My Stories

MY STORIES
by Charles W. Powell

Someone mentioned that our stories determine our lives.
"What stories," I asked, "can possibly be so messed?"
The answer to be was clear and utterly incomprehensible.
It seems that we have always been writing our stories.

I thought about this for a while, what had been told me.
What are my stories? How have I really lived?
Is life so complex, tedious, colored with perceptions,
That I have always been writing it in my stories?

If my life is really a book of the stories unknown,
What kind of stories are carefully hidden tales?
Are my stories merely how I imagine things?
What really is in these stories, my "always" stories?

Why have I written so long and so hard on this book?
What are my personal reasons for keeping these tales?
Perhaps it is because I don't really wish to, be known.
Are these always stories a way of hiding the real me?

What is there in these tales that I fear?
What is it that scares the begibbers out of me?
What good can I find, if I should read them?
Why, tell me, why should I read these always stories?

How do "my" always stories really determine how I live?
Does the world only see what I want to be seen?
Or does my shadow, my hidden, secret, repressed past,
Creep out in my life through these stories I have written..

The value, the value, there must be some worth.
The grief, and the pain, the joy and the beauty.
It will come out at the most unexpected times,
If I do not tell the stories I have always written.

The sickness, the dis-ease that is in me.
It keeps me blind to these stories in my book.
I must find the grotto, the hidden library,
In which are kept these secret stories of me.

Oh stories, I know it will cost not to know,
The tales of my journey, my quest, my life.
Can I read you, what will you say?
Can I stand to hear you, my stories I have written.

What fear, what putting off the facing of myself.
That controls me unaware, making my dis-ease.
I don't want to look at my past so closely.
I'd rather not investigate these fearful stories.

I want to find the real me, the part you see.
I am so blind to these things, the monster.
I fear to confront, I shun the pool of icor.
Let me read these stories, the always stories.

There is a cure, but to find the means.
To confront, that which I really am.
Can I somehow get the cure, end the disease?
I want to, read these stories I have always written.

Can light breakforth out of this darkness, this shadow'
The gold flashes in the reflected light of courage.
Courage, fierce determination to discover the real me.
I will read these stories that I have always written.

I will face of the fear and valor of these tales.
Malice and hate and joy and love.
To possess this land which is my heart, my soul, my all.
To read these tales of my life, that I’ve always written.


How can I find the gold in the mine of my stories?
What means do I have to bring it to the light?
The whole of me from the grotto, this darkened library?
Of life, where are found my journey, my stories.

I will face the horrible glory, and the beautiful shame.
In order to find the gold that is buried in my life.
To seek to, bring out to consciousness what I fear most
I will own the truths in these stories I’ve always written

Yes, yes, yes, with one accord, my whole being speaks.
It calls, cries, begs for the privileges the obligation.
To read, discover, ponder these wonderful awesome tales.
To really contact the real me in these always stories.

I will own it all, the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly.
I will be all that I really am, full of light and darkness.
I will own the whole of me, and the whole of my stories.
I relish the fullness of all I am in these my stories.

BRING ON THE STORIES !!!
BRING ON THE STORIES.


4 / 1/92 Portland, OR
cwp
http://cli.gs/ueyNNE

Copyright Charles W. Powell 1992