How far (Holding on to something that isn't there)

Questions seem to be what continue running through your head whenever you're trying to escape.  Escape the fact you have NO answers to them.

Why is it that when you close your eyes, in attempt to concentrate on change, nothing does?  And when you open those same eyes, everything is passing?  Except your own thoughts.

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How far would you dare to go
Before you realized you could not swim?

How fast would you tread
Knowing the waves would not stop pushing?

Would that even matter?
If the place you wanted to go was below?

Underneath the surface of your own
Being?  Trapped, screaming with inflamed lungs

Witnessing no panic
But glimmering eyes of passed sadness

Could you take in every bit of your hoped for life?
 As you sensed the frigid shock of water crashing?

Stop in mid shiver to wonder about the deep?
Forget ALL and greet the unknown?

How far would you dare to go
Before you realized you never needed to swim?

Just fall and let go
Of everything that weighed you down, above

Open your eyes, heart and lungs to
A world with NO plagued memories

Just a clean path
Far beneath the surface

Goodbye

**Disclaimer:  This is strictly a poem.  In this moment, it is just words that need to be said . . . **

I need to scream
I don't know my wants
Maybe I want to leave . . .
Maybe I want to suffer . . .
Whatever it is, I want to do it alone

I have to get out
Before I strangle my only positive voice into submission
Force myself to give into my own demise
Just to get away from those who try and break me

I won't let them do it --
It's my life

If I want to escape, I shall
It's only when . . . 
When my melancholy dredges up, and I have only one option . . .

GOODBYE

"Look Away"

Look Away, is a poem that I wrote. It was written to the one person that I have most struggled to accept and love: Myself. I have yet to come to full terms with doing this (love). Even at this moment I'm going back and forth with why I should even care to do so. It's not a cry for help, it's a confession.  At times I feel as if my feelings seem to only serve purpose when I write them out in poetic or musical form.  At least that's my thought.  

These moments of cluttered frustration and questioning often appear in my mind.  Some days they aren't as extreme as the day before.  Other days they are bitterly constant.  But, hey, it's just life . . .  My life -- which I'm learning to discuss -- by just living for today.  Each day is different, but I am still here.  Even when I don't want to be -- I am still here.  And there has to be a reason.   *So, enjoy my words.  Take them in. *


LOOK AWAY

I won't leave, in front of you - I'll wait for you to turn around.

Is this the day I say goodbye?
Is this the day I leave it all behind?
Is this the day I refuse to cry?
Is this the day I cut so deep, my arm runs dry?


Is this the last step in recovering?
Is this forcing my own self help?
Is this the only way out?
Is this my final regret?

Is it okay to go?
Is it okay to smile, knowing I'm making you sad?
Is it okay to leave this way?
Is it okay to step outside, leaving you hidden, behind the tears?

Why does my mind hate me?
Why does feeling happy hurt me?
Why does the placement of shock, not shock me?
Why does holding on, hurt?

Do I scream too loudly?
Do I forget to say I Love You?
Do I occasionally switch perceptions - feel I don't deserve happiness, yet force myself to find it?
Do I force myself to withhold my own breath - secretly hoping I'd phase out . . . Disappear?

Can you let me go?
Can you let me deal?
Can you break away and let me float off?
Can you not hate me, for FINALLY giving up?

~Kyra Renee' Clay

A White Page Of Tiny Places

      

I sit, glancing out the window, which line the sides of my calming place.  Streets, cars, houses and snow -- all partake my knowledge filled intoxication.  I peer from behind my laptop.  Cell phone charging, iPod resting, mouse connected, notebooks lined neatly, and a prominently displayed backpack which takes up the farthest side of the table -- trying to occupy my thoughts for words.  The shelves reach for me, while the books plead -- "come frolic inside my tender spines . . ."  The two lightly tanned brick pillars separate me from my wandering motives and intentions.  I want to just be -- blissfully unaware of the ticking clock.

Unaware of the hours I have lost by finding myself trapped in a new world.  A familiar world, but still new.  I unknowingly stare out onto the roads facing my peripheral.  I catch a man walking his dog, two men on paralleled streets, shoveling and throwing rock salt.  And as the salt tossing takes place, the song on my playlist changes:  a running soundtrack.  Sort of an audio book.  For some reason the taunts of the many books have now melted into a story burned inside my retina.  I have breathed story into my once placated fascination of sheets of paper and untouched screens.  Life now resides in the psyche of  my wondering.  The time to read is over.  It is now time to write.  Write about the adventures that I managed to observe without much movement.  Write about the many lives intertwined:  On a white page of tiny places.

Punishment

This poem is one that was written a while ago (https://www.msu.edu/~claykyra/punished.htm).  It was one of my many response to injustice.  Particularly the injustice of self hate, as it deals with "dealing" with domestic abuse and other forms of pain.  Because this "Punishment" still takes place, and it IS "Black History Month," I thought it appropriate to post this poem. 

Punishment

Punishment is slaves, hanging from trees

Punishment is blood, dripping from your knees

Punishment, is the cuts you do to feel pain

You can't understand where they're coming from, unless you've felt the same

Punishment is being pushed down the stairs in front of your kids

Getting back up, only to be smacked back down

Anger in your mind, still Love in your heart

Never going to separate, cause the children's question of "why?" is just too great

Sticking around, punished awhile

Punished is what I want for that person

To feel pain, like he made you feel

To go insane, without knowing someone will be there

Punishment is "Being Alone," so without, your mind just forms doubts

Punishment is knowing there is nothing you can do

To make amends with the evil, you punish yourself too

Punishment is going through things, you shouldn't have to go through

So why are we being punished, for the things he's done to you?

Peacefully Distant

Can't I look?  

Can't I glare?  

Can't I stand, waiting for light to bounce off the trees?  

Wishing it were me up there.  

Leaf after leaf -- 

Branch beneath branch -- 

A tensing shadow, which crafts of pine and evergreen grow from.  

Can't I climb? 

 Can't I invoke your movement?  

Can't I stand, peacefully distant?  

Unaware of the skies . . .