All I Have Left

This particular poem is dedicated to/ about a friend of mine. I've been writing a lot of poems lately about the people in my life, I suppose writing says all the things I have never been able to. It is something that I find interesting; I could write about how I feel all day with articulate verbosity and be content, for the most part, with never sharing it with a soul. These poems are like my diary in a way, I share the deepest part of my heart in them and through them, rarely intending for anybody to share them, anybody to understand that hidden part of myself. So here I offer you a peek into my diary as it were. Heartbreak is a universal trait, a feeling as human as our heartbeat. While the experience will vary, the pain reverberates in everything we are. This poem is about my experience. This friend knows of the existence of this poem, but said that he isn't ready for it. However, this poem is one of my best works and I want to share it/ my heart with you. If he reads this, and I truly hope that one day he does, well...I don't know. Step by little step he is coming back into my life and it thrills me in ways I wasn't ready to face. I missed my best friend. So I hope as you read this, that it encourages you or maybe that you can hear the broken beat of your own heart in it. So, if nothing else, please know you are not alone. This is an original work titled: All I Have Left


All I Have Left

I watched it.
From the start, I watched you trickle away
Piece by piece, dissipating from my life like water
Disappearing as you hit the dust
Where the sound of your absence echoed
The last drop pounding the last piece of my heart
You had dared to touch
The sound was deafening
It was painful and I could not bear it
I tried to let that last piece die
But a heart is not one to be severed
It pulsed and pounded, reminding me it remained
So I sought out the only way I knew
To quench the parched ground that had started to crack
But my hands grasped little but sand
Groping for a thing that no longer was there
Staring at my empty hands, my lip quivered
And I mourned the empty, listless nothing
That was now my possession
All I have now are pictures
Primarily in my mind as your face shines
My mind recalling you were my light in dark places
So I was Jean D'Arc crying on my sword
Realizing the sharpest pain was not your absence
But rather that you were no longer willing to fight for me
Though for the longest time I could not see it
Justice and Cupid are blind
Maybe the girl would've rather fallen on her sword
Than to see the beautiful everythings burn in the fire
Did she hear the voice of God?
Did I?

On the subject of writing

So recently I have been writing quite a bit. Primarily on my book, yes I am writing a book. It's strange actually. I started at the beginning, however the beginning is not the first part I 'saw' as a part of the story. So I started writing quite a while ago, at the beginning. However, like with anything written, I hit a wall. So, I pushed beyond the beginning and wrote the pieces that I 'knew'. Then I'd return to the part that stemmed from the beginning and I've been jumping back and forth like that the entire time I've been writing it. Well, recently I was able to tack on a huge 'piece' to the original line as it were. And with that ctrl-v stroke I breathed a sigh of relief. I am one step closer to being finished with it. A small step comparatively, but a step none the less.

Writing is rather like carrying a baby. There is that period where you find out it exists and you get so excited, tell all your friends. Though, as time progresses, the little thing starts dictating your life, sleepless nights and soon everything in your life becomes something that reminds you of it or makes you think "Hey, maybe when this thing grows up, they'll like this." You hear voices, real or imagined, that are telling you how it will look, the way it should act. Then there are those strange times that you swear you can hear its voice, it's own distinct voice calling to you. Telling you things, whispering your name, it makes schizophrenia look normal. It is no wonder that pregnant women and writers are not in a constant state of mental stability. Like pregnant women, the period of development ultimately leads up to birth. All the pain and discomfort ultimately leads to bringing this beautiful life into the world. Finally the rest of the world gets to see this little creation you've been carrying through and laboring on.

I am ready for that, to birth this thing, but it is quite a ways away from being ready. Like a baby, it's messy, it's going to make people angry, it will break their heart, it will make them laugh and maybe just maybe they'll see themselves reflected in its eyes. Who knows, it may even make a few people fall in love.

The whole thing started out with a dream. I had this ridiculously vivid dream, not of the beginning, oh no, that would have been too simple. I had a dream about the middle, it wasn't a funny scene as I would expect. The girl was alone and she was scared, terrified by what she was becoming. So she hid beneath her quilt and started to weep, unable to catch her breath. I woke up and as strange as it was, I put it in the back of my mind. The next dream I would have was not so kind. It was dark and heart breaking and is actually one of the saddest scenes in the story. This girl I had tried to ignore was holding the love of her life in her hands, pleading, perhaps with me. I watched with her as that love took his final breath and the light went from his eyes. I watched her screaming and then I watched her lose her humanity with the inability to cope with it. I woke up with tears in my eyes. I knew I needed to find out who this girl was, what was this couple's story. So began this mess of a writer's existence that I dived into.

Between said story and the poetry that I have been cranking out during school, I have written more in the past year than I have in my entire life and believe me when I sat that is saying something. It's a nice feeling actually. Eventually when I am finally done with school, I will be a middle school English teacher. However, to be a writer would be pretty nice too. Lord knows I have enough stories bouncing around in my head to get started. Which is another reason I decided to start a blog; so I can write and maybe even share some of my stories. I am excited about the possibilities.