Myself: my own magnum opus.
a poem about unpacking childhood trauma and rediscovering yourself in contrast to your child self.
My brain keeps telling me I'm in the right place to deal with some childhood leftovers, The ones that had been long forgotten at the back of the fridge; Best friends with that pickle jar and mustard that you think came with it? It's always just as one stressor leaves, A whole bunch more pop up. Some weird mouldy hydra protecting the long forgotten pickle jars. I know I created that monster, To keep me out, So I could forget. Childhood memories packed into American oak barrels to age for 14 odd years. Seems like they're ready, Or that the cask has ruptured. Like a stab wound on blood thinners, It's Tarantino movie level gore, I have never related more to that bloody car scene in Pulp Fiction. Holding my child self, Bloody, lifeless, Floppy, the rigor mortis is yet to set in. I'm doing fine, Well, even. Especially considering… You know… all this. I don't really think the Phoenix burst out from its ashes, More of a slow, wounded and exhausted crawl. Like my great great grandfather and his brother in the Somme. Crawling through mud and rubble, Out of the troop carrier and into… I can't think of a respectful term, Only meat grinder comes to mind. But they came back. Changed, I'm sure. I don't look at childhood photos the same, At least the few caught in my camera shy days, When I couldn't say no to other things I chose to say no to having my picture taken. It brought a little corner of control and order into my life. I never could have imagined performing like I do now. Full crowds at the Gremily, Wine festivals, Goodwood theatre. It's unimaginable to think little timid, Forever just above average, High school drop out, Special school attendee, Me, Would've become anything. And I think I laid that little boy to rest a while ago now. That little kid and all the awful memories that accompanied him buried six feet next to his great grandmother in Centennial Park Cemetery. It's morbid to say but, I'm glad she passed when she did, Sure, she couldn't have lived to see me here, Mostly on the other side of the tunnel, But she never saw me get really bad. Most of her memories of me, The happy toddler, Her plastic sword protector, Her little garden hand. She lost all but the happy memories towards the end. I never got to be with her when she passed, But I was only 11. With a couple years of… all that, Under my belt. It's funny what we remember, And what we try to forget. It's often the worst nightmare memories that take the largest chunks of marble off. The finer details are still yet to be carved, Like the veins on David, They really make a piece into a magnum opus. The little parts that people don't consciously notice, But add up into unique takeaways, Everyone comes home with a completely different doggy bag. I'm still being chiselled, Cut into, Burnt, Shaped, Carved, Remembered, Mourned, Applauded, Praised, Loved, Hated, Disliked. But each little bit, Each little poem, Short story, Scar, And, Each sticker on my fucking car. I'm slowly cobbling together, All my finer details, Into my own magnum opus.
See I can write something with happy ending! Well, a mostly happy ending.