pieces from the past

When I feel uninspired and as if my current writing lacks substance, it helps to go back and read some of the things I've written in the past that I actually like and am proud of. Here are some of my older pieces that inspire me to keep trying because something like them might come out of me again.

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I wrote this nearly two years ago, and while it is less true for me now, I still love the way the imagery (ironically) "came alive" in this piece:

Just Let Go

One of my biggest weaknesses is not being able to let go of things; specifically I can’t seem to separate myself from relational situations that are unhealthy for me. I have this masochistic tendency to hold on to things long after they’re dead, as if strangling the life out of something isn’t enough. I have to see evidence of decay and taste the rot in the back of my mouth before I am finally able to pry my fingers out of the corpse, and only then because I can no longer stomach the stench. The problem, of course, is the sickness and infection I contract while I’m clinging so desperately to that corpse.

The idea of letting someone or something go to see if it comes back to you, thereby proving its love for you, is a helpful sentiment for some, I suppose, but I need to let things go to actually be free of them; I fear that if I leave room for hope, I will become acclimatized to rotting flesh. Perhaps the truth is that only when the shackles are completely broken can anything healthy be nurtured. The corpse must be left alone to decompose completely and become fertilizer for new growth.

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This was written around the same time, after a close friendship ended in silence, on bad terms:

Muted Colorscape

Without you life is duller,
more muted.
There’s colour yet; it’s just not as bright
(perhaps because it’s been washed with my tears).
Splashes of vividness still occur
but the colour seeps out again
when I remember that you’re not here,
that you're gone along with your life and colour
along with the paintbrush of your personality
that made my red a blazing vermilion
my blue a piercing azure
and my yellow a rival for the sun.
Without you
my primary colors lack lustre,
their combinations appear less luminous.
I miss your hue on the canvas of my existence.

Mine remains an enjoyable existence.
This is not a tragedy.
But it’s not my first choice;
it’s not the picture I imagined.

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I wrote this nearly 10 years ago as part of a final project for a university course that asked us to consider how to fight injustice. I still like its recognition of my own responsibility in injustice and my desire to ignore that reality because it is more comfortable. It is worth noting that the ME at the end is capitalized for two reasons - one to emphasize my responsibility and two to represent me on another level since the letters are the initials of my first and second names (Margaret Elizabeth). Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to format it properly on the post. The indents don't work, so the visual aspect of the poem is gone, but at least the words are here.

blood-free hands (?)

i want to wrap up my
smashedtornslashed heart
without getting blood on my hands
i want to cover it with
plain brown paper, tie it with ordinary string
(so as to render it insignificant)
i want to freeze it, immoblize it, or best:
carve it out from deep within me
(it will be an excavation or a dissection –
but there will be no exploration or discovery)
leave the mangled mess to die alienated, cleaved from i
(this will be much less bloody than allowing it to stay)

i cannot let it stain me


if only i do not let myself examine
incessant throbbingjabbingshaking
if only i can submerge the nausea that clutches the gut –
the stomach could be inundated with perfume and honey
(its voracious appetite would consume it all)

satisfaction: inevitable


i want…if only…
i will not know the (i cannot call it my) heart is alive
i will not acknowledge vital statistics
i will not hear the accusing rhythm of its exhibitionism
nor its knocking, rattling rasp that gasps out truth
(it will destroy me)
how i am:
that one over there
over here
this one
this one
this one
this one too

I do not want to see this bloody finger pointing – deviation-free – into ME.

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I often find music as an inspiration for reflection. I wrote this piece a couple summers ago when I was obsessed with Death Cab for Cutie:

Comfort in the Sound

"sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole / Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound" - "Marching Bands of Manhattan" by Death Cab for Cutie

I wonder at the human nature to shy away from happiness. I realize I can't speak for everyone, but I know so many people, myself included, who, when it comes right down to it, are afraid to be happy and actually sabotage chances for happiness. And I'm not talking about temporary happiness, but real, deeply rooted, content no matter what happiness. Genuine joy: the kind of happiness that can't be shaken by the harshness and tedium in life.

This idea of sorrow (heartache and heartbreak) dripping into my heart and there being an element of comfort in it fascinates me. That pinhole is the little tiny part of me that seeks to destroy the happiness in my life. It's just a pinhole, miniscule and seemingly harmless, yet it allows this drip of heartache to consistently disturb my joy. And that drip is familiar. Sorrow is a reality of life on this earth and as a result I know it and am familiar with it. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt; it breeds safety and security. There's solace in the familiar. Yet when that familiarity worms its way into my heart with the same persistence and annoyance of a leaky faucet it has an antithetical nature because it troubles my peace of mind with its repeated vexations. So sorrow becomes a crutch for me; it's safe and familiar, but it holds me back from experiencing the freedom of genuine joy and happiness. When the crutch becomes unsteady or even clatters to ground for a short period of time, I find reasons to pick it up again. I create heartache because it's familiar and "safe". I keep that pinhole open just to hear the sound of the sorrow dripping through and slowly drenching my heart.

It's time to patch that pinhole, kick this crutch out from underneath me and experience enduring joy...

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And that's all for now... hopefully something new and original worth sharing will flow from my pen soon.