Memory lane…

In the midst of packing for the move, I was reacquainted with my old journal. I say this is where it all began, but honestly I was writing stories and poems on any scrap of paper I could find since I was old enough to write. I have a collection of old fliers, torn envelopes, and even a fast food bag with poetry scribbled on any clear surface. This journal is the first time I attempted to build a collection of it all.

I thought it would be fun to share some of my older, teen-angsty work. Don’t judge; we all start somewhere. I have never titled my poems. Not really sure why. Anyway, here is one that isn’t too embarrassing:

I lie awake at night,

As the memories dance through my mind.

All the feelings I once had,

Are now in a place that I can’t find.

I thought I had a grip on things,

But reality brought me to my knees.

I soon found out all bets were off.

Life is a gamble with no guarantees.

Everything around me has fallen.

All my walls came tumbling down.

I stand alone now, weak and fragile.

In a sea of emotions, I begin to drown.

I feel as if I’m dead inside.

My heart has nothing left to give.

If I have no soul to share,

How much longer shall I live? 

©Twisted Libra

Wow. I was so broken at such a young age. I haven’t the slightest idea when this was written, but best guess is sometime between the ages of 13 and 17. The imagery here was quite dramatic, what with the drowning and the loss of a soul, but I respect what Teenage Libra was trying to express. I remember these days. Navigating my depression and traumatic past is not as difficult now. I’m an adult who has learned a few coping skills. The girl who wrote this had zero coping skills, and was living through the trauma. I won’t judge her. Without her, there would be no Twisted Libra. Now, this next one is a bit lighter. It proves I have always been a cemetery girl:

Cold air. Cold graves. Somehow, I fit in here. The smell of death in the air is strangely calming. All the souls locked inside this cemetery, their voices forever silenced. But I can hear them. They are wives. Husbands. Children. Parents. They have names and ages. And they each have a story to tell. You just have to listen. Maybe they do rise at night, and walk the earth in search of a kindred spirit. Some of the stones are toppled over and broken. I imagine those souls escaped. I want to escape, too. I feel at home in the cemetery. I belong here. This place gives me peace. It’s full of lost souls. Forgotten souls. Souls with so much to say, but no voice. Maybe that’s why I feel at home here. Maybe that’s why I belong. Lost. Forgotten. Silenced. I am one of them now. One of the dead.

©Twisted Libra

I remember writing this one. I was 12. I used to hide out in an older cemetery down the block from where I lived. That place was my comfort in comparison to my homelife. I would sit there for hours, just writing and breathing in the silence. No one could hurt me while I was there. I have a few pictures of this place:

I carried so much pain back then. Reading through this journal last night, I realized how far I’ve come. Like I said, without this tormented little girl, there would be no Twisted Libra. She crawled so I could walk. I owe everything to her. She suffered through so much, and did so alone. No one really knew until years later, and some still don’t know. I am okay, though. I am still here.

I think that’s enough for today. I might share more from the journal another day. Thanks for going down memory lane with me. This was fun! Now for the obligatory links:

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Until next time…