Every day

It's a question

of my discipline.

Every moment

I try to find intent.

Every hour

lead me into discontent.

Every year

I contemplate where I have been.

All these days

have gone by me

without incident.

All these moments

I have tried

and I have failed again.

All these hours

I waste

locked up in myself,

Stuck in the prison cell in my head.

All these years

Go helplessly by

bringing me closer to the firmament.

When I was a young teen, I had a rather traumatic experience that occurred during my Sunday school class. I chose the word ‘traumatic’ because when you’re a young girl of fifteen years of age, most everything that doesn’t go as you perceive it should could easily be labeled as ‘traumatic’.

To begin with, the newly formed class had combined ninth through twelfth graders due to the small number of attendees. This alone caused me anxiety, because for me there were now older boys whom I admired from afar in my class. Unfortunately, as a naive and shy sophomore in high school, I already felt all eyes were upon me, judging me constantly. The new combination of kids, both younger and older was definitely not appealing. To make matters worse, there was a new teacher in the class. Dick, as I’ll choose to refer to him henceforth, was a news broadcaster for a local station and his reputation in the church proceeded him. His prestige and influence was paramount, and it was evident to the most casual observer that Dick was full of himself, believing that he was unmatchable in all things, including an abundance of intellect.

I remember sitting in the newly formed circle of Sunday School members as Dick read the opening Bible verse. We all know it – it’s the one in Corinthians that references fornication. Well Dick read the scripture, following it with, “Do you believe that? Well, don’t because it’s bull.” He then looked at a young boy in the group and asked, “Aren’t you glad that part about fornication is bull?”

I remember everyone, except me, giggling nervously. I was too appalled by Dick’s statement about what he’d just read to manage even a smile. He must have noticed the look on my face (unfortunately, my face has always revealed precisely that about which I'm thinking), because he quickly turned his attention to me and asked, “What’s wrong, Cindy? Don’t you believe that’s a load of bull?”

The roar in my ears was deafening, but I vividly remember shaking my head and saying “no” with conviction. For all I know, I released my profound, emphatic “no” in a scream.

“Why not, Cindy?”

“Because I don’t believe anything in the Bible or anything Jesus said is a load of bull.”

There it was. In my conservative, young teen ways, I adamantly believed the Word of God and defended it with my all despite the round of surprised eyes, much to my horror, turned toward me. Young teen Cindy, who never said much of anything unless she was fully comfortably in her environment, had managed to speak up, defending what she truly believed with all her youthful heart.

I don’t remember much of what happened thereafter, but I do remember leaving the class extremely upset, horrified by what my Sunday School teacher had dared to say to his class. In retrospect, perhaps Dick was a student of reverse psychology and looking for just such a reaction as the one I gave him. To this day, I'm unsure, and I really don’t know what his preferred method of teaching was supposed to be, I just know it had an adverse effect on me. It scarred me, and I did not want to go back - did not want to attend another one of his classes.

My mother, ever supportive, was as horrified by the events as I had been. She lodged a complaint with the church’s council, but it was easily dismissed; instead, Dick and his teaching methods were supported. In response to the council’s failure to review my complaint, I did not want to attend Sunday School again and swore I would not.

A few days later, Sunday morning rolled around again and from where I lay across the bed, I watched my mother dress for church. At one point, she paused and took a seat beside me on the bed.

“You know, you can stay home if you want, but if it was me, I would give the class another chance,” she said.

Surprised by her suggestion, I shook my head. “I can’t go back.” I remembered the look on all my fellow classmates’ faces too clearly to think about returning.

“Some things we have to face in this life are very hard, but it is important to face them despite the difficulty. If you go back and give the class a second chance, you will come out looking better in the long run. If you go to class today and then decide you don’t want to return, it will be fine, but at least you can say you gave it a fair chance.”

I remember listening to her words, and a dawning realization crept into my being. No matter how difficult it might be, I had to go back to that horrible Sunday School class so that I would not be labeled a ‘quitter’. I knew if I went back, my reaction and my point of view about the entire situation would have more meaning and validity.

Despite my initial reluctance and prompted by my mother's words, I rose that morning and dressed. I did attend Dick’s class again, and I entered the room with my head held high despite the surprised looks of those in attendance. I remember sitting in that cold metal chair within the Sunday School circle, an unnatural calmness filling me. Deep inside I knew I had just accomplished a great feat and won a war even though it might have been one that I waged with myself.

It is a fact that the invaluable lesson taught by my mother and learned so reluctantly by me that morning has continued to thrive and grow inside me through long years. I cannot begin to name the number of times in my life when I had to continue to go on, to try again, and to confront a situation I did not wish to face. Sometimes doing so was for the first time and sometimes it was for the second, third, or even more times. Even as an ever impressionable teenager, on that Sunday day so long ago, I was able to learn that whatever the outcome may be, I would always be a winner in the grand scheme of things for confronting an uncomfortable situation. Thank you, dear Momma, for teaching me to persist and persevere despite a desire to hide; such valuable lessons are the very crux and essence of life.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” Kahlil Gibran

You were my love,

You are my loss,

You were my light,

You are my darkness,

You were my everything,

You are the nothing that I have left.

A sheet was tossed carelessly in front of me. Black scrawls of ink covered the ivory page, slashes of red marked the edges. I felt it in the deepest part of my gut, the violent teeth of disappointment, as it ate me up, limb by limb. I looked around the room, at the pure happiness radiating off of my classmates. The creature inside of me took another bite, but instead of blood filling the hole, my own disappointment did. Why couldn't I be as happy as them? But I knew the answer, because I could see the crimson marks. My vision began to blur as tears battled against my eyes. I couldn't cry now, it would only make me look weak. Embarrassing. I was already failing at fighting back at the monster inside of me. I couldn't possibly handle the beast that was embarrassment. Together, they could eat me alive in seconds. I wallow in my own sorrow for several minutes. Let the disappointment kill me. I never want to feel like this again. Zoning back in to the current time, I decide that I can't die right now, it's not the time. I am met with an expectant look from the creator of my torture. Deep inside, I know it is not her fault, but I cannot allow myself to begin looking towards the true culprit. I know I am to blame. She asks me, wordlessly, if I would like to attempt to complete it once more. One more chance. I can make this right. But I don't. Instead, I say quietly, my voice barely a whisper, “I don't know if I want to try again.”

I hesitate to give loving a seventeenth try

accustomed to the smell of my own farts

without regret shame embarrassment rue

grown to not considering me & you

just me although drowning in despair

waters gloomy familiar I've learned to

survive without oxygen so deep down

among the octopus squid starfish crab

slow to move & prey lively well active

I too find I can more than exist without

your hot air filled bubbles of love & lust

inhaling just black ink & pithy flatulence

In the shadows of my heart, where whispers dwell,

A battle rages, one I know too well.

The past looms large, its echoes loud and clear,

Fear and hope entwined, drawing near.

I’ve walked this road, felt the thorns and the blooms,

Danced with dreams beneath the midnight moons.

But scars remain, reminders of the pain,

And I don’t know if I want to try again.

The sunrise calls, with promises of new,

Yet doubt persists, casting its muted hue.

The lessons learned, they weigh upon my mind,

A tangled web of what I seek to find.

Can I believe, as once I did before,

That there's a door, beyond this fearsome roar?

Or am I bound, to linger in the past,

Afraid to leap, to love, to truly last?

The heart is frail, yet resilient too,

But trust is hard, when wounds are still so new.

The light and dark, they dance within my soul,

Leaving me uncertain, questioning the goal.

Should I embrace the unknown paths ahead,

Or let the memories keep me instead?

I stand at crossroads, torn by doubt and then,

I wonder if I want to try again.

Loving you is like building a snowman in the summer

It slowly melts away, and you're only left with the buttons, carrot and sticks

Representing the five senses we both shared together one day

Your touch

Your smell

Your taste

Your presence

Your voice

Leaving them as memories of the past

They are limited but are still left over, being the only thing, you couldn't take

Loving you is anticipating the pain a heart break brings

Since it's only one sided

Loving you, it's my destruction

Yet I choose to do so

Ina secret room

Where you will never enter

One day I will light it up

The next I will paint it

The following I will decorate it

It will have 2 comfy chairs

It will have a coffee table with 2 mugs resting on it

One full

The other empty

One chair occupied

The other abandoned

Since loving you is all I want in this life

I will be waiting for you in my secret room

That you will never enter

And I will watch as you move on

And I will break

It is my destiny

But I don't know if I want to try again...

I don't know if I want to try it again. 'It' is putting myself out there and hurting the one I never wanted to. I knew from the start we were doomed for my unshakable feelings for his best friend and while I knew they were there, I tried to deny them for all of the six months. I pushed it off further and further but at a certain point, you get tired, and you can't push it anymore.

I knew we didn't feel equal amounts for each other, one month in and he said "I love you" while I was still trying to shake the fact that his best friend was now dating the girl I convinced myself wasn't a threat. I figured with time it would get better, and it did. I started to hear more and more terrible things about his friend and I knew I had made the right decision, I was taking the high road. Until the end of the road was certainly in sight. I knew it was coming and with that, I knew he was going to get hurt. From the start, I knew it wasn't going to end well but I kept pushing anyway.

I was right. He hated me. The one person I'd hoped wouldn't get hurt, got hurt because of me. He still doesn't know the true reason, I'm not sure I even know the true reason. But deep down I think he knew. He knew some part of me was still connected with his friend. We never had the closure I needed for us to be done and he knew that. He knew in my eyes if his friend ever came back, and left the other girls, I would run right back. And the worst part I hate myself for everyday is that he's right. I would.

So never again will I let someone fall for me. Never again will I allow someone else to hurt because of me. Never again will I attract before I am healed. And never again will I ever try it again.

I don't know if I want to try again

all my thoughts

no all my feelings

no all of me, is a tangled mess

And I lack the words to unlock a cage I put myself in.

I can't trust them

I can't trust Him

Hell, I can't trust me

I don't know if I want to try again

I'm scared

I'm tired

I'm bruised, battered, and beaten

Spring stabbed me in the back

Summer came searching for blood

Autumn took what was left of my heart

and Winter left me for dead

I don't know if I want to try again

I don't know if i want to write again