More micropoetry. Why? Because I can.

Fires are burning
undaunted
and unafraid
tireless
and reckless
ferocious
and destructive
and I
can merely watch.

Waxing Poetic

So many tales to tell

of sorrow and fear

and I will

but right now

I am crafting a story

of triumph and strength.

Me

I cannot
and will not
be anything less
than exactly
who I am
but I can
always be
infinitely more.

Micropoetry

Thanks to my lovely friend, Nicole, I have been introduced to the amazing world of micropoetry.  Wikipedia defines micropoetry as follows:
"Micropoetry is a genre of poetic verse including twaiku (also known as twihaiku or twitter poetry) and captcha poetry, which is characterized by its extreme brevity."

For someone like me who wants (needs?) discipline to write on even a somewhat regular basis, this is perfect.  It only takes a few moments to write and it gets those old creative juices flowing.  Anyway, though I've only been tweeting my micropoems, so far, I thought, perhaps, that you, my lovely readers, would enjoy reading it as well.  Here's just a li'l taste for you.

Blue
2-12-13

The cloudless sky
endless and glorious
vibrant and light
so very different
from the blue
that is the color
of my soul

I hope you'll enjoy reading my poems as much as I enjoy writing them.  As always, thanks for listening.  It matters, truly.

Affirmations

I am a fucking mess.  This statement is not only true of me right now but most of the time, unfortunately.  However, every once in a while (more lately than in the past, thank God), a ray of sunlight peeks through the darkness and I find myself writing affirmations not only to "the world at large" but also to myself.  Here are a few I'd like to share with you.

Be absolutely nothing but your true self, always.  If others don't like that, it is their loss, I promise.

Alone might be very safe but it is also very cold.  I like having the warm blanket of contact, even if it's scary sometimes.

Keep putting good into the world, even if all it gets you is a kick in the head.  You will always be the better person.

I am way too smart to act this dumb.

Another day, another chance to get it right.

I need to learn that there will always be people who care about me and people who don't, cherish those who do and fuck the rest.

With these humble thoughts in your mind, I hope this day finds you a happier, healthier person than you were yesterday and well on your way to feeling even better tomorrow.

xo,
K

Words

Generally, I am the first person in the world to admit to my flaws, which are many. However, one thing that truly pains me to admit is that I am very fucking naive. I experience occasional moments, however fleeting, in which I feel that what I say matters to someone other than me. These delusions of grandeur, the idea that when I speak, people are listening, absorbing, caring, usually vanish as quickly as they appear. But, every once in a while, they linger. I wonder if, by sharing my thoughts and experiences, I can help someone else, lighten their load, make them feel less alone, but really, that is me at my most naive. I don't think anyone really cares what I have to say, not for long, anyway. Who am I to counsel anyone, being the completely fucked up mess that I am? Who can blame anyone for disregarding my trivial thoughts? I certainly can't. I'm just mad at myself for ever thinking otherwise.

My brother has been dead one month today. What was once my family of four now consists only of my mother and me. I contribute nothing to the world, merely existing, biding my time until it's my turn to go.

I might feel completely different tomorrow, might re-read what I've written here and think, "No, Kari. People do care. You're not worthless, not useless," but right now, that doesn't make one damn bit of difference. Right now, I am a naive fool, talking to myself, for absolutely no reason at all.

Jeff

It is very difficult to form coherent thoughts right now.  I am usually quite adept at stringing a phrase but tonight, words are jumbled, unclear, conflicting.  Tonight, my world is forever changed.  Tonight, my brother is dead.

When we were little, my brother and I, three years apart, were frequent playmates.  We were each other's only sibling and being the only game in town, we found reasonable enjoyment in each other's company.  I can clearly recall sitting on the carpet in his room, his entire Matchbox car collection and toy garage between us, spending what felt like HOURS choosing which cars we wanted to play with.  I'd choose one, then him, back and forth, laboring over which hot-rod or monster truck we most coveted.  (I'd choose the emerald green sports car whenever possible.) Eventually, all the cars distributed, we'd generally play for about ten minutes and, quickly bored after the laborious selection procedures, go on to other pastimes.

Another frequent game of ours was "Fifi".  My brother, the younger of the two of us, would act as Fifi, my French poodle, who would obediently follow me around the house, often at the end of a "leash", barking for treats and grinning sheepishly when receiving pats on the head.

This is the brother I choose to remember right now.

From the age of fifteen until today, at age thirty-six, my brother's life (or a reasonable facsimile), was dominated by alcohol and drug addiction. For the past twenty-one years, I saw only rare and fleeting glimpses of the wonderful, playful, kind soul he once was.  For the past twenty-one years, I have known, far more often than not, only the monster.

In the interest of self-preservation, tonight, I choose not to focus on the cruelty he unleashed throughout the course of his addiction.  I choose to put aside (but NOT forget), the barrage of insults he hurled at me, my husband and my mother, in countless instances, for many, many years. There will be plenty of time for that, whether I like it or not.

But really, the point of this rambling blog, when my head is so unclear, when my feelings are so convoluted and contradictory, is that addiction...fucking...sucks.  My brother had countless opportunities for recovery.  I sat in on more "family sessions", listened to more excuses, shared more emotions and pleas and angry declarations than I could possibly count.  But, the fact remains, alcohol won, drugs won, addiction won and I lost, my mother lost, my brother, in oh so many ways, lost.  I go on, such as I am, for whatever it's worth; questions, forever unanswered; soul, forever broken; life, forever changed.

Jeffrey Scott Feldman
5/28/76-12/21/12