ELLIE LIZALEK - POEMS

Ellie Lizalek is a college graduate from Rocky Mountain College with a Bachelor's of Science in Equestrian Studies. She has a passion for writing and art, striving to create relatable and honest work. 

Shadow People
​

​She does not raise her eyes
from the ground before her:
the belief that she is not good enough.
The dirt in front of her lies--
enticing with an explanation
for the agony tearing her apart.
Her eyes drift up occasionally,
daring to risk the vulnerability
of being found out
(caught up in the moment when
she is not trapped in her own mind)--
but quickly return to the consuming
fallacies the Enemy murmurs to her heart.
The lies are what make sense
in the chaos of hormones, emotions, and relationships--
they cling to her thoughts
to infect her very identity.
 
His voice is hollow,
a husk of who I know.
It echoes back, bouncing around my mind—empty:
the belief that he is nothing.
The alluring voices filling his mind lie--
offering promises and expectations
they cannot fulfill.
He catches glimpses of worth
in the affirmations of loved ones--
hope swells deep within his soul
(that he chokes out to prevent
the suffocation of unmet expectations).
The lies are what are comfortable
in the chaos of the American Dream--
they smother his heart
to pollute his very identity.
 
These people without hope--
The Shadow People--
wordlessly cry,
            beg,
                        plead,
                                    entreat
for answers to “why?”
They seek peace that ever-eludes--
always out of reach.
Let me be Your hands and feet,
loving them as You do
(ascribing value and safety).
Let me be the voice I longed for
as the same lies enveloped and ravaged
my delicate view of myself.
Help me (a daughter of Light)
be the person to them
that I needed.

​Blooming

​Dearest, I run from what I do not know,
desperately trying to escape the terror
of being out of control.
I launch myself into distraction
            after distraction
                        after distraction
only to end back where I started--
the Unknown.
So as a little girl hiding in the body
of a strong young woman,
I cringe within--
cowering away from what the world
disregarded as frivolous:
being in love.
I was cautious—no--
I was terrified of another let down,
so I denied it,
attempting to eliminate it
before it could blossom into something
I could no longer contain.
But flowers have a way
of pushing through the most adverse circumstances--
they cannot be nipped only through covering
over the barely growing sprout.
So this love grew until I could
no longer deny its presence in my heart--
what I thought was a malicious weed
turned out to be a beautiful gift.
And Love, it is not the time for action--
the flower is still only a bud
in need of tending,
            nurturing,
                        pruning,
                                    waiting.
In my eagerness I will not reveal
it before its time--
I will wait,
            pruning,
                        nurturing,
                                    tending
it until the moment when it opens.
Not when it is at its peak, mind you--
but when the first petals begin to peel
away from the rest of the bud
I will present it to you.
Because if I give you the flower
before it fully matures,
I also give us the opportunity
to meet halfway and bloom together.
So Love, though you do not know
that this is happening,
I ask that you be patient and trust me.
I am not perfect and I no longer try
to control all of the feelings
tormenting my Spock-like mindset--
so please,
bear with me as I learn from this too.
And if you wait
(as I am waiting for you)
I cannot promise to fulfill all of your dreams,
but I can promise I will do my best for you.
I may forget an anniversary,
exactly how you like your eggs done,
how I need to be quiet in the morning
so I don’t wake you after working late hours,
or to make the bed before leaving for work--
but I will greet you every day with a kiss,
I will spend time with you on your projects
(not because I necessarily enjoy the task
but because I enjoy you),
I will hold you close when the tears come,
and I will try to love you
with a self-sacrificing Love.

Truth
​

​It’s been two years since the condemning
thoughts plagued my daily life.
Medication and mentors later,
You hauled me out of myself to see--
 
Yet I return to those self-destructive thoughts
annihilating the desire to continue
carrying on in the monotony of my days.
 
The excitement of my routine
fades into repetitive nothing--
an epiphany instantly destroys my will
(to care for myself)--
I am repeating the same Pattern
that maimed two:
me
            and
                        you.
My grasping for male affirmation
(stemming from an emotionally absent father)
drives me through the ground
into a hell that I make for myself.
And when a friend and sister in Christ
addresses the concern of me repeating the Pattern
she and others witnessed in the past,
I am blindsided--no--
I am agonizingly aware of my shortcomings.
And if I am to ignore her
gracious,
            humble,
                         kind,
                                     wise
counsel, I risk compounding the vandalism
of our hearts--
 
Instinctively I withdraw into myself,
desperate to escape the self-condemnation
lurking on the fringes of my mind already.
(Gentleness is no match for the downward spiral
that my thoughts fling themselves into
at the first sign that my Fear is validated.)
 
It has been two years since I last cut
the agonies tormenting my mind
into the flesh of my arm and side--
tracing thin lines of red on my skin,
desiring the release in frantic addiction.
My miniscule scars hardly beg for the attention
of others, when so many have made themselves
canvases of their afflictions--
do not invalidate me
(I beg you)
for what you cannot see,
for scars are not skin deep.
 
And just because my thoughts do not deviate
to indulge the belief, “the world is better without me,”
that does not mean an Awareness
does not materialize--
pointing my mind to my knife and my arm.
But don’t worry,
the fight between Control and Truth has already been won.
I simply stand (in the middle
of Control and Truth),
fighting to stay afloat during this battle.
I ride the swells and waves of emotions--
craving the numbness I once despised;
however, You draw me in to Yourself--
In You I deserve healthy love.
 
Two years later I look to You,
meekly asking for my heart to believe
what my head already knows as True.

 

Betrayal
​

I don’t remember who I am
when my closest friends tell me they would leave me
(because blood is thicker than water)
and I find all my accusing fingers
falling short of their target and pointed back--
I am the only one to blame.
 
Ignorance is no excuse for hurting others.
 
I turn up my music so I can’t hear my thoughts
as they run rampant--Destroying
(my will to persevere).
The lies stampede through my mind,
trampling the hope of Truth
as I struggle to understand how to fix
what I have Destroyed.
 
Having vices and patterns pointed out
is only as helpful as the subsequent advice
of how to change.
 
You have made me a Restorer--
yet I leave a path of Destroyed hearts
wandering through my past
(in crossroads with the pasts of others)
as the ignorant child cowering within
fumbles with the relationships of adulthood.
 
Vices are not immaturity.
 
My feet carry me miles as my voice internally
screams,
            wails,
                        shouts,
                                    begs
for relief from the agonies
carving incisions into my heart.
I cannot draw myself out of this struggle

 

                              of
            Destroying      Destroyed
                        and being
alone.
And as my feet grow tired and my body
stops the compulsive walking
(off my problems),
I find You alongside me--
it will be okay.

Guilty
​

​I did this to us, Dearest--
this rift spanning our hearts.
I was the one who decided
to play a part Abba did not script.
I allowed the sentiment to creep into
our friendship, distorting what should be--
I took the action our impressionable minds pondered.
I led myself to live in the future potential,
leading you on as well.
In my ignorance I have permitted
the festering of the wound
I did not see for the blinders covering my eyes.
And if my own fingers did not scream enough blame to myself,
the words echoing through the phone from one of my closest friends pounded the gavel--guilty.

My days swirl and blend together
in a whirlwind of weeping and numbness--
who am I?
How can I forgive myself when no one will forgive me first?
Who am I to pardon myself from harming others--
yet
who am I to hold against myself
what Abba has already forgiven?

You did this to us, Dearest--
this chasm crossing our hearts.
You did not stop me from playing a part
Abba did not script for me.
You did not hold me accountable to the standards
I told you I had.
You condoned the facets of romance within our friendship--
you welcomed the action we separately considered.
Perhaps you met my emotions halfway,
silently satisfying your secret hopes as well.
In your desire, you greeted my action with passivity favoring our unfitting attraction.
And since it takes two to tango,
the condemning voices stretch a path between and around us--guilty.