poem for venting purposes

cw death, cw intergenerational trauma

there are ghosts under my skin

they pull to mind what's carried within

silhouetted by sun familiar shape

reminders of what we can't escape

a ghost has memory of their own

especially when they built your first home

the same father, grandfather's hair

different unchanged, contracting flare

try to run, to hide or not to care

the ghosts we carry are always there

mirror's glance momentary, a fearful mistake

of eyes so familiar, mouth grimaced in hate 

voice's intonation with melodic flair

phantom hands cut your form without any care

pushing up through your skin old handprints escape

the world can see undeniable fate

nurture or nature differences are staked

on ground guaranteed to crumble and break

unfairly and cruel similarities show

not enough to remember, but just enough to know

the mind leaks as it grows, important things vanish 

a collage of grief, wishes for what was banished 

and each year that passes we all look the same

as the ones who birthed us and gave us a name

broken ferris wheel turning as though without care

the ghosts that we carry are always there

my grandmother's voice lives inside of my mouth

but my mother's bile is what sometimes bubbles out.

running desperate north west east south,

can't run from a ghost's horrid eerie shout

they can claim we are them, and carry we do

but differences we carve are our ghosts anew

memories fade but feelings grow

the things that we miss all we need to know

spoon held odd, musical voice

the ghosts we carry help us make a choice

dearly departed here in agonizing ways

we can't hug them because we are all that remains

we need and want but the ghosts stay within

braiding our hair from under our skin.

so off guard, tone shadow reflection

we can't be alert for every connection

vital things that we can never own

uncomfortable flight from the feeling of home

hate or love they haunt us still

the ghosts we adore or try to kill

taste in food, music, love we try to relate

different same and unnamed all hopeless escape

if it is what we are that's set in the stars

we would not have to carry all of these scars

the lessons we learn in lifetime unique

leaves the ghost's imprint on us incomplete

a preference in tea or the volume down low

never means that the same anger will show

and even in life rude, the ghost's cognizant

it's your show now, and you're the one in it

they can only cheer as you try your best

and put everything they were to the brutal test

if i am unique i'll individually know

the culmination of ghosts made my everything so

does a grip on a pencil mirror the last

of ancestors who used stones and wove grass?

uphill gait as she walks strong and fast

no way of knowing if it's from first or the last

what is last in a story without end?

so finalistic we refuse time as a friend.

what we lose what we gain obscured completely

as we navigate our own struggles routinely

blood curses and boons inherit our flesh

and stop us from safely feeling at rest

there isn't a truth that needs to be known

when love's expectation radiates from your bones

plunging forward into tumultuous mystery

our ghosts trapped inside remember our history 

frightening unknown we can't lean back

and have the support of a presence we lack

a wish or a memory our ghost's support

is only as strong as self built harbors and ports

who we let in and who comes to dock

is how we define our shores when they're fraught 

collections of others, mirrored and informed

are the difference between now and when we were born

loved things and learned, become who we are

but to the outside we bear the same scar

even if i follow the guiding voice within

i'll always have ghosts under my skin