Bring The Fighter Back (by Rebecca Chasteen) Tuesday, Sep 15 2009 

Rhyming , , , , , , , , , , Becca 4:30 pm

Bring the fighter back,
You’ve been under attack for too long.
Letting go-
you let too much get gone.
Sometimes you wonder just where it went wrong.

You look in the mirror
and all you see
is who you used to be,
want to be,
will never be.

You can’t get free of the things
that keep breaking you down -
the things you let tear you right to the ground

Well,
Stop.

Bring the fighter back.
You’ve it all go slack.
You need to stop letting things kick your ass,
And start kicking back.

You feel lost,
At a loss,
Never enough,
Like giving up

Bring the fighter back.
You’re back and forth,
You’re up and down,
On and off the right track,
Never feeling found,
Where you stand never seeming sound.

You’re buried.
And wanting.
Stop mourning.
Start pushing.

Because the battles we fight on the inside
are the ones that effect our day-to-day lives.

Find a way to put your vices down.
It’s time to GET UP
And stop sitting around.
Find the things you’re missing.
Be done with envy and wishing.

Stop whispering excuses,
And screaming out blame.

Bring the fighter back,
And get back in the game.

 

Pretty (by Rebecca Chasteen) Monday, Jun 29 2009 

Favorites and Rhyming , , , , , , , , , , , Becca 11:53 pm

Don’t be so surprised by pretty mouths full of dirty words-
the dirty is not the part that hurts.

Everyone knows
pretty only gets you so far
and it’ll come down to
what you’ll swallow
and what you’ll spit,
what you’ll reject
and what you’ll stretch or shrink to fit

Pretty mouths
have to learn
“Me first”
and
“Fuck you”
or even
“Fuck me”

Pretty mouths have to be
able to say “No”
and spit it with conviction

Pretty mouths
have to practice non-pretty ways
to secure attention

Pretty mouths
have to be willing
to dirty themselves
with
sex and money and politics,
with opinions and arguments

Pretty mouths
have to put out
exactly
what they’re told to take down
so their voice
makes it’s way around
the teeth and tongue and lips,
all the things that rest on the tips…

I’m not saying pretty mouths
can’t gloss it up,
can’t pout it out,
can’t pour out sweet,
and drink sweet down

I’m not saying pretty mouths
can’t move as they choose-
but a pretty mouth that won’t get dirty
may lose all there is to lose

So don’t you dare lay out
fairytales
for little lips
from the spoons of your mouths

Don’t enchant them
with dreams that someone else must fulfill
(because no one can and no one will)

No-
feed them
honesty and the power of vocabulary
that spans all the things they’ll ever taste or
have to demand or
suck away from someone else
to make sure they have enough for themselves

Feed them love and feed them the gritty,
just don’t feed them
the crutch of pretty.

 

Of Dispirited Disposition (by Rebecca Chasteen) Sunday, May 24 2009 

Rhyming and Vintage , , , , , , , , , , , , , Becca 5:55 am

(1-21-01)

I fall so much you’d think I’m blind.
I let this world keep polluting my mind.
I can’t stand.
I fall constantly.
And I seem to be
in my own way more than anything else.
I hold back myself
with all my contradicting desires.

My drive is feeble.
It barely moves me.
I feel so unable.
I can’t seem to be
anything I dream-

Only what I despise;
self-absorbed and insecure.
I’ve forgotten what matters.
I don’t know myself anymore.
I can’t find anything worth fighting for.

What once moved me
has moved from me.
I’m clinging to the past.
I’m striving for what I once had.

I gave up on myself too quickly.
Who will have faith in me
if I have no faith in myself?
And if I can’t love me
how can I love anyone else?

How can I strive to save others
when I’m sinking
into nothingness?

Aimless desperation
clouds desire and expectation.

I want to be
so much more than what I am.
I need truth, motivation, and beauty.
Lord, I need your hand.

“Come to me all ye who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.” Matthews 11:28

I’ve always loved the first line of this one. It kind of makes me laugh, it flows, it’s exactly how it feels sometimes…The part ” If I can’t love me, how can I love anyone else? How can I save others when I’m sinking into nothingness?” is what stands out here to me, because it’s still something I have to work on, particularly in my line of work.  I have to have love for myself, within myself, before I can dole that out to anyone at all. I have to have hope, I have to believe, I have to, or not only will my life suck, but I will be fairly useless in helping anyone else do anything positive with their life. Not that I can’t be sad or feel afraid, but that I have to stay away from that dangerous spiral down from which it is so hard to see any light at all.  It’s nice to have that push though, that it’s not just about me, it’s about the people around me too (professionally or personally).

 

Confessions for Change (by Rebecca Chasteen) Sunday, May 24 2009 

Rhyming and Vintage , , , , , , , , Becca 5:37 am

(7/29/00)

I rarely give God the time he deserves.
And this week,
as I spent hours a day with Him,
I realized
that I’ve been
running in spiritual circles
for way too long.

I’ve been trying and trying
to do things all by myself.
Acting like I’m strong enough to do it alone,
refusing to ask for help.

And I’ve been angry ’cause no one is changing,
when I can’t even change myself.

My lack of self control
has squelched so much of my potential.
And despite the faith I claim,
fear washes over me like rain.

I’ve seen how the pride
that I’ve used to hide
all my insecurities with
is just another net that’s got me tangled.

I lie to myself more than I do to anyone else,
living in denial of the reality three-fourths of the time.
Trying to pretend that I’m better than I am,
and ignoring situations that I don’t want to deal with.

And the brokenness
that I try so hard to have healed
is a spiritual gift
I’ve been blessed with.

Acknowledging the truth is so hard,
and changing is even harder.

I hate being out of control,
it makes me feel weak,
but when I’m following Christ,
there’s no way else to be.

There is no royal road to anything, but all things in succession.
So I’m gonna drop my nets,
take slow, careful steps
and follow without asking questions.

This was written at camp, following a sermon about dropping our nets, as Jesus asked the disciples to do when they followed him. They dropped their livelihood (fishing) and walked with him. It’s amazing how in 9 years, some of that poem (and sermon) still rings so true for me. The part that strikes me is “And the brokenness I try so hard to have healed is a spiritual gift I’ve been blessed with.” I struggle with that still. I know broken is open and open is where I want to be, but I really do break, so often, not just for me, for others, for everything. Sometimes I cry for the whole entire world, all the sadness and anger and hurt and fear and injustice. Sometimes I just break for my own life. But I know I am better broken, I feel more alive broken than I do when I’m walking around patched up. That’s just not who I am. I am broken, willingly open this way, to all the things that will come through, and all the things that will do to me, and all the things I will do because of this. I am who I am because I’m broken open.

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” Psalm 51:77

 

There’s No Epidural (by Rebecca Chasteen) Wednesday, May 20 2009 

Non rhyming and Prompted , , , , , , Becca 6:41 am

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem of rebirth.

There’s No Epidural

You know,
it’s not easy
re-birthing people.

The canal
is less than willing to oblige,
the membrane
is thick with
worry
and regrets;
embedded with patterns,
seeming unbreakable.

The only
ones that make it out
are the ones that don’t care
how dirty they get
in the meantime.

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2009/04/20/AprilPADChallengeDay20.aspx

 

Last Day (by Rebecca Chasteen) Tuesday, Apr 14 2009 

Rhyming , , Becca 1:37 pm

Today’s the last day,
says every addict,
says every anybody sick of their own bad habits.
I swear,
today
is the very last day
I will be treating myself this way
Today’s the last day
before I’m new
I swear,
this is something I’m going to do

Dawn doesn’t break when the heavens rain
And the will to stop is tested before starting the day

Promises are just so easy to make
Promises are just so easy to break
And the person in the mirror is just so easy to hate

Isn’t everything easy anyway?
Isn’t that what makes it so hard to change?

Even seeing the hurt, looking at the waste
Is not enough to make today the last day

I just want today to be the last day
is what the weathered addicts say
And every anybody sick to death
of their own carousels and rollercoasters
say after today, can’t it be over?

But dawn doesn’t break when the heavens rain
And it’s never easy
And there’s always pain
Isn’t that what they call change?

I don’t know what day will be the last,
but damn if I’m gonna relive my past
That’s what the addicts and every anybody’s say
When they manage to stop getting in their own way.

 

Boxes (by Rebecca Chasteen) Wednesday, Jan 14 2009 

Non rhyming , , , , , Becca 11:05 pm

Don’t build boxes
with the impression that you can take everything
you want for your life, contain it-
seal it with packing tape and label it
with a Sharpie.

Life never leaves you holding the same hand long enough, as soon as you pack it up, it’s
not yours anymore
and,
there’s not enough room
on a label
and it would get marked over anyway, box reused till the cardboard gives and you’re
looking at your feet covered in debris of planning and belief

…and…don’t build boxes
around people
people in boxes are illusions, you can’t box anything that grows
you can’t box tidal waves or flames or anything…isn’t it obvious
that box
is a bad idea
for you too?
you burn light into dusty corners and crash on shores, leaving tokens of your journey, you
move
you
are not an illusion
I told you…don’t build boxes

nothing
worth anything
will fit in them.

 

The Toxic Collection (by Rebecca Chasteen Sunday, Jan 4 2009 

Collection and Favorites and Non rhyming and Rhyming , , , , , Becca 4:24 pm

Snake Bite

I feel your anger in your hand on my face, you have countless ways
of making me feel guilty, of making me feel worthless
you obligate me with your need and I don’t think anything

is worth this

glass at my feet, vodka dripping
plaster on my shoulders, in my hair
remnants of the one wall you manage to break through
I can’t do this

I shouldn’t be here

with you screaming at toddlers who cry out for you
all the time,
telling me to never come back inside, and leaving me
with all the responsibility-
it’s not okay

I’m war weary, I’m not connecting
I’m just drifting
I’m just waiting
I’m just dreading

coming home

——————————————————————
t(ou)rnique(t)

while you weren’t watching
i carved out something
just for me
broke so much i got set free
i’d say thank you
if i didn’t almost hate you
you won’t find what i’ve hidden
you can’t take what’s not given
i cut my skin with that glass and sucked the venom
i’m not dying here- victim
i might not look any different face to face
but i’m out, i’m safe.

———————————————————————-
Turning Point

I’m not guilty.
I’m not sorry.
You can’t make me
feel anything.

I’m not scared
when you yell,
when you’re in my face
saying things
you chose specifically to hurt me.

And I don’t care
when you turn cool,
indifferent,
exacting on me the punishment
of not being worth your emotion.

Because I see through you
and I won’t allow you any part of me
to mutate,
to mutilate,
to puppet or parade.

I’m not yours
and
I’m not afraid.

 

What Remains (by Rebecca Chasteen) Wednesday, Dec 3 2008 

Non rhyming , , , Becca 5:35 am

And so, it comes to this.

there is nothing left but
cracked limbs and dried leaves;
the promise of a hundred years,
toppled.

no one’s sure if it was
wind or disease,
shallow roots or choking vines,
overcrowding or maybe too much
weight.

and now water doesn’t do a thing
but pool, or run off, or evaporate
and so it comes to this fire,
this promise of a hundred years-
now fuel.

what remains
bears little resemblance
to the power it believed;
and it’s purpose
is not what it thought when it was
a sapling breaking ground
with only the promise of a hundred years.

it had no idea
there was anything else
until it had no choice.

but so often,
we don’t.

I’m not sure if I like this poem or not. I like the last two stanzas and the point of the poem, but the rest of it…I’m just not sure. I think I feel like it’s dull, or not engaging enough.

How was it for you?