Psst...

The little voice that whispers your name
now pleads with me, "Walk away!"
Do I heed the warning and flee
or break my own heart and stay?

A.R.M.
10/18/15

Naked

I am who I am,
take it or leave it.
This is my heart -
break it or keep it.

A.R.M.
Oct. 2015

Writing

"A journal asks you to live your life twice, once when it happens and once in reflection."

~ Rita D. Jacobs, journalist and English professor

Letting Go or Holding On

Does your heart say yes or does it say no?
Does it tell you to stay or tell you to go?
Does it miss me at all or does it not care?
Does your heart even know that I'm not there?

When you think of my name does your heart skip a beat,
or does it cringe in fear each time that we meet?
Does your heart ever cry on cold, lonely nights,
wishing it could find a way to make everything alright?

Say it in an email, snail mail or a phone call -
say it however you need to just so long as you're saying something at all.
Because not knowing your heart's desire is breaking mine in two.
Open your hand and release your grip, or open your arms and pull me closer to you.

A.R.M.
05/28/04

Poetry on a Friday Night

I breathe your name within a sigh
and hold the kleenex to my weeping eyes
and tuck your photo beneath my head
as I silently bid the passing day goodbye.

And in the morning when I wake
it's your name upon my lips each day
and I drag myself up and out of bed
hoping you somehow hear the things I say

I cast my heart upon the wind of change
hoping that as you start to rearrange
you'll find the thought in your head
is "Ask Poesie to come back and stay."

A.R.M.
05/14/04

Unfinished Song

My heart is aching
From all the time you're taking
To realize
What's right before your eyes

My heart is yearning
While you're out learning
If it's right
For us to say good-bye

A.R.M.
02/26/04

Just Ask

I shouted your name out into the universe
But got nothing back in reply
I shouted your name out into the universe
And was left with only tears in my eyes

I threw coins into every wishing well
And wished for you on falling stars
I threw coins into every wishing well
I'm so close and yet still so far

I prayed for you on bended knee
And asked God to send you home
I prayed for you on bended knee
And yet I'm still alone

I closed my eyes over the railroad tracks
And wished upon four leaf clovers
I closed my eyes over the railroad tracks
And wished it wouldn't be over

I know you've got to make this journey
And complete your soul searching tasks
I know you've got to make this journey
but when you find your way home to me,
all you have to do is ask.

A.R.M.
02/24/04

Will You Write Music for Me?

Will you write music for me,
Will you write music for me, she said.
Music to mourn me by, mourn me by
As if I were long gone and dead.

Will you cry for me at all, she asked.
Will you cry for me, she inquired.
When I'm finally gone and you're all alone,
Will you cry until your eyes are tired?

Will you remember me with fondness?
Will you remember my smiling face?
Will you remember my laughter and scold yourself
for banishing me from this place?

Or will you instead praise yourself,
Praise yourself indeed.
And consider yourself lucky and thankful
That you are finally rid of me?

Or am I correct in thinking that
You will cry alone in your empty bed?
And will you write music for me,
Will you write music for me, she said.

A.R.M.
01/13/04

Via Diaryland

Your pleading words fall on deaf ears
as I shut you out
and try to erase these years.
Wanting to cry but the tears don't fall.
Wishing you could read all the writing on the wall.
But you're blind and I'm deaf
and we've beat this horse half to death.
And there's no reason for you to keep talking
because I can't hear you when I turn around and keep walking.
Keep begging, keep pleading
and shout until your face turns blue.
But I've got nothing left to cry, to die.
I've got nothing else to give to you.
You said it.
You did it.
But you deny.
And lie, and lie, and lie.
Why try?
I always catch you in the end.

So I type these words of anger,
heave a sigh,
and hit SEND.

A.R.M.
10/31/03

Just for Me

I'd probably be a much better writer if I could capture the things that are written in my thoughts. If I could type the endless string of words that ran through my mind on the metro. While waiting for the bus. As I sit at my desk at 4:21 on Tuesday. The revelations I've had, the psychological battles I've waged, the songs I've composed. It's like there's so much more inside than I've ever let out, and it's not for lack of trying. It's just that once the words pass from my brain to my fingers, they just don't sound the same. As if there's a secret force working within me saying, "No Poesie, your best words are being saved just for you. These thoughts are yours and yours alone."

A.R.M.
09/03/02

Sometimes I Write Things and I Have No Idea Where They Come From or What They Mean

riches and rags
and boxes and bags
i'm sitting here all alone

a hand full of keys
with dirt on my knees
i have no idea who's on the phone

a little girl's smile
i've run too many miles
there's a gate i haven't walked through

there's a sunset above
and i believe in love
what do i need that i can't get from you?

A.R.M.
04/19/02

Right Here, Right Now

Does anybody ever truly live in the moment?

This

exact

moment.

Because we're always looking
at where we've been
and the mistakes we made along the way.

Or we're looking to the future,
scheming and planning
on what to do when the future
arrives.

But does anybody ever truly live in the moment?

This

exact

moment.

Because we're always talking about
what we did
or what we'll do.

As if the

right here
right now

didn't truly exist.

Standing on a busy sidewalk, people are going this way and that.
Coming from and going to.

Is anybody just standing there

in the moment.

This

exact

moment.

A.R.M.
03/29/02

Playing Dress-Up

She has the city girl boots -
low at the ankle
or high at the knee.

She has the city girl looks -
sexy and alluring
or coy as can be.

She has the Starbucks coffee
and her weekly metro fare,
she has the high fashion clothes
that make people stare.

She has the work pass ID
and the glamour magazine.
She resembles every girl
this city has ever seen.

She has the city girl boots -
low at the ankle
or high at the knee.

She has the city girl looks -
but between you and me,
that's not who she'd prefer to be.

A.R.M.
03/14/02

Do the Write Thing

How do you know if something is truly right? What if it's right only because you want it to be right, and not because it truly is. And if you're questioning "Is this right?" so often, does that, in itself, prove that it's not right? After all, if it was so right, you wouldn't have to wonder about it all the time. But what if you're questioning it because it is right and it's just scary to you to have it be right, and not because it's not right and that's the problem. I mean, it's possible that being right is just as scary as being wrong. Sometimes getting what you want is more than you expected it to be and that is frightening. So how do you know if something is right? Do you ever really know? Or do you wake up 20 years from now thinking, "I should've listened to myself when I was 30. I knew this wasn't right but ignored it because I wanted it to be right." Or do you wake up 20 years from now and think, "This was the most right thing I've ever had." Or do you just type endlessly on Diaryland, pouring your questioning of right and wrong onto the screen, hoping that when you read your words in print before your very eyes you'll finally have the answer you seek?

A.R.M.
03/12/02

Fenced

some are made of tall wood posts
and others of chain link steel
while others still are built with wire -
yours is made of what you cease to feel.

fences keep out bad things that prey
or protect growing things from within -
yours just keeps out a beating heart,
and if that's what you wanted, you win.

or did you?

A.R.M.
02/27/02

[untitled, unfinished song]

I wanna be a pop icon
dance around with no clothes on
every boy's fantasy
little girls look up to me
I wanna be
I wanna be a pop icon

I wanna be a pop icon
sing real bad and get my groove on
star in movies - they just suck
make a million trillion bucks
I wanna be
I wanna be a pop icon

A.R.M.
11/20/01

Freedom

Laughing, she danced across the moonlit bridge
leaving behind the life she had come to hate.
Fleeing, escaping, giddy with laughter -
dancing toward the things she had made to wait.

What came before was no longer her concern -
no longer her day in, her day out once again.
And she traded her routine for this life unseen
dancing toward the places she'd never been.

The consequences, and there were many,
seemed insignificant and demure
when compared to the life that called out to her,
compared to the Paris lights that lure.

Hearts may be broken and lost forever
if she slips into the blissful divide.
Laughing, she danced across the moonlit bridge
and left everything else behind.

A.R.M.
11/14/01

[excerpt from an old diary entry about writing]

"But trust me Mom, I'm doing the kind of writing I am meant to do. I know what my words are and how they come out onto the paper and I'm putting them out there just the way they belong."

A.R.M.
10/23/01

Like This

Sometimes someone you love does something really bad to hurt you and you agonize over it for a long, long while and try to get over it eventually. And you'll think that you are over it but there will still be this lingering pain that hides behind all the other things in your heart and one day, something will remind you of the crime committed against you and you'll suddenly remember it all again and it will make you sad. Like if your man cheated on you with some girl named Beatrice. Suppose you forgive him and you two move on together and you think you've gotten over it until one day you hear the name again and you suddenly remember "That's the name of the girl my man cheated with." It probably isn't even the same Beatrice, but it's the name that stirs up the memory. And you're left with this ache in your heart as you realize that no matter how hard you try to get over something, there's always going to be this little twinge in your heart when you remember... and you'll always remember, because you've got a good memory that way. Unfortunately. And you'll convince yourself that you're over it but it will still be there, buried deep behind the love letters he sends you, hiding behind all the times he plays with your hair, lingering in the shadows of the talk you share about the day you'll someday be married. It's there. It's always there. And you don't think there ever is a way to get over it because, in your opinion, to get over it you'd have to forget it. And you're just too good at not forgetting things. You still remember what you were wearing July 4, 1986. And you'll sign onto the internet one day and you'll stumble across something that triggers the memory of that hurt, the one you thought you had gotten rid of. There will be that twinge, that ache, that familiar pain that says, "I'm still here."

And then you'll go [online] to write about it. Like this.

A.R.M.
10/22/01

Let it Go

I almost bought him a Fall Guy lunchbox. Because I made the mistake of identifying a feeling incorrectly. I thought it to be one thing while it was really another. And the worst part is... I knew what I was feeling was not the "real" thing. I just wanted it to be, so I lied to myself. I said I knew what I was getting into and that I was capable of the actions and the consequences. But I wasn't. I just pretended I was. So I was left with this bitterness deep down inside that I had no one to blame for but myself. I couldn't even blame him because he was never misleading with his intentions. He didn't promise the moon and stars while only delivering a glass of warm Jack and Coke. No, I was the one that promised the moon and stars for him. I was the one who told myself, "Wouldn't it be nice if..." and turned that "what if" into this romantic whirlwind of hoping he'd call - all the while trying to ignore that not once did he ever ask for my number but hoping that he'd be resourceful and get it from one of the many friends we had in common.

Does that mean I am foolish? Was I too old to fall for an old trick like his? Was I just tired of being alone, tired of always seeking Mr. Right that I would settle in my weariness for a Mr. Okay For Now? What do you call it when you give yourself over to another all the while knowing he's not the one and feeling it in your heart but thinking in your mind that maybe your heart could get into it if you know, he got into it too, and blah blah blah. What do you call that? The knowing it's not, wishing it was, knowing it probably wouldn't ever be, ignoring that it's not, acknowledging that it's not, and still being upset that it turned out to be a big not when you knew all along it would never be anything more than a not? Denial? Denial of denial? Life? Is that just life? Is that one of the complexities of men and women?

That we tell ourselves a million conflicting things and hope that whichever conflicting thing we choose to believe that night will turn out to be the lesser of two evils? That the lesser of two evils turns out to be just thinking about buying him a Fall Guy lunchbox but not actually buying it? Because that would really suck. Because then I'd be stuck with a broken heart that's not really a broken heart because my heart never really got into it and a Fall Guy lunchbox that I would have no reason to have. And I'd just sit there thinking, "Lee Majors, you suck."

A.R.M.
10/16/01

The Night Before

Do you ever feel like your life is the day after a party that everyone went to but you? And they're all standing around talking about it with laughter and sentences that start with "Remember when..." while you stand there smiling and nodding as if you know what they're talking about because you'd feel much lamer if you just stood in the corner alone? And they aren't talking about it so much to tell you about it but more to remember it and bond about the experience they shared there? So you stand there, drinking in their words and imitations of everything that transpired the night before without you because you want to belong to them, this group, this moment. But you can't ever really belong because it's a part of something that has already happened and they're togetherness isn't a new event but rather an extension of the night before, a continuation of the things they have already shared, of things they are sharing. Haven't you ever felt that way?

Or is that just me?

A.R.M.
10/16/01

Bus No. 77

There's a lady that rides my bus
letting her kids holler and scream -
I'd stick a sock into both their mouths -
but I'm really not that mean.

Luckily, my bus stop exit
is one of the first on our route
and I don't have to listen long
to screaming kids before I get out.

And luckier still I'm moving
and won't have to ride this bus
(but heaven forbid if bus 75
has kids who also put up this fuss).

But until then I sit and wonder
why the lady lets her kids roam free.
You can bet your bottom dollar
they wouldn't act like that - if those kids belonged to me.

A.R.M.
08/17/01

Ode to Mazzy

mazzy, mazzy, mazzy star
how i wonder where you are
you haunt me, you taunt me
from near and far
i wish i had you on cd
so i could play you in the car

A.R.M.
08/07/01

Three Thirty

Step into the elevator
I'm riding all alone
I wish that I was -
but I'm not going home

a quick short ride
down to the sixth floor
for a candy bar or two
maybe even more

Almond Joy and yummy Twix
chocolate for me to munch
fifty five cents of mine
out comes Nestle's Crunch

It's three thirty
and I heave a sigh
couldn't make two more hours
without a chocolate high

A.R.M.
08/06/01

Grounded

the closer I get to being grounded
the more I want to spread my wings
and feeling like that leaves me astounded -
the lessening of want for stable things

hand me the keys to our new house
don't open the windows - I'll fly
quick as that, I'll make like a mouse
chased by the cat - good-bye

"I know why the caged bird sings"
Maya Angelou has said -
perhaps, it too dreamt of stable things
and sing it will 'til it's dead

A.R.M.
08/03/01

For Sale

I sold my soul for a one night stand -
the twinkle of an eye, the touch of a hand.
The body to body warmth of delight...
no world existed but ours, that night.

For one single moment the loneliness ceased
as the kisses and caresses quickly increased -
just for now someone really cared
about my beauty or the stories I shared.

Laughter and whispers and wishes untold,
never knowing I was as good as sold.
And if I had the chance to do it all over again?

I cannot give you an answer you'd ever understand.

A.R.M.
07/31/01

The Party

She walked him to his car, the happy aura of the party still surrounding them. They chatted softly, the click of her heels loud upon the concrete floor of the garage. When they reached the edge, he climbed atop the brick wall and turned back to offer her a helping hand. She accepted it and joined him atop the wall where their eyes held for a quick second. They continued the rest of the way to his car in silence. Finally she said something.

"I have your Christmas present," she said quietly, her eyes gazing at him discreetly. He looked so good all dressed up in a suit.

"Oh yeah?" He smiled, "What is it?" She handed him a little slip of white paper that she had been tucking away in the palm of her hand. He unfolded it and read the big, black letters scrawled in her familiar print. It simply read:

FREEDOM

At first he wanted to tell her that he didn't understand but he couldn't say it because he did understand. She was giving him his freedom.

"Isn't that what you wanted most?" She asked, not wanting to hear him say 'yes' but knowing he had to. He nodded his head silently, feeling guilty. "You didn't tell me what you wanted," she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the ground, "but I caught the hints." He wanted to do something ; hug her, apologize, anything, but he knew it was too late. "Merry Christmas," she said finally, kissing his cheek softly. She turned and headed for the house.

"Wait! I have to give you your present!" He called after her but she kept walking and was gone within seconds. He sighed, staring at the gournd upon which she had just been standing. "I'm free," he whispered to himself, hoping it would sink in before the guilt could. "I'm free," he said louder. "Damn it, I'm free!" He shouted. "I'm free!" He threw his arms out like a mad man, running in circles around his car, shouting, "I'm free! I'm free!"

He fell against his car after a few crazy minutes and tried catching his breath. He leaned against the door, pressing his flushed cheeks to the cold glass to cool himself. He caught sight of the gift in the front seat, wrapped in bright holiday paper topped with an elegant bow. Her gift, the one she didn't want. The one she left behind. His cheeks were now hot from the tears that he began crying. "I love you," he whispered, staring at the gift through the window. "And now..." he swallowed hard, "and now I'm..." He couldn't say it, he couldn't force himself to speak the word - the gift she had given him. The gift he had wanted more than anything, the gift he couldn't exchange, the gift that proved she loved him: his freedom.

He stood there in the cold December night, he and his freedom, the wind rustling the dead leaves, sounding so much like the rustle of her dress when she danced in his arms that night.

A.R.M.
12/16/91

Work in Progress

Have you ever felt like an outsider looking in?
Like you weren't allowed to play with other kids
because your soul was laden with sin?

But what have you done that others before you didn't do?
Given false words when you could have spoken true?
Kissed another's lips that did not belong to you?

Did you lay in a bed that was not your own?
Reveal more of your heart than you should have shown?
Sold your soul because it was the only way to get by?

If you call that sinning,
then my dear,
so have I.

A.R.M.
07/10/01

Stained

I have a pair of old jeans that I adopted as my "work" jeans to be worn when gardening, moving, washing cars, etc. They are too big for me so they hang down low on my waist but they're really comfortable and ratty enough that I don't care if they get stained. These are the jeans I wore most during my weekend in Michigan and now they serve as sort of a living diary of my time there...

I spilled hard lemonade on my jeans when we went on the hayride. And the hay itself left a lingering odor. That was fun... riding through the dark woods, feeling young and carefree again. The boys were shooting off bottle rockets and the girls were commenting on how silly the boys were being. And someone's three-year old daughter helped my cousin drive the tractor and we all told her what a good job she did. I felt invincible. Like nothing bad could happen to me right at that moment.

The red stains on the legs are from when I wiped my hands on them while picking raspberries in my Grandfather's raspberry patch. Growing up we'd pick the fruit for Grandmother to make jam, or to mash up for a topping on ice cream. But that wasn't going to happen anymore. The house was going up for sale immediately and this would be the last time I'd ever pick raspberries in the garden. I wasn't even saving them up for eating later, I just picked them fresh off the vine and popped them into my mouth. And if the juice got on my hands I just wiped my hands on my jeans. I hope the stains don't come out when I wash the jeans because it would be nice to have a keepsake of the last time I ever got to pick raspberries at my Grandparents' house. The last time I got to be a child there.

The grass stains on the knees are from wrestling in the yard with my nephews. They'd run up to me and tackle me, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two at once. They'd tackle each other, too, but they always came back to tackle me. I'd fall back on the grass and let out a moan, as if they'd really knocked me down. When they get older they probably won't remember playing in the yard with "Aunt A" but I will, and if the grass stains don't wash out, my jeans will remember too.

There's dirt and sweat from moving antique furniture out of the basement and onto the trucks. Bit by bit we took apart my Grandparents' home. I went down into the basement where I saw my Grandfather's workbench. I went up into the attic where my mother and aunt used to have a room. I went into the garage and picked through the things in there. I looked around and realized there was no coming back.

If you sniff really closely (like my dog did when I got home) you can probably smell the fried chicken dinner we ate at my Uncle's Sunday night, when we all sat around the big dining room table and told jokes. I felt like I was home... around all my family, as if this was the cocoon that I was safe in.

There are tears, wiped carelessly onto my jeans from when I was crying at my Grandmother's house, realizing this was the last time I was going to be there.

Raindrops from the bad weather on the long ride home.

There are probably a million more smells and smudges that reveal the things I did over the weekend, the emotions I felt. And like the stains that are left behind on my jeans, there is a stain upon my heart for each one. Stains that can never be cleansed.

I said good-bye to one of my "constants" that I've talked about before. No matter where I went, how old I got, or who I "was" in life, one of my constants was my Grandparents' house. My Grandmother and Grandfather sitting in their chairs, the portrait of my cousin above Grandfather, the one of my sister above Grandmother. Or was it the other way around? The raspberry patch. The endless trinkets from all the trips they've made around the world. My Grandmother. My Grandfather. There. In that house.

The stains may wash out of my jeans after all. But the memories will remain in my heart always.

A.R.M.
07/05/01

Angel

I want to be perfect for you
so you won't find fault with me
and leave.

I want to say the right things
to make you smile
to make you cry
to make you glad you love me.

I want to do the right things
to make you feel safe
to make you feel like you belong here
to make you glad to be near me.

I really am afraid of losing you
and what's worse is I am afraid
that showing you I am afraid
is unbecoming
and that it will push you away
when what I mean to do is pull you closer.

"Be yourself" is so much easier said than done
when you're afraid that being one's self...

won't be good enough.

A.R.M.
05/02/01

Rememberance

Time heals all wounds or so the story goes.
But time has forgotten me, my broken heart does know.
And misery will dine with me and sorrow will stop for tea.
After all, I've got the time since time's forgotten me.

And loneliness will bed with me since you no longer do,
and tomorrow nite I'll dance alone or perhaps invite the blues.
And all the world will bow its head and cry with me a tear or two,
for they know that time's forgotten me just as you did, too.

A.R.M.
01/26/92

[untitled]

I painted my nails, shiny and pink –
tied a yellow ribbon through my hair
and made my way up Second Street
at noon – he was not there.

I waited ‘til quarter past one
before I had admitted defeat
realizing that he would not come –
I left, a yellow ribbon in the street.

He had promised me a splendid life,
filled with laughter, love, and joy.
He promised to take me as his wife –
what a fool am I! And he, a cruel boy!

A.R.M.
06/16/96

No Cure

When I get a broken heart I really wish it’d break
that way I could mend it with a piece or two of scotch tape.
Or perhaps I’d stick it together with a dab of Elmer’s glue
or maybe I’d stitch it up again to make it all brand new.
But whenever my heart breaks I try to heal the pain -
I care for it and protect it but my efforts are in vain…
for it always breaks again.

A.R.M.
01/31/92

AT&T

Do I want to speak to you or should I forget your voice?
But as I hear your phone ring I’ve already made the choice.
And ring it does, a dozen times but you never say, “Hello?”
So I hang up and cry a bit, wishing you didn’t go.
And tonite I’ll fall asleep too late to dream of you with sorrow
and I’ll say it’s time to be over you but alas…
I’ll probably call tomorrow.

A.R.M.
01/26/92

Rest in Peace

When I die
And my heart is laid out bare for all to see,
I would rather it be torn and tattered,
stitched up, repaired, and seemed.
Loved.
Than to have it intact, untouched, unused,
Bright, clean, and pristine.

A.R.M.
10/03/15

Tip Tap

I heard the rain tip-tapping on the window

and I wished I was beside you

enveloped in your arms

my head upon your chest

the sound of your heartbeat in my ear

the warmth of your bare skin warding off the chill.

My teardops keep time with the rain.

I've never felt so far away from you.

A.R.M.

10/04/15

My Precious

Sometimes I think I am Gollum
and you are The Ring,
and my desire to embrace My Precious,
my desire not to be parted from you,
has driven me mad.

A.R.M.
10/04/15

The Cutting of Poesie Millay

angry red slashes across lily white skin
she once promised her mother she'd never do it again
but what good are words when the heart is in pain
angry red slashes and the blood spills again

her face a matted mess covered in snot and tears
her wails echo in the bathroom but nobody is around to hear
the linolieum tiles are smeared in blood red
and she can't clear out the voices that keep ringing in her head

she dials his cell phone to ask for his help
but he doesn't answer so she relies on herself
which is a mistake indeed for as the phone drops
she picks up the knife... she can't make herself stop

he finds her on the staircase covered in tears and blood
and drags her to the kitchen to find out what she's done
as he rinses her off his voice rises with fear
"Is this it, is this all, are there any more cuts here?"

and they sink to the floor seated side by side
her head hung in shame while his panic attack subsides
both of them in tears and hearts filled with pain
as they vow to each other
never
never
never again

A.R.M.
01/22/04

Can't Keep

“I’m not yours to keep”

He tells me.

I roll over to fall asleep.

A.R.M.
08/2015

Flowers

“These roses have thorns”

the florist said.

I grabbed a handful…

and bleed I will, until I’m dead.

A.R.M.
09/02/15

Quidado

If the sign had said,

“DANGER – DO NOT ENTER”.

I never would have walked in.

But the sign said,

“ENTER AT OWN RISK.”

So I did.

A.R.M.
09/09/15

Morning

I can feel myself slowly coming to.

Eyes are closed, I’m not yet awake.

I can tell by the lack of sunlight through my window

that the new dawn has yet to break.

Sweet dreams of slumber fading,

I open my eyes, a sleepy-headed girl, 

and sigh wistfully for the visions retreating

as the alarm welcomes me back to the real world.

A.R.M.
02/24/15

Gone Girl

open road, by the waves

top down, windblown

and blue sky for days.

where are you headed? no compass, no map

hugging the curves - clutch, shift, gas.

L.A. or Boston, or somewhere in between?

time for a new landscape; a changing of the scene.

it’s not the destination, they say

but rather the journey.

off she goes, the redhead in the MG.

A.R.M.
02/03/15