UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
CYNTHIA RUTH LEWIS

Lost in a Blue Collar World

Sometimes I wonder
if I would have been better off
if I'd gone to college and 'made'
something of myself;
became a doctor or lawyer maybe even a scientist...
one of those 'lucrative' careers

I'd read up on a few subjects,
looked into a few fields,
but I never had the drive to follow through.
I was never one to settle my mind
on anything that required extra attention
or concentration

I was always the type that lost interest
when things got difficult or complicated;
it was always so comfortable
to take the easy way out,
like crawling into a bottle
to take the edge off unpaid bills,
or unplugging the phone because
I knew it was my lunatic mother
at the other end, and I always prefer
to keep the salt as far away from
my wounds as possible

so I lapsed into a minimum-wage job
so I could totally zone out when I wanted,
avoid major decisions
and still manage to scrape by, financially,
spending my free time writing poetry
and filling journals about the things
that go on in my head;
wrestling with some old demons,
trying to make sense out of it all
even occasionally spilling a little blood,
trying to fill in the blanks,
find answers to long-forgotten questions...

still wondering, I guess;
still trying
to find my niche


Keepsake

I saved the nightlight from
the motel where we met

that was the first motel I'd
been in that had a nightlight--
not that we needed one,
but it was kind of a comfort,
like your touch

You weren't like the others.
You loved me with gentle hands
and warmth;
you made me forget that I'd been
touched by tons of men before:
each caress, each thrust
had been nothing but a lie;
a clumsy attempt at reaching heaven,
but instead of feeling fulfilled after,
I always felt a filthy thing,
a mistake; something to be swept aside
and forgotten...

Now that nightlight brightens the dimness
of my insecurity and doubt,
reminding me of your touch;
your smile
that illuminated the darkness
where before there'd been dark thoughts,
remorse, and a sensation of ants
crawling over my skin

now there was promise;
a small hope where only the dark had been


I'm 38, having written poetry for the past 17 years.
Currently back in the publishing world after having
taken a 2 year hiatus due to creative apathy and
temporary insanity--which, actually may have enhanced
my writing. It has certainly enhanced my weirdness.

I currently have a book available, "Piss On Your
Parade," up for grabs at a mere $5.00. Contact me at
bookas6670@yahoo.com







2006 Underground Voices