a confessional

I confess, I am a woman of my own volition.
He's been letting me spit in his mouth, wide open.
He came and I was in the wind that brought him.
I've been his squeeze and I've been nothing.

In the vicinity of his brogues, I had been knee knocking.
Caught in a crowd, I've groaned to be scoped
out and tossed in as a treat that'll never breathe
or be
anything more than what I was

I was a sweet something, made a nectar of me.
I've been spitting in their mouths, wide open.
They let me.

The torture of seeking your inner pains gone physical, is that it'll never rupture.
It doesn't transfer the way you'd hoped it would and you're still stuck there in the mud.
Your stems keep disappearing and if you reach in, you've vanished.

I confess, I've never found it in me to stay.
I trucked my self back, where I had my arm around you,
but you've always been the tangle in the back my hair,

the mollusk
in my gut.

I've been spitting in your mouth, wide open.
You let me.

I confess, I am confused,
I've been looking for my microscopic things when there were none

to be found

I was nothing to be found.

Reviews

[. serah .]

-- i don't think i've read anything as powerfully feminine and poignant as this piece of poetry... and i'm not saying this for the sake of saying this... -- your language is very circa 2016 and yet it weaves in the beauty of classical english instinctively and intuitively when you find expression in lines like "I was a sweet something, made a nectar of me."... -- you are exceptionally skilful...

-- thematically speaking, i'm astounded by how you've defined the contours of a kind of anonymity that you've stumbled upon while seeking an identity... -- your words make me wonder if there is such a thing as an identity that some find and i haven't found... because i relate to the idea of being "nothing to be found"... -- there are layers and layers within that anonymity/identity... some are social and some are personal... some are determined by social behaviour and some by personal aspirations... -- we live somewhat alone and yet we are somehow enmeshed in a social setting we don't quite comprehend or relate to... -- and then there is poetry in our pages... and poetic behaviour in the real world... -- for me, that poetic behaviour is a kind of free-flowing freedom... -- if they let the girl-woman be a non-conformist, even in a confused sort of way, it's because they are too confined and are looking for a way out... and that's why she's fascinating... and yet they return to the cocoon of their confined spaces... to find comfort in the safety of the familiar... perhaps because she's too innovative... too into discovering and unearthing new ways to be and too unafraid of making her own mistakes... expressing and dealing with her confusion all on her own... -- she's just fiercely fearless and they don't know exactly how profound that is... not just for her... but for them as well... so they look away and not notice her beyond a point... or maybe they pretend not to notice her beyond a point... and that sends her into a spin of doubting the essence of her very 'self'...

-- and these are just some of the thoughts that your post triggers... -- very compelling stuff... it'll stay with me... -- i like such forays into the realm of changing perceptions... -- they help me get a better sense of where i might be at...

[NeuroVersifier]

You really do have great talent, both in terms of wordcraft and intellect. Really enjoyed reading this. You are confronting some important psychosocial themes here.

[wolfshrew]

I appreciate the positive feedback. It's admittedly nice to hear that about something that is so personally fulfilling to me.

[Chris]

Careful - you could be noticed and then what would you do?

It isn't all that hard to be understood ...it's just recognizing that someone did.

[h d e rushin]

the move from confessional to confrontational brings a young Sexton to mind, and not the
crazy Sexton but the Sexton who found great sex as liberation and the flirt as a coy
rumble, dizzily declared as poetic. And yet throughout the poem one thinks of the classics...

"long as the wild boar shall love the mountain heights,
and fish the streams, while bees on thyme and crickets
feed on dew, thy name, thy praise,
their honor shall endure"

virgil..

the feminine voice is powerful, while the female voice stands resolute.....Beautifully written....dana

[wolfshrew]

Sexton's language reasonates with me deeply, so I feel this is a large compliment. Thank you.

[W.k.kortas]

Well, you had me at "brogues". There are several wonderful turns of phrase here--"the mollusk/in my gut", the notion of "knee knocking". There are seemingly odd but perfectly brilliant juxtapositions and turnabouts here-- we have nectar bumping up against spitting, the seeming burgeoning relationship at the beginning winding down to the plaintive yet matter-of-fact "I was nothing to be found" at the end. This piece has the goods.

[wolfshrew]

Thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoyed reading.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

wow you are so talented...this is such a journey...for me it speaks of trying to lose oneself's pain in one-night stands...not getting attached but just that release to feel better....and yet in the end...

those microscopic things are bigger than we think they are...and we lose so much of ourselves, there is nothing left to be found of who we once were.

j.

[wolfshrew]

There can be the most pain in all the nothing we try to maintain