Fill Me Up 


Because I’m an empty vessel
waiting to be filled.
I find myself flirting with sin.
I do it by way of pen
and paper. Trying to stitch
hope into my skin
I snuggle inside words. Poetry
can’t hurt me the way a
man can. In verse, I can build
anticipation again. Doors open
inside my head. Verbs press
against me, hard and
wanton. I find a sacred niche
between the lines. Here
I take the light. Here it never
darkens or leaves.
Devotion blesses me with sweetness
and excess.
Heaven is found in scenes that are
too scary and loud to live.

I’m an empty vessel.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Romancing myself with
my poetic wooings.
Damming myself to things
conjured, a Paradise
devoid of air, the shadows of
a scarred soul, and the
language of mangled spirit
Waiting to be loved again.

-Tosha Michelle

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44 thoughts on “Fill Me Up 

  1. “We read to know we are not alone” from the movie Shadowlands, comes to mind as an inverse of this poem. Does a poet write alone? In many ways yes, but once someone has read her words writing is no longer solitary, even if composed of words on a page vs the mess of flesh that one may long for, writing still connotes a hope, even if not immediately gratified, remains waiting, waiting, waiting for a connection the degree of which is first set by the poet, it can range from the pedantically mundane to the deeply intimate. The reader plays a role as an actor in this play to the degree she allows the poem to touch the strings of longing in her own lonely heart. So, is it really devoid of air when it takes at least two breathing sentients to roil the tumbled words through the hopper of some degree of consciousness until an inkling occurs that one is, at some previously undiscovered nexus, “known” to another? Keep stitching with your inky pen this hope into your skin, once that mark is made there it is tattooed, hard to remove again. Lovely poem Tosha… Also, did you misspell Damning, or was it meant to be damming, which would be clever and lovely and I think on purpose. Damming would connote a less eternal consequence than damning, and would suggest a lovely picture of a conjured world not condemned, but merely held back for a season until it is ready to flood over into the world. It is your choice whether to answer the riddle, might be best to keep us guessing. 💜 this poem. Lona the long-winded.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Beautiful Tosha, I love these lines “ I snuggle inside words. / Poetry can’t hurt me the way a man can.” You’re right there is a comfort in poetry, a place to desire and want love but be safe from hurt. Perhaps a place and a solace you can find comfort and strength in until the right one comes along who feels to you like poetry, and won’t wound you. Another wonderful piece 🙂

    Liked by 3 people

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