Where Are You? A Love Poem by Yours Truly

"Poetry is language at it's most distilled and most powerful," -Rita Dove

Every once in a while, I actually do write a poem, but the mood must strike me.  So, enjoy this small and rare gem about my future husband. 

"Where Are You?  A Love Poem by Yours Truly" by Olivia J

Copyright 2015 Olivia J

Where are you?

That's what I really want to know.

There's a part of me that knows

that knows you exist

that knows you're out there

breathing

praying

living

but for now

you'll remain a figment of my imagination

as blurry as the clouds.

Where are you?

I know that I already love you

for our relationship is the epitome of God-ordained.

But where are you?

I'd really like to know

for here,

where I am,

it's lonely

it's hostile

but I hope it's not like that for you.

Where are you,

my sweet puzzle piece

for I already long for you to love me

so I can love you.

I look out at the world

every day

wondering where you are

if I just bumped into you in the hallway

or saw you in Walmart,

but everywhere are blank faces and disappointments

none like me

and I hope none like you as well.

Where are you?

For my youthful body

already lusts after yours.

I long to be intimate with you

just you

and me

and God

and skin pressed against skin

to form a bond no power of hell can break.

And I suspect you yearn for the same.

Where are you,

my husband?

Are you sitting on your bed, too

pining away for the woman of your dreams

just as I am.

I hate to break it to you

I'm not perfect

I might not be the perfect wife

I might not always do it right

But I will love you

And I will submit to you

And someday

I hope we can love God together.

So,

where are you,

Romeo?

For I'll be out there

waiting

watching

loving.

~The WordShaker

Recaps and 'Running'

"If I waited until I felt like writing, I'd never write at all," -Anne Tyler

Hey, my zero readers!  Nice to see you again.  Sorry I haven't posted in a painstakingly long time, but I hope to get back to it. To satisfy you, here is a piece of writing I wrote earlier back.  This was chosen to be in a published book that my high school puts out annually, so I am thrilled about that! Also, four others in the Creative Writing Club that I started got their submissions accepted into this book.

So, here goes nothing.  And, Copyright 2015 Olivia J.  If you steal this, I'll virtually bite you.

"Running" by Olivia J
Copyright 2015 Olivia J

Air jerks in and out of my chest like the mechanical motions of a machine. My chest is being pulled apart and then slammed back together, over and over, as each toxic breath enters my system. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the hot breath curling out of my mouth like gnarling fingers of an old woman as she tries to push her way out of my system.  However, each time I inhale, I suck her back into the depths of my soul.  These agonizing breaths ring in my ears, drowning out my gripping thoughts.

With each contraction of my leg muscles, the screeching pain spreads, undulating in a perverse rhythm. The panic is like a huge hand, pushing me forward, refusing to let my pumping legs stop. My rapid motion only fuels the fear inside of me, burning like a fire.  Every once in a while, my legs will fail me, and my stomach will lurch forward, threatening to burst out my chest.  The hand of panic, however, keeps pushing my crumpled body along, taking no care for the gashes it opens on my face and the way that it crushes my skull.  Somehow, every time I fall, I manage to pull myself up again and, then, seeing what's behind me, I panic again and run along with the impending hand.

My hair, whipping around my head like writhing snakes, pokes me in the face and purposefully obstructs my view.  The fuzzy blackness ahead blinds me, and like smoke, it coils around my eyes. I break my neck from trying to be free, my arms occupied by trying to pump me forward. But once I whip my head around to look at what's chasing me, the black smoke releases its grip on my eyes, and I can see clearly again.  But when I turn back around, panic filled at what I saw behind me, the choking blackness is ready to blind me again.

It's none of these present things that truly terrify me, though.  It's what I'm running from.  Elusive, haunting, and yet omnipresent. If it wasn't there, I surely wouldn't be running blindly into seeming nothingness.

This cycle of tripping, looking back and being shoved along and drawn forward, is seemingly the only life I know. When I'm drowning in this, it is all consuming, swallowing, drowning . . .

It's not until my legs tangle up like spaghetti for the final time. I am thrust forward, and I skid on the dusty ground, the hand looming over me, grinding me into the ground with shame. Beaten, bloody, and bruised, I refuse to get up.  I refuse to run, for my fear of the future is much greater than my fear of the past.

The hand, however, stops - pauses. I roll my head to look up at it. Wrinkly, yet with taut skin that is a flaky gray. Plump, but with rippling muscles that serve no other purpose than to inflict suffering upon me.  I can see each and every angular bone, like a poorly assembled swing set. Suddenly, it dives down and coils itself around me and jerks me around, until the smoke is to my back and I am facing the monster in all of it's pathetic glory.

And I am struck with a new breed of terror, because the horribly disfigured monster who was terrorizing me, chasing me, swallowing me whole, is none other than who I used to be, surrounded by the caustic acidity of my past.

~The WordShaker