tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14623740368403127102024-02-20T17:51:30.157-05:00On Days Like ThisPoems I writeMelody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-8333150854417928162011-12-27T18:35:00.001-05:002011-12-27T19:25:19.994-05:00UsWhen the rain beats onto the street<br />
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And seeps down into the gutter</div>
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With the street lights glowing yellow</div>
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On the black pavement,</div>
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You sigh, look up.</div>
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Feel the moonless yellow lull you</div>
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And your ideal zen senses.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When the rain comes, it's wet.</div>
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And I'm a cat with lots of hair.</div>
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On her tiptoes, hunched over.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Look down,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Worms swimming in the water.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Didn't you see them?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm worried.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You would run naked through forest
rain.</div>
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I...</div>
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Wouldn't.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So when it's cold at night and the rain</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Beats unevenly against the windows</div>
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You and I
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Smile in bed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You and your happiness,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Me, being dry.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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It's precisely the contrast
</div>
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In our rainy sensations--</div>
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Your cooling, my coldness</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Your exhilaration, my fear--</div>
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That makes this moment--</div>
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The jagged rain, the soft sheets--</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Us.</div>Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-4498759654948902522011-10-05T15:23:00.000-04:002011-12-27T19:25:56.048-05:00In This Stupid Moment.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
You know, it's offensive when<br />
22 year old smokers breathe putrid sarcasm into my face<br />
About how they'll die early when really<br />
They don't know who they're talking to<br />
Or understand how embers suffocate<br />
Or what it feels like to not be able to recreate a flame<br />
By pressing a button on a magic lighter<br />
Or the knowledge that in real life<br />
You can't just borrow someone else's match if yours goes out.<br />
<br />
I honestly feel I've miscommunicated something to the universe.<br />
I'm on thin ice with my body, like we had a fight and I never apologized.<br />
It's infected me with a phantom lovesickness<br />
Where that's all I can think of.<br />
At work, at meals. In bed.<br />
And I slip from myself when, without warning, it comes around.<br />
Deeper, sicker.<br />
I put so much love and attention into our relationship<br />
Except I never thought it would turn toxic.<br />
Those smokers know all along.<br />
Well I never asked to be perpetually sick.<br />
I never asked for a burnout in my pancreas but I <br />
Thought that if I lived for my body I'd at least have<br />
The two-thirds life expectancy about which the doctors told me<br />
When I was twelve.<br />
<br />
This is only the beginning, I think.<br />
I know we're trying hard but with all the soul I invested-- <br />
With those countless inseparable hours--<br />
Why impregnate me with such pain?<br />
It's just--<br />
I don't think I deserve this ghostly devil.<br />
<br />
And there are others who beg for this shit.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-28863378244948399972011-08-02T19:30:00.000-04:002011-12-27T19:26:43.745-05:00Just a little one I jotted down todayRain.<br />
With the back porch door open.<br />
And all the windows welcoming <br />
The fresh, cool breeze the thunder brings.<br />
Me.<br />
At the kitchen table reading.<br />
The potatoes boiling on the stove.<br />
And the leftover vegetables for my stock<br />
Make the rain smell like<br />
Basil, red and green peppers, scallions.<br />
The plop-plop-plop sound of boiling water.<br />
And the click-clack-clack of heavy rain.<br />
A boom of thunder. <br />
This is a hearty, warm home.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-27828877947481988032011-06-09T18:26:00.004-04:002011-12-27T19:27:18.918-05:00A friend-inspired this Haiku by writing his own.Tonight I fear yet<br />
Thrill all the more as thunder<br />
And lightning meet earthMelody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-15987110621659184112011-05-26T17:40:00.005-04:002011-12-27T19:28:13.074-05:00Summer soon: The Esplanade on May 26I lay contented as<br />
The breeze flits through the trees,<br />
The muggy air,<br />
My pulled back hair.<br />
<br />
In the afternoon shade, my skin is dry<br />
Though the hazy sun still winks her eye.<br />
<br />
A bird hops by.<br />
<br />
Even the people stuck in traffic seem happy, lazy.<br />
<br />
A little boy plucks up a daisy<br />
Then looks at the train headed to MGH-- <em>chucka chucka chucka chuck</em>.<br />
He gives the daisy to a duck.<br />
<br />
Peace floats through Boston on the wings of weather.<br />
In the quiet atmosphere above,<br />
It gathers happiness<br />
And sprinkles it down the Charles in golden flecks<br />
That rest on the crests of the water.<br />
<br />
And the ducks are baptized.<br />
<br />
And all barren winter land becomes holy once again.<br />
And the spirit of happiness becomes mighty,<br />
Even in watching a sparrow rinse himself off in the dust.<br />
<br />
While the haze of the day begins to fade,<br />
The ants are finishing up work and weeding their way home <br />
Through my blanket.<br />
The green oak leaves turn over to sleep <br />
As the golden eye drops behind the sky.<br />
<br />
Then the wind whispers, <em>hush...</em><br />
And twilight approaches.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-44365205322980990742011-04-01T19:51:00.003-04:002011-12-27T19:28:44.186-05:00HandsMy hands have become a New Englander's.<br />
They match my soul, my birthplace, my feet.<br />
Cracked, hardened, and dry.<br />
My hands are only 22 years old, but they are working hard:<br />
One fissure on my index knuckle from a jacket which I<br />
Zip up, zip down, zip up.<br />
My hands look like they were wet and I dipped them in flour<br />
Yet are brown from the sun, even in winter.<br />
<br />
My hands hurt all the time:<br />
To make a fist, to wash, to moisturize.<br />
They are prideful and hardening <br />
Like the oak tree's root under the snow.<br />
They stand for my recent past.<br />
My lack of sleep, my sore back, my saved money.<br />
<br />
My hands are not as beautiful as the old woman's hands <br />
That give me change for her coffee every morning:<br />
Her hands feel like hard plastic <br />
Swollen with blood,<br />
Like 70 years in New England.<br />
Her hands are my weeping willow, which, <br />
Knotted and sagging,<br />
Still grandly lives.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-25200051881921011442011-01-12T14:31:00.008-05:002011-12-27T19:29:06.577-05:00I want to tell you what I'm like, really, <br />
Through my poetry.<br />
How cooking dinner makes me rhyme<br />
And drinking wine makes me sad<br />
How my reflection rarely drives me to write<br />
But the feeling of my own soft skin <br />
Makes me realize how soothing it is: a pen rolling on paper<br />
How, if I come back to this poem, I'll hate it.<br />
How sometimes I say things cryptically <br />
Because it makes me more interesting to myself<br />
<br />
I want to tell you how self-injurous my behavior is--<br />
How inward I am,<br />
And how I talk as not to hear myself.<br />
<br />
Here is something about crying:<br />
Silent, deep sorrowful cries are the best<br />
Because you feel them in your heart to start<br />
Because the tears spill over, hot, soothing<br />
When they touch your yearning face.<br />
<br />
I don't have time to explain it all, though.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-91985314205814515162010-10-10T10:10:00.001-04:002011-12-27T19:29:29.397-05:00Some girl in the autumn.Today I step off the bus<br />
And see:<br />
A pretty girl with<br />
Long hair blowing, flowing<br />
Behind her briskly-walking<br />
Thin, jaunty body.<br />
Girl I don’t know hurts me,<br />
Only in her beauty.<br />
Her carefree attitude a color in the atmosphere,<br />
A painting this September morning:<br />
A girl with dark blue jeans, light orange jacket,<br />
And clear, white skin in a town’s crowd—<br />
Still, my eye is drawn to her.<br />
<br />
And, for a moment,<br />
I thought I was her, maybe once, some time ago.<br />
<br />
I know, though,<br />
I never was a pretty girl with long, straight hair,<br />
Strikingly clothed and a contented look,<br />
With a face another stared at<br />
For its grace and pleasantness,<br />
Walking briskly in the late summer.<br />
<br />
And I can’t decide if that hurts,<br />
Or if I like it.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-17167565700384267712010-09-24T10:10:00.005-04:002011-12-27T19:30:25.025-05:00A double haiku that has to do with nature. Or rather, the unfortunate nature of a situation.Cat, now we both have<br />
Diabetes. Maybe we<br />
Can help each other.<br />
<br />
I'll draw up your shots.<br />
But your missing fifth digit<br />
Means you can't draw mine.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-76710476141065307962010-09-17T12:41:00.004-04:002011-12-27T19:31:00.811-05:00A February birthday poem, written in September.This is a birthday poem<br />
Because you loved to read my poems<br />
And you liked it when I wrote about you<br />
<br />
I'll put this on your grave<br />
But your soul's not there<br />
And I don't know how to find it<br />
Still, I hope you will read this<br />
<br />
You still have a poem of mine<br />
But I don't know how to get it back<br />
<br />
Happy birthday<br />
You bought me a painted sterling bracelet<br />
with arched jumping dolphins for mine<br />
at that festival<br />
next to your house<br />
remember?<br />
<br />
I liked how those dolphins jumped in a<br />
continuous circle one after another<br />
Brightly<br />
I liked how it fit my wrist<br />
<br />
That was September 10 years ago<br />
And I lost that bracelet<br />
It's gone Intangible<br />
<br />
I can't walk through the festival<br />
I see its lights dangling between <br />
telephone poles and I cry<br />
Dolphins dripping down my eyes<br />
And the twilight colors them painted sterling<br />
<br />
In my poem to you<br />
I won't talk about how beautiful you are<br />
Because you don't exist<br />
Because you weren't when I saw you <br />
your chest stuffed and your face made up<br />
and they couldn't get your skin color right<br />
so you looked yellow<br />
You looked dead<br />
I was scared to look for too long because I thought your eyes would pop open<br />
<br />
I can't see anything but those pretty dolphins<br />
They're unraveling becoming a string<br />
now separating too<br />
<br />
I don't want to let them go<br />
They're just a memory<br />
They don't look like a bracelet anymore<br />
I forgot what colors they were painted<br />
I forgot the little things I liked about them<br />
I forgot what the clasp looked like<br />
They fall sadly into separates<br />
Dripping they look like hot tears<br />
I wish they would turn into birds and fly<br />
You died without being ready<br />
So they never willMelody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-45615312813020575102010-08-27T14:32:00.003-04:002011-12-27T19:31:19.883-05:00Angry PoemI hope you know<br />
When you cast judgement<br />
On someone else<br />
You are saying nothing about that person<br />
But you speak of yourself--<br />
Your bitterness<br />
Your hatred or jealousies<br />
You shine a mirror when you speak such negativities<br />
That have no basis<br />
Except, in <em></em>your<em></em> opinion...<br />
<br />
I know you know <br />
Your judgement hurts.<br />
Your poison seeps into the air<br />
And into the ears of susceptible bodies with little egos<br />
waiting to grow<br />
<br />
A rose does not head the thorns you posess<br />
They prickle my skin like the bare briar<br />
They are as beautiful as barbed wire<br />
<br />
Your high horse talk looks like <br />
Weeds under a telephone pole or<br />
Pollen-soaked rain or<br />
Oil in a puddle.<br />
And when these picturesque atrocities <br />
spill from your rose-like mouth<br />
<br />
You look like them, too.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-50586065495570461262010-08-18T23:26:00.002-04:002011-12-27T19:31:36.301-05:00Thinking of a friend with a heartache, I decided to post thisThis poem is dated May 4, 2003. That would have made me fourteen years old, but heartache hurts no matter what age you are. I really enjoy my writing from this time.
<br />
<br />
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Make it go away </div>
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Make it hide in the dust of the stairwell</div>
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Away from me, away from them,</div>
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The ones who care.</div>
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Who can love if it is only a word?</div>
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An idea, like the colors of sound,</div>
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Pulling at imagination and want.</div>
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That which is irresistible, but a wild stab</div>
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In your heart:</div>
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A beautiful fluttering of butterflies around me,</div>
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">While locusts swarm in to destroy the golden wheat.</span>Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-18914893166357061302010-08-03T17:09:00.004-04:002011-12-27T19:32:01.439-05:00I've always had this obsession with water lipping over...<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzfaAiNDgvar1IDc92mYIeAIeDkSYcJgqWvQL5uJfmSjh0qPdW_wu1uzPGFJKO1Wj14JiI4fYmgKU5C-WOzGA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
So the rain never stopped.<br />
And suddenly it seemed to me that the flash flood that dropped<br />
To a bubbly happy brook<br />
was dried up and began anew with steadily rising water blue.<br />
Not gray and angry like last time<br />
Just a deep, unthinking blue, pitter-patter.<br />
Didn’t matter.<br />
I let it rise until again it came forth, but,<br />
Now, you would think it dries—<br />
No,<br />
Just a bit lipped over,<br />
So it rose further.<br />
Drove her crazy, never ending.<br />
No cathartic moments pending. Spending<br />
Every minute waiting, fearful, angry, still<br />
She’s hating those small drops fallen into that stagnant pond,<br />
Once a river.<br />
She’s wishing she could stop the drizzle,<br />
Let it sit and die, a swamp.<br />
<br />
Start the process over.<br />
<br />
She sees it, what she wants to be:<br />
<br />
A deep, gorgeous valley.<br />
With flowers, lush grasses responding<br />
To the brilliant sun<br />
And animals on the run<br />
And bees that skim over the clovers<br />
Across something that once looked damaged<br />
And never too well managed.<br />
But now is firm and fertile and fair.<br />
She envisions herself healthy, unaware.<br />
Just calm and happy and green and plain.<br />
Just drinking that water whenever it rains.<br />
Soaking up life, however it comes.<br />
Not submitting to any inner demons.<br />
Letting the wind blow her hair in her face,<br />
Not trying to know, just knowing her place.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-71427315746690455422010-07-19T14:03:00.010-04:002010-07-22T21:18:34.158-04:00No, but really, I'm sorry if this insults you.<div>I'm sorry to insult you,</div><div>But I will not be a Mrs. Anything, but Chapin.</div><div>And we will not be Mr. and Mrs. Man and Wife You May Now Kiss The Bride 'Till Death Do You Part, Under God. </div><div>Missus Belongs-To-Owner, what was <em>your</em> maiden name?</div><div></div><div><br />I'm sorry to insult you,</div><div>But I have a legacy myself.</div><div>I'm not an adopted dog, name changed by new master.</div><div>I've got my story, not history.</div><div>I'd like to live and be remembered, not by my husband's given name</div><div>But mine, the one my mama gave me.</div><div>See, I grew to love myself first</div>And I learned myself by calling myself Chapin,<br /><br /><div> </div>Melody Chapin.<br /><br /><div></div>So, sorry to insult you, but I can't let a man replace what I love about me<br /><div>With what I love about him.</div><div></div>Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-53233786732917359732010-07-16T22:23:00.010-04:002010-07-20T18:22:05.748-04:00While getting my coffee todayUPDATED Tuesday 7/20: Included is a video clip of me reading the poem. The video is awful quality; it's really just for the audio that I uploaded it. Please enjoy, and feel free with your comments.<br />---<br /><br />Didn't you know that<br />You're the reason I choose cream for my coffee?<br />With less calories and higher fat, it keeps me full for longer.<br />And you're why I know the caloric content in almost everything I eat.<br />And you're why I stand in the mirror in the morning, bemoaning my belly which, slim now, will grow throughout the day as I put food into my body.<br />I even educated myself on America's exploitation of corn farmers, corn, and thus the health of American people.<br />All because of how you make me feel.<br />So that I'm aware that the foods I choose will be the best ones to keep me healthy,<br />But more importantly--<br />Looking great.<br />I'd even go so far as to say<br />That you're the reason I hate delicious foods, all foods,<br />So I rebel and repent like a yo-yo moves.<br />You starved my body by poisoning my mind<br />Until even my soul got weak.<span style="font-size:100%;"><br />And, well, that made me think of Eve, but,<br />You know something?<br />God had no say in this.<br />It's <span style="font-style: italic;">you </span>who created a weaker sex--<br />Well, except, people like you really do have a God complex.<br /><br /></span><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyTjQp2Dq6FhU-Hu2Cq_4dPCOmYF0K0MApjhpa3ah__GM7yY8rbOT97UmrdxCl_e2OcdbTPquPisj_KHDpC' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1462374036840312710.post-72009334697954508422010-07-15T21:05:00.003-04:002010-07-19T13:23:44.819-04:00Welcome: An explanationWelcome to this poetry blog. Most reading will know that I don't enjoy naming my poetry. However, in order to choose a good name for my blog and a good name for the blog's website, I chose two lines from two poems I've written--not necessarily my favorites, just two lines that caught my eye skimming through my poetry tonight. Here they are:<br /><br />On days when it rains like this,<br />I see<br />The whole being of New England land<br />Muggy, cold rain<br />Rain that drops,<br />Drop,<br />Then pours and pours.<br />Then stops.<br />Then starts.<br /><br />It colors that bright foliage wet,<br />The rain.<br />The sky is gray and nothing gleams<br />The worms wriggle on the sidewalk,<br />Squirming to find the earth,<br />Like us, wishing to be less exposed,<br />And safe inside the warm ground.<br />Yes, I see the New Englander in us today!<br />We trudge through with our heads down,<br />Walking brusquely<br />But resignedly, too.<br /><br />On days like this—<br />When it rains—<br />We are one terrain:<br />New England.<br />And we accept this weather.<br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Sans</span> complaints of the heat,<br />Over-reactive shivers to the cold.<br />Just a wade in the water,<br />A dismal, commiserative nod to your neighbor<br />A Northern, droopy face that tells your story<br />Of tiny hardships<br />The rain weighs down today<br /><br />Worms grow pale,<br />Leaves grow dark,<br />Spirits droop in the<br />Rain that drops,<br />Drop,<br />Then pours and pours,<br />Then stops,<br />Then starts.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Do I send out a signal that speaks failure?<br />I must, to be regarded so.<br />Now, I won’t be taken lightly.<br />And I’ll take this how I felt it hit me.<br />Close my mouth and develop my ear.<br />I’m going to be sincere:<br /><br />I’ll be a cocoon of energy.<br />Don’t assume I’ll lose.<br />I’ll test myself in every way.<br />Every day.<br />I don’t need your overseeing, authority,<br />Believe me; believe in me.<br /><br />A signal that speaks failure?<br />Deep down,<br />I’m too hard on myself, I know.<br />Time to let that show:<br />This me will speak darker, clearer, unfrazzled, untied.<br />The inside, Oh, the inside!--<br /><br />A signal of Passion<br />You won’t have known it until me.<br />[You didn’t know how passionate I was!]<br />Enough to speak without speaking.<br />To capture you without your<br />Undivided (recital-goer) attention!<br /><br />--I’ll be beautiful in energy.<br />Yes, my dark eyes are alive and for once not winking.<br />I’ll sing each language perfectly.<br />It won’t be a phrase, but a burning plea.<br />You’ll see what you never saw in me.<br /><br />But I always knew I was there.Melody Chapinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16310362362565957136noreply@blogger.com3