I Am a Stone

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I am a stone.
Crashings of the waves
beat me barren and raw,
wear me into abyss,
as if I wasn’t here at all.
Until I am a pebble.

And by moon of shame,
the tides flow above me
and through my veins,
and the very essence of the girl I am,
thieves that word I once called my name.
Just a pebble, now.

Until I am no more at all.

And whispers of a stream,
through crevices and cracks,
rivulets of siren tears,
drowning dirt and grass.
But receding back,
with threat in heart,
and home left sole.
Costly memories,
too lonely to forget.

I am a pebble.

And when boulders and shoved above me,
and the ground is
no ground at all.
When I am caked in mud
on every side,
unable to move,
but unable to fall.
As time wears on,
and no less cold,
than an arctic tundra.
Here I am again.

I am a stone.

And here, beneath the surface.
Strong and below the water.
Untouched, underwater.
Drowning beneath obligation,
set forth by preparation,
I am stone.
And unmoving.

Shatter me ten thousand times.
Destroy me, I suppose.
It makes no matter anymore,
I shall wake once again,
stronger than before.

Wear me away with your tide
and ocean,
Freeze and breathe into me.
Beat me into pebbles,
and then there shall be more,
feed your ego and insecurities,
just as sad as before.
Will you never change?
Will you never grow?

Thousands and millions of years
you may torture.
Treacherous foe, I bow to no one,
find me companions, leave me alone.
Makes no matter.
I’ve thousands of years, millions,
to be whole.

And you?
A hole.

And anchored in my place.
I live on.

A debt of gratitude for you,
because I am stronger without you.

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About Mattie J.

My name is Mattie J. Hamilton, and I am seventeen years old. I live in a cute little house in the country in Southern Indiana, and have lived there my entire life. I self-published two books of poetry a few years ago, but I much prefer writing fiction of poetry, journalism, or any other sort of writing. I'm somewhat new to the blogging world, and I may come off as a bit of an ameteur, but hey, I am an ameteur. Proud of it. After all, I'm just a kid, and I have plenty of time to learn.

2 responses »

  1. Although my English is poor, with emotion reading your poems here in faraway Greece.
    Allow me to tell you what I feel, with a poem written in 1911 but, I think, always modern.

    Ithaca (1911)
    by Constantine P. Cavafy (1863 – 1933)

    As you set out for Ithaka
    hope the voyage is a long one,
    full of adventure, full of discovery.
    Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
    angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
    you’ll never find things like that on your way
    as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
    as long as a rare excitement
    stirs your spirit and your body.
    Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
    wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
    unless you bring them along inside your soul,
    unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

    Hope the voyage is a long one.
    May there be many a summer morning when,
    with what pleasure, what joy,
    you come into harbors seen for the first time;
    may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
    to buy fine things,
    mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
    sensual perfume of every kind—
    as many sensual perfumes as you can;
    and may you visit many Egyptian cities
    to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.

    Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
    Arriving there is what you are destined for.
    But do not hurry the journey at all.
    Better if it lasts for years,
    so you are old by the time you reach the island,
    wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
    not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

    Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
    Without her you would not have set out.
    She has nothing left to give you now.

    And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
    Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
    you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

    (Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard)

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