Poetry

Conversations With the Soul! Poetry by Connie Song Alone, in the amethyst of the night, you may find me in intimate conversation with myself. In my own head space. Call it my gut. My soul. Oftentimes, with pillow beneath my head, it is time for me to reflect, to listen to flooding, streaming thoughts. Thoughts that fuel the soul. For there exists within this realm the timid soul. The courageous soul. The bitter, lovely, lonely writer’s soul. A lost soul. A hopeful soul. A beautiful soul. Sometimes I wonder if the soul is a place comfortably cushioned, in tufted velveteen or breathable cotton or maybe cheap polyester, or is it corrugated, like a rigid piece of cardboard? Flammable, incendiary? Is it the color of diamonds or maybe softly bleeding sepia or onyx like midnight? The demeanor of the psyche of my soul is one of armor — it is the metallic lining that protects vulnerability —sometimes hidden like a Trojan horse — other times it shields an Achilles heel. I imagine the soul to be a place of beauty, an oasis where inspired thoughts can variegate, like fragrant lotus or golden spiked foxglove or tumbleweed. Is your soul your escape hatch, your trap door, your haven? My soul is a torture chamber, a place of human bondage, holding regret, remorse and guilt. It is not a red helium balloon, easily released, to float away or anything as unrepressed as a Banksy print. Poor, tortured soul. Sometimes my soul is vain and vindictive, telling me why my pants are too tight and I should stop gorging on chocolate. But why then is writing like chocolate for my soul? Most times my soul is unapologetic, like an epidural to get me back on my feet. It somehow thinks it knows what is best for me. And this I ask my unconscionable soul, why does contemplation fill the hours of the day and night? Why do I write? Why is the page the runway for my soul? My words are often filled with grace. Why do they sometimes become unbuttoned? Like the undressing of the soul