through the trash heap
of her life...
discarded memories,
men,
broken dreams,
and stupid decisions.
She sorted,
searching for clues
to herself,
the woman she was,
the woman she had been,
broken and fragile,
yet decidedly strong.
Nobody knew
who she really was.
Nobody knew
her heart.
Nobody knew
the demons inside
who danced
to a heavenly drum.
She was more
than a poet
with words to share;
She was more
than a woman
living in despair;
She was more
than her dreams,
She was more
than her schemes;
She was searching
for who she was.
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Comments: 17
I can usually find myself within your words.
"...I had wanted to come to Europe to learn languages, to try on new and different selves and to lose the old one. But what if, as the Zen masters said, there was really no fixed identity, only a shifting parade of selves? Now that would truly be freedom, not to be tied to a single identity and yet not to lose your identity, because there would be none to lose."
Barbara Sjoholm, in "Incognito Street: How Travel Made Me a Writer," Seal Press, 2006.