vision and perspective. Thirst for acknowledgement
that kept you awake at night, trying to swallow the bitterness of
parched emotions, as vowels and consonants with weaponry
keep captive the dreams trying to drag themselves from the pit,
violated and weary.
Sharpened objects flying toward you, looking, strangely like
extended tongues with no limitation on distance or time. Early
you become agile at trying to dodge the piercing of the blades but
remember the impalement when the movement was the wrong
one. Only your eyes could see the blood from the wound, and
only your ears hear the laughter that burns the brand on your soul.
You shudder at the multiplication of the false words spoken by you
as to your wellness and the people in the glass house look out at you
and shake their heads, not understanding your inability to participate
in their celebrations. The blinders on their eyes drive you to insanity,
wanting to extend your hand and rip them off, screaming at them to see.
A long breath presses up though your lungs and forces down the over-
whelming desire to shed tears that they did not see then, and they will not
see now. So you keep your paper towels and Windex on hand, ever
cleaning the glass house in vain, trying to remove every spot that
might occlude your entrance, but you know your place. So you continue
observations of life through the glass wall, from the outside looking in.
Poetry by Kathryn Walsh
Read 712 times
Written on 2006-07-15 at 08:55
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The Glass House
The Glass HouseOutside the glass house looking in, odious inklings stir,
as imageries, drag me, racing backwards looking for that
place where time was stagnant, tethering itself to peace,
if in fact, the peace was a reality and not an imagined safe
place in your head.
Distorted, yet longed for days when droplets fell from
your eyes in both gladness and despair the days that took
your ability to breathe, to dream, finding yourself, not
knowing you, but only whom they thought you should be,
and the frustration of not achieving that mark, moved always
just out of your reach. Escape was desired, yet feared.
The insatiable hunger for a mother's compassion and indications
of love that seemed never to appear on the wind blown horizon of
your child's vision and perspective. Thirst for acknowledgement
that kept you awake at night, trying to swallow the bitterness of
parched emotions, as vowels and consonants with weaponry
keep captive the dreams trying to drag themselves from the pit,
violated and weary.
Sharpened objects flying toward you, looking, strangely like
extended tongues with no limitation on distance or time. Early
you become agile at trying to dodge the piercing of the blades but
remember the impalement when the movement was the wrong
one. Only your eyes could see the blood from the wound, and
only your ears hear the laughter that burns the brand on your soul.
You shudder at the multiplication of the false words spoken by you
as to your wellness and the people in the glass house look out at you
and shake their heads, not understanding your inability to participate
in their celebrations. The blinders on their eyes drive you to insanity,
wanting to extend your hand and rip them off, screaming at them to see.
A long breath presses up though your lungs and forces down the over-
whelming desire to shed tears that they did not see then, and they will not
see now. So you keep your paper towels and Windex on hand, ever
cleaning the glass house in vain, trying to remove every spot that
might occlude your entrance, but you know your place. So you continue
observations of life through the glass wall, from the outside looking in.
Poetry by Kathryn Walsh
Read 712 times
Written on 2006-07-15 at 08:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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