In Your Hands
Session #86 from my poetry collection
The only way I have ever
truly felt like I was being honest
with myself, with the ones I choose
to hold my vulnerability
my fear, my doubts, my pain
my inner torment in their hands
was when I allowed the pen
to be filled with truth instead of ink
when I didn't allow time to pass
between the fleeting thoughts
and the words dancing on the screen
when I finally said screw it
and allowed the mask to crack
***
I am terrified, believe me
of placing journal entries turned poetry
into the hands of my friends and family
into the hands of the love of my life
that i haven't even laid my eyes on
i am terrified to start shedding this image
i created for what i thought was my well-being
to start allowing people to see this part of me
a woman who is tortured by her personal demons
and what the world deemed to be her trauma
I am terrified of what their eyes will hold
because what's worse than anger and hate
is the moment when you see a look of pity
***
But I am tired of holding it all in
I am tired of playing this role
i am tired of pretending that some words
don't affect me more than others
I am tired of smiling when i am in agony
I need something that resembles balance
between the happy and the darkness
I need to get it through my head that
I don't have to be put together for everyone
there are moments when I am not
and I need to promise myself it is okay
so here is my start, my hidden away, my honesty
being held together by string and glue
***
This was one of my favorite poems to write and what I felt was the perfect way to round out my poetry collection. This poem was born out of the fear I had (and still kind of have) about publishing some of my darker feelings and healing journey for people to see.
"Courage is not the absence of fear. It is feeling the fear and doing it anyway." -- TJ Hoisington (This is pretty similar to quote I posted not that long ago.)
About the Creator
Alexandria Stanwyck
My inner child screams joyfully as I fall back in love with writing.
I am on social media! (Discord, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok.)
instead of therapy poetry and lyrics collection is available on Amazon.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins6 days ago in Fiction
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