Unremarkable

I’m losing myself again I can feel it How do I stop an invisible thief ? Sorrow creeps in Don’t know what I should be doing. A heavy heart. Wallowing in passed failures. I should have been something, done something by now. The end is inevitable. Yet we pretend it is so far away. Believing

Art Speaks

Art speaks silently to creator and spectator. Though its words to each diverge. Painted, written, and sung. Each brush stroke a story. Each word a song Each song an awakening Music, colors pricking the depths of our being. Imagery, whispering what our souls long to hear. Melodies that expose reclusive remains Reminding us of lost

Dwindle

Emptiness wraps its arms around me again. Like tendrils slowly tightening their grasp. I remember this feeling all too well. The child inside me, too weak to struggle, buried beneath burdens now. The woman I am, withers in slow motion. Indifference seeps in. I go numb. You ask me what is wrong, and all I

Waiting

It’s the waiting.It’ll get you every time.Waiting for the right personWaiting for changeWaiting for the test resultsWaiting for forgivenessFor the other shoe to dropThe answerThe phone callThe right timeThe wound to healThe next stepThe endIt’s the waiting.It’ll get you, every fucking time. -Clary

Suffocation

What is this? I’m happy. Right? Then why do I feel so hindered? Why does it feel less like a choice, And more like chains? Are these my true feelings or Is the devil trying to get the upper hand? I just need some time away. I think. Just some time that isn’t full of

Take A Breath

I no longer question the existence of God. I’ve passed that point in my life. I know damn well I was created, and though I often forget, I know what I was meant to do. Still, I find myself struggling through the muck of life. I know it was never meant to be easy, but

Christmas Reminder!

Throwback post! Merry Christmas!

Silent Alterations

Can you feel it? All around. Perpetual change. No one can escape it. The silent alterations. Bending us gradually so we don’t notice. Swept up in the “to do” lists of the day. Most don’t feel it. We capture it. The pictures you hang on your walls… artifacts in museums we call homes. God and

Acquiesce

The leaves here have begun to fall. There’s a coolness in the breeze signaling change is on its way. I can only hope it’s for the better. The sinking feeling comes back to haunt me daily. I keep the rising screams at bay with work, and school, and making dinner. But I feel the heaviness

Against the Grain

There’s shame in my resentment. It burrows its way back into my heart and mind, if I let it. WHEN I let it. Like tendrils they pierce the flesh of every thought as every negative memory of you plays on repeat in my head. The warnings were there all along. Love shouldn’t be a constant

What of Me?

What of me when newness fades?When you have since abandoned longing for my lips. The shape of my disposition no longer quenching your desires. What of me when time and toil have stolen my days?When these arms lose the worth of their breadth. Ravaged by ailments and grief of this life. What of me when

Losing My Religion

An entire life spent trying to be what everyone expected. Kneel, stand, the sign of the cross, Hail Mary & Our Father. Confess your sins to the envious pedophile. No worries, the confessional has a screen. Not to mention peddling God door to door. A salesman without answers. No Christmas, no Easter, no makeup, no

Soliloquy

The smell of fresh rolls wafted through the dining area. I sat at the bar waiting for my order. A man sat three stools down. I caught intermittent mumbles about death, the end of the world, and some Bible verses. I wonder if he knows something I don’t? If he hears the echo of voices

Your Touch

You didn’t touch me again today. Should I be worried? Is it happening again? My thoughts go dark fast. Has my adventurous nature become mundane? Perhaps. But,There will be a time when you’ll realize what you have. Hopefully, Before I stop missing the feel of your hands on my skin. Before the thought of your

We Rise

No worries, We’ll be okay, whatever may come. Empires have risen and fallen Hellfire, rain, famine, locust, pandemic and all. We’ll be okay. We’ll rise from the rubble, rebuild what was lost. Waters recede, and the sun shines again We’ll rise from the ash, as spring gifts us her bloom. Crops are resown, industries recover

Carry On

© 2020 CMBClary Memories brim at every corner of my mind. A heavy stone in my chest, A lump in my throat, but, I carry on. What else is there? Just tasks. All the things no one else will do, They wait for me. And while my heart is a still ache, I carry on.

Merry Christmas!

As Christmas Eve falls upon us again and we each repeat our holiday traditions. (Some of us in a not so jolly disposition) Take a moment to stop, take a breath, and take it all in. Remember those you love, those who couldn’t make it for a visit, and those no longer with us. These

The End

It’s over now. I ripped you from my life. You were woven in so tightly for so long. I didn’t think I could hold it together without you there. I didn’t think I’d survive it. I miss you at times. We were best friends. I thought by some miracle we still would be, But I

Uninspired

©2019 CMBClary The vibration of the washer through the wall makes the bed ripple beneath me. My thoughts scatter like shredded paper and I struggle to pick them up and make something coherent of them. All the want of being alone, when I finally am, the desire to produce eludes me. A slight ringing in

The Spaces In-between

Life, so full at times, Even all the spaces in-between. A fullness that inundates every crevice. This too will pass. Soft skin to folds of leathery lines, Strong steady hands to trembling decline. Golden locks to un-kept silver strands. And time, While filled with too much, still insatiable. Do not grow weary of your busy

Displaced

Darkened skin  Freckled nose Lines baked in by time and sun Furrowed brow Callused hands  dirt stained cracks and folds Clouded eyes look on and wait For death? Perhaps, Or  maybe just a  Hand to hold. -Clary

Etchings

Photograph©2015 B. Clary All of your things are gone now. My mind rummages through fading memories, trying to find one bright enough to cling to. The wisdom you’d freely given in my youth reduced to worn etchings on my bitter heart, relics of a time I had squandered it. Dreams of you are few and

Scorn

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned