Old Notebooks

I don’t tend to collect a lot of clutter in my room. What I do have is an assortment of journals and notebooks sitting in various piles. Most of them are in some stage of use –one for poetry, one for quotes, that one half-used for half-baked thoughts, the other a collection of diary entries, another for sketches and overheard pieces of conversation. Needless to say, I often only get half-way through a notebook –or less than that even– before I misplace it or simply move on to another.

Today I spent a slow couple of hours listening to music and organizing my bedroom. As one does when they are “cleaning” rooms, I spent much of the time reading through old papers, letters, and, of course, rediscovered journals. I was enjoying especially the forgotten bits of poetry I tend to scribble almost illegibly:

“Race against the pavement,
into the night so dark
the starts can’t shine.”

“Little Soldier.
Marching on
as bodies fall and
blood pools at your feet.
Perfected those defenses
wishing someone would try harder
to put a chink
in that armor.
You take up too much space
in a lonely world
with no room for you.
No need for caring
for your wounds.
Rest in that forgotten corner,
soldier girl. Let the war
take you.”

“Cut the curve of our fear
into the skin of a tree.
Bark grows over.”

“Angry little banshee
cutting words on the insides
of your wrists.”

“I want
to be forgiven,
for everything that I am not
strong enough to be
yet. “

“Too weak to
bridge the gap of healing,
too unbelieving
to try.
Fold me and
hold me,
and keep me
next to your heart.”

It is interesting to reflect on how much of those words I wouldn’t write today. But too, how many of them I still write, write repeatedly: the themes of my life.
It is interesting how I change, and also how I don’t.

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