Beyond Here

Posting recent poetry to the largely faceless masses is something that would surprise my past self. While I am no stranger to acting out for fun and attention, my prose has always been relatively private. (Well, mostly. My Snape fan fiction in high school was a big hit amongst my friends...I never did finish that... And I always loved a good writing assignment in my English classes.) I was urged by my seventh grade Reading teacher, Mrs. Hanson (I had to take Reading because I refused to take a language) to submit a piece or two (or three) to a regional poetry contest. While I was not fond of the one she chose to submit without my knowledge, I ended up winning a place in my age category! Somewhere out there I am a published poet. I was made to go to a local assembly at another school, get up in front of a massive crowd, and read my poem aloud. Public speaking has never triggered any sort of visceral response in me, being a theater kid from the start (I had a Charlie McCarthy doll, and can still do a little ventriloquy...if you ask nicely...) It was the baring of my heart and soul for the consumption of strangers, then the growing fear as I neared the end of the reading, wondering if I will also gain their approval as I had the judges. I did, or they were just being kind. Either way, sharing such private memories and feelings in this format, full of similes and metaphors, as a child of 13 was harrowing to say the least.

Now, though, my need for approval is less than my need for attention. (Haha! I kid...kind of...) Honestly, my poetry could be real crap. Honestly, I don't care if that's the impression others get, now. This public journal may be the modern seeking of attention, but it is also merely a public diary. I am an open book; I always have been. When I start a new job, the intention to keep some cards close to my chest flies straight out the window as soon as one or two people seem to accept me as one of them. And that's okay for the most part. It certainly means I can be crushed more easily than if I could keep my armor on, but it also gives me fodder for writing, drawing, singing, etc.

I digress. The point of this post is buried deep within the introduction of the reading teacher. When I won the spot in the poetry competition, she went to the assembly and sat with my parents. After the recitations of my age group, I met up with the three of them in the intermission. Mrs. Hanson gifted me a beautiful journal (my first in a very long line, if memory serves), which I vowed to only use for my poetry. Flipping through the pages, I came across a mostly blank page. Apparently, I had been about to write a new piece, but only got as far as the title and "By: Renee Wozniak." That title, which seems rather poignant floating at the top of a blank page in my bitter and jaded middle age, is simply "Beyond Here." I guess I was deeper than anyone knew, including myself.

Abyss of my Psyche

Here is another of my recent poetic birthings.

For Love of Money
by Renee C. Wozniak

I recall the nights
so sweet and still
when all the world would sleep
and we would join until
our breath we could no longer catch
and side by side we'd sigh.

You gave me everything you had
and claimed you had no more
but never did I ask at all
for anything but you.
Yet months drew on and you persisted
thinking that you had resisted
giving me all that I wanted
when all I'd want was you.

But maybe I was your excuse.
You couldn't face the truth.
It was not me that made us lonely
but your incessant love of money.

So maybe you found happiness
among your toys and gadgets.
Perhaps within the gold you found
your perfect love in silence.

Or does your pleasure lay in pity
bestowed upon you by your friends
who tried to tell you love was found
inside the girl you left behind?

No matter what you tell yourself
to help you sleep at night
I hope you know how deeply hurt
I was when you thrust that knife.
For even now I think that love
is after all a fairy tale.
And time may heal all gaping wounds
but thus far it has failed.

Written 5/30/2018 at 11:15PM

Easy Unease

As it does every year, Summer has arrived on hazy wings of gold lifted by the soft breezes of birdsong, lighting upon the plethora of greenery that had exploded overnight in Spring. Birds are fledging, if they have not already, and young squirrels are making their ways in the new world as they play the days away.
Outwardly, I am still. I greet the mornings before the dawn, and bid Apollo goodnight as He ties up loose ends on His everlong journey through the skies. Inwardly, my heart is a hummingbird, my blood dangerous rapids. My outer appearance hides the juxtaposition of the swirling storm within. A confused restlessness (akin to a constant pacing with a tiny room that offers many comforts, but where one simply cannot sit) stirs and offers no solution. I can imagine only one cause.

Wanderlust.

I have been here for too long, and have gathered moss. My skin itches for adventure and newness. However, financially, this is just not possible right now. As such, I turn to my books and drawings and poetry and music.

Do you ever feel this easy unease? How do you approach this animal?

A Bit of Poetry

For You
by Renee C. Wozniak

If I close my eyes
keep them shut
will your beauty still blind my senses?
All that you are
and all you hide
bewitches the deepest parts of my mind
refusing rest.
Yet you persist in existence
in ignorance
of me and your haphazard effect
on my senses.

If you close your eyes
keep them dark
will your pain still maim
your nerves?
All that you are
and try to hide
causes you the deepest anguish
refusing silence.
Yet you persist in existence
in ignorance
of the balm of the sweetness I wish to apply
to your nerves.

As you keep your secrets sealed,
so, too, are my dreams.
They do not meet as they did
in that trancelike moment
when flesh met flesh.
A moment is enough time
to ignite a spark.
That tiny, short-lived light
burns fierce in my breast.
I keep it burning
for you.
It blinds me
and may singe your nerves.

Fire is cleansing
as it wipes out old growth.
Allow the vines to
take you over
as they have me.


Written May 28, 2018 7:30PM

Random Verbose Morning Thoughts

It is the cusp of Summer, and here, as I listen to VNV Nation's "Chrome" and "Futureperfect," I have put my inner musings into organized letters and broken sentences for your ethereal pleasure. Enjoy.


Soft verdure hues in the early morning haze of infant summer caress my gaze with a velvet allure.

The ambient energy vibrates with an anticipatory eagerness matched only by the restless longing of my caffeinated heartbeat.

A storm of yearning to sink beneath the surface in the moment while retaining the ability to freely sail away on serene waters rages in perpetuity.

Calm is illusory in the real chaos of internal human clockwork.
The whitecaps are smoothed out of public vision by refusal to open our eyes to others' mirrored struggles.
We are alone in our connectedness.