the heart laid bare

Archive

No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
outsider
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

in the face of adversity

I know I pay a debt for past mistakes
And the ledger is not tilted in my favour.
It is hard to accept with equanimity
A punishment meted out for mere passion.
 
The gaoler that bars my way
Mocks me with his too-familiar laughter,
Dancing with Puck-like caper before my mind’s eye
When every step forward is abruptly halted
By lock and key and red tape.
 
But the words of the well-meaning cut like knives
And my gratitude sticks in my throat.
I do not wish to be an object of pity.
I want to look upon the faces of those who love me,
Address the thoughts in the back of their minds
And say “I am not this thing that happened to me.”
 
My path to self-awareness is littered
With the corpses of my former selves.
I am not the one that was left behind.
 
I am the one who survived.

© mjc 08 June 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.