I found these poems today. I wrote them back in 2007, and I'm amazed once again that life comes full circle and these poems are truer for my life than they ever were back then. But I think I'm getting closer than I ever was, so that's good, at least. 2007 Eileen had no idea where she would be in 15 years (2007 Eileen didn't even have the guts yet to go by her middle name, so she was still going around telling people to call her "Lillian"). We've come a long way, baby.
Maybe
In the darkness that has been my home
my head filled with thoughts that aren't my own
My wrists held down so I cannot move
or breathe
or think
or feel
or prove
Something inside that is not me
forced its way in but I let it be
come part of who I think I am
spurting
hurting
blame
shame
sham
I could not remember what was real
I knew what I felt but I should not feel
Inside outside upside down
my tomb
room
closet
hallowed
ground
Dripping blood and sweat and tears
Let go of the faith I'd faked for years
I thought that good could touch me no more
empty
hollow
rotten
core
But soft now, and quiet, a flicker I see
who I am is becoming me
hate still covers this empty shell
but maybe
maybe not
too
soon
to tell
Maybe-just maybe I'm not alone
I have a place; I have a home
No solid report yet that I can bring
maybe
nothing
yet that
may be
everything
© 2007 by Lillian Patterson
Chance of Rain
Trying to learn to like the cold.
Because I'm always
cold.
So I might as well get used to it.
Right?
And find something I love
in something I hate?
Isn't that the way to go?
I don't even remember why
I hate it
anymore.
It's been a part of me so long.
The cold
I'm trying to learn to like
(to love).
Trying to learn to touch
to feel
the distant things I cannot reach
a million miles away
under my skin
in my blood
my bones
my marrow
me.
So here I sit
(in this chair
in this house
that isn't home)
an empty shell longing
to be filled
with something more than
me.
Trying to think of something
else that I could
be.
I miss the feeling
I miss the flood
The rain, the pain, the tears, the blood
the bones, the marrow
me.
Reaching out
into the dark
I find something there to touch
to feel.
I wrap the blanket
tightly
and try to remember
what it feels like
to be warm.
© 2007 by Lillian Patterson
