Abandoned
“If the heart could speak…would it shed tears of mourning for the scarring of the soul? Dragging steal across bone, carving in “I’m not enough…”
Lindsey Hon Rubendall
Menu
I am hiding.
Cocooning my inner vessel
as the arms of a bear mother
protect and secure her offspring,
shielding with a vengeance –
The small child in the dark corner,
trembling as the monster scratches hungrily
his long claws upon the wooden door
Darkness clambering at the innocence within
I am hiding.
Hiding from the song long dying to escape
Fiercely seeking to rise from my heart,
yet, constricts in the hollow of my throat
suffocating upon my collapsing lungs
And dies.
Dies upon the sharpest thought
that scathing sword of criticism
Decapitating each and every expression
not yet borne of absolute perfection
The Keeper, piling the artistic misfits
in the lowest, dankest cell devoid of light
Hiding.
For the fear.
Fear that my sacred core may be seen,
exposed upon the harshest light of day
Naked with no chance of explanation
The fear that the expression of my soul
does not capture the light of my being
But is seen like some dark perversion,
clamming to escape from the catacombs
of my misunderstood mind,
bursting forth like a burning Phoenix
upon the air to rain down as ash,
some toxic plague upon mankind.
Is that what I see?
Is that what I fear?
Hiding.
I am the judge and jury
The harshest sceptic, condemner
The executioner with the swiftest blade.
So that spirit song may never be sung
The notes never soar upon dancing strings
The brush left caked in dry, crumbling paint
The words suffocated, never uttered on the air
Condemned, they are and never will
be quite ripe for the picking,
expressions with the sweetest juice
that leave an insatiable hunger for more
And the soul goes on wanting.
Hiding.
Kill what may be to not suffer the fear
Drown the soul to never know that bright
celestial light of purest, heavenly love
streaming through each heart, begging
begging, to be borne into the creative air
The divine culmination of humanity
A purpose to evolve, create and love
Suppressed and discarded in the
long battle of shame and guilt
Hiding.
I am hiding.
With a fear that squanders the
magical expression of the soul
denying the divine sanctity of its being
From the dark corner of my cocoon
I bid myself the strength to rise
Slow, tender steps upon the floor
As the door looms ominously
that terrifying monster yet before,
Knowing such fear is manifested of me
I gather my courage and turn the handle
I will hide no more.
“I am the judge and jury. The harshest sceptic, condemner.
The executioner with the swiftest blade…”
What creative does not know the tale? The squandering of talents crying to break free, itching the fingers to mould, the voice to sing, the words to pour into an elegant stew that feeds for eternity.
Fear eats at all that might be. It lingers under the robin’s nest, watching, waiting for the first chicks to stretch their wings and dare to fly, their expression about to borne onto the air only to be snatched by the harsh, chomping jaws of Fear. Feathers fall to the floor.
Too often have I sat on each and every one of my creations. Unfinished paintings, songs yet to be sung and poems upon poems collecting dust, deemed not yet right to be set free into the world. It is ironic then, that one of my favourite quotes is from Martha Graham preaching the exact opposite. That it is a duty to set your creations free without judgement. (See about page)
Ahhh. But judge I do. Yet again and again I gather my courage and set one foot beyond the door, pull it back in again, and out. An endless dance that moves neither forward nor backward. It only creates the illusion that it does.
But all creations desire to take flight and it is not for us, their creators, to squander, but those who might be touched by their expression. All art has purpose and all souls have a right and a purpose to express their being.
In words both meant for you and me – hide no more, but be that brave little chick and take flight. For one moment of being airborne is surely greater than never knowing what lies beyond the nest.
“If the heart could speak…would it shed tears of mourning for the scarring of the soul? Dragging steal across bone, carving in “I’m not enough…”
“What flows into song cannot be unsung, the motion of the world long moved undone…” Within each note is a chain to something far beyond ourselves, calling us home.
“All that we are bound into flesh and bone” Love transcends all, an echo transversing the cosmos, intertwining two hearts, two fates for all of time.
Berlin Artist, Artist and Poet, American Artist, American Poet, Nature Artist, Poems of Love, Berlin Poet, Spoken Word Artist, Best Poetry, Musical Artist