Stolen (poem title likely to change…lol)

The past lives I used to dream…
Moon bitten, lost in lunacy

I don’t hear it telling you
That you’re the worst God’s given breath
There’s nothing alive left in me
My essence is dried up flesh

Buy me tears; buy me a beating
All the more sweet for distracting me
They hover low; I watch the angels thieve my wings
And off they go, dragging their feet

Now I am as bitter and old
As the death curl of a blackened rose
Ever there, as the gripping rope
Of a suffocating smoke

The ghost of a stolen soul
Away, in cold kisses blown, I go

 

This is one of the new ones I’ve written. Maybe I’m getting worse or maybe I’m just not getting any better, either way I sort of like this one. It sounds different to me and that’s what I’m trying to go for. The title is confusing me now so that’s hopefully the only thing I’ll end up changing.  

After

My right ear
Against the floor of my cell
I’d know of it, if I could see
But my eyes aren’t open, and
It’s too late for me to breathe

The night’s resulting splay-
Vile liquid pooling from my lips
Cold crust sealing my eyes shut
Mind pouring in the end

I’ve gone, but the fan above continues
Its swaying motion of brokenness,
The world still throws itself dizzy, round and round
And the eyes of heaven’s darkness still burst and bleed

And somewhere a rain is falling. The heroes
Put away their faces and graze in dark solitude
In shame for the lives they can not admit
Could never have been saved

——

One of the newer ones but it’s from March, before I started class. It’s just finished today that’s all…I don’t know why, but I’m a little nervous about posting any of the more recent stuff I’ve written.  I guess I need to settle with the idea that I’m going to be writing about the same things, until something really changes in my life. I’m far too comfortable with writing about certain things. Even when I do attempt to write on a completely different topic, it always comes back to what’s familiar to me, if I make any sense with that. I’m working on it though.

“Sing so soft, as if she’ll break….”

 

The title is a line from Regina Spektor’ s song “Lady”. I love the mood of that song. I know I probably seem a little stuck on her music, but she has a lot of variety, and I’m amazed at how she arranges some of her songs.

Anyway, I don’t have anything new to say except I’m working on two new songs. The lyrics suck, but the music I guess is slowly coming along…lol. I’m embarrassed that I even try, but it’s something to do for now as I wait to be contacted for volunteering at the hospital (I’ll have to do at least 100 hours in a year, which will be no problem since I have nothing else going on..).

Below are some older poems I wasn’t too excited about, but didn’t want to trash either. More bits and pieces of thoughts I threw together one day to ease a bad mood. The new things I’ve written are almost done being edited.

For Sanity

Quiet disposition-
Looks to dreams of the unreachable
In melancholic melodies, played beneath my fingers
In discontent, as written in a hidden script of
Characters; strangers who hurt themselves
But, I never quite figured them out.

To draw somber eyes-
Soft glistening breaks over the souls iris doors
Imagination was not enough
Once numbness dyed every new life experience
When time clearly asked me to waste away
To die, or decide on which risks I’d take.

On the edge thinking deeply-
On a sunset I prayed for the will to meet
For my fallen blade to mirror a perfect resolution
As in the stories, characters and how they would fold
As in the sad drawn eyes, of their streaming tears
That ask why the passing days forget their purpose.

In the way the keys sang a most painful song-
Each note gave its understanding without pause
Why desperation creases my brow…If God
Could only tell me how, to live and what to say
Why he can not force belief
For all things to be okay.

A Way

Cut,
Dragged,
Swallowed down
I’ll fix a sure way out

Crippling, well placed mistakes
Tonight shall have their way
Finished tears will seep and choke
Sorrows of unseen years

Risen ailments’ wave, at crest
Soon comes my flood of
Darkness

The End Is Better

I cancelled another therapy appointment. I don’t think I’m going anymore. If I can’t pinpoint what I need and what I’m in this for anymore, it’s a waste on so many levels. I’m in some kind of pain, but there’s nothing anyone else can do to help me out now. It feels like I’ve looked at all sides and I’ve heard the possibilities. There’s been so many attempts to get me to believe in the positive, but every time, I easily let it all slip from my mind. It’s weightless to me.

I didn’t know how to approach ‘getting help’ when I did finally speak up. There was nothing but a fear that has remained at the core of what I am now. It doesn’t allow me to say what I should be saying in therapy. I can’t let go. I can’t share my darker thoughts because for years I’ve felt that speaking of them is a dangerous option—one door would lead into the next and I’d surely lose all the control I only ever hope I have.

So, I cheat myself by not telling my therapist the whole truth. And I’ve had enough; I’m sick of myself. I hate how much time and money I’ve wasted, and I’m disappointed that I have not yet learned, after all this time, how to accept help. I tie it so much to meaning, while knowing I’ll never have an answer–for why I should live, for why I should care. Help is something I don’t have an idea for how to have it really sink in.

I’m tired of going through days where it seems I’m always about to fall asleep to what’s going on. Being blank about it. Watching up close but not fully taking part. There’s no desire to. And if I decide to let go all together, it feels like I know exactly how I will fall and where I will land. It’s quiet and I’m alone, surrounded by a calming cold; finished and resting, and on my way to being forgotten about.

Got Away For Awhile

 

 

I went to the Underground Railroad Freedom Center this weekend with my mother. It was worth the trip and we plan to go back soon to check out other parts we didn’t get to look at. It’s a huge place with a lot of information about the past regarding slavery in America, and about the civil right movement.

My mom had been hesitant to go to the Freedom Center ever since it opened in the city. She thought it would make her sad to see so much about slavery, the images and all, but it’s not too grim at all. I was excited when I heard about how involved a lot of people were back when it was first opening, especially after the hype about Oprah giving money to the project. The artifacts were cool to see and there was this amazing mural I plan on getting a picture of next time I go. The only thing that disturbed me was reading this sign near one of the exhibits that explained how people used to justify slavery. Calling it a “neccessary evil”, and saying that the “white lifestyle requires it”… Anyway, it was a pretty good day.

As far as my mental state, I would say I’ve just been plain out unmotivated. I’ve got to get myself together somehow within the next few hours though to get ready for my interview tomorrow.

Here’s a poem I just finished. Writing is going well too. I’m not as stuck on ideas, but I’ll see how long that lasts.

No title once again…lol.

Sky of graves
They are deaths twinkling through the dust
Its stretch in all directions of one beginning gust
Honest hope does not extend their ray

Our spot of warmth: the glitch in a comfortless dream
Results in rippling jewels, fevers, come with a fearful cold
Folding in, falling through–a demise all its own
A life ending desire; creation to retrieve

Foresee the end spun and sifted far within
All is dying—tells the ancient art
Our venom tainted natal chart
Smoke of ghosts above, absorb the sin

 

 

The Folds

 

I don’t think I ever shared this painting. It’s not great or anything, I know, and I’m not sure of any real meaning for it exactly but I found I was unusually interested in the petal folds of roses and other flowers. The folds are symbolic to me in a way, because I always think of something being hidden there, something terrible being covered and disguised by something beautiful and secretive.

The Side I Don’t Know and Have Not Seen

 

What’s the point in having a family if you cannot seek them when help is needed?

It pisses me off that my family, on both sides, is as distant as it is. I’d like to see my cousins more that twice a year. We live twenty minutes away for heaven’s sake. It doesn’t help my anxiety at all when those in my family feel like complete strangers to me on the few occasions I do see them. Get this—I have a grandmother still alive, my father’s mother, and I’ve never seen her face, not even a photograph. And my father has all this expensive camera equipment and not once has he shown me what this woman looks like.

Actually my father’s side of the family worries me. There’s a lot I don’t know. I tend to think that if my mental disorders are more genetically based, they have to stem from his side. My dad’s father was an alcoholic, and from what I hear, his mother—my only living grandparent—was verbally abusive to him as he was growing up. He has one sister that has always been described to me as a recluse. And none of his four sisters drive cars…We have more in common that I’d like.

And then I worry about all the other physical and mental things I’m not aware of that might have a history in his family line.

I think my aunt who lives out of state is ignoring me. She’s decided she may not make it up here for a visit this year, citing financial issues, which is a weak argument seeing how last year things weren’t much different and she still came to visit. We offered to buy her flight ticket, and we rarely spend large amounts of cash when she’s here anyway. So, I sent her a personal email explaining how everyone really wants to see her, and how we all might not be around next year if she decides to skip this year. I’ve gotten no response so far. I don’t like being ignored, so I’ve sent two more emails both containing some art work she’s not seen, and with the third messages I stated “I hope I’m not being ignored, but if I am—it’s no surprise…” Something along those lines.

I’ve been very good about containing my anger. I’ve not hurt myself in more than three months and I’m easing back into writing better than expected. I also have an interview at a hospital next Tuesday. It’s a part time position I really want. All I can do is try to answer the questions as best I can. I don’t imagine being as nervous as I was during the interviews we did at the school during my course, when I felt I was being graded on every move I made.

I’m working on lyrics to a new song. Since I’ve been listening to more Regina Spektor in anticipation of her new cd being released next week, I’m just compelled to try again…lol.

Elusive Blue

 

 

  This butterfly was the hardest to get a  photo of. I took a chance and shot at random caught it with it’s wings open. It happened in the shade so this image is edited for the color to show up better. Below are more poems. I swear I’m working on better material. I just wanted to post something today.

Bloodstain

I, the beat-less piece of shade
Of life; I wish I could escape
But once again, they accept
My excuse as truth, so

These nails dig into the wrist
Over and again. Until this burning
Is a bite. Until the biting is a breath,
When the seconds slow to rest

And bloodstain my contemplation
Telling me I am what’s wrong
It shoves me to the brink and
Scolds me for my holding on

———————————————

Emend

I am darkened enough
A sore in this dimension

The spare can never ask.
Not when, where or for what.

But I am not for shame and
Do not scream or look away

As in this moment, pain will own
And I will not deflect

 

It is my nerves.

I was disappointed when the dermatologist outright said the rash was my nerves. She also called me a “picker” because of the scabs I have from scratching my skin so much. But I kind of got the vibe that she was assuming in a way that I caused the issue because I purposely scratch myself, which isn’t the case. I’m only scratching to get at whatever’s under my skin that’s itching, I’m sorry if I don’t get overly grossed out about scratching so much I break my skin, but it itches that much…..And she asked why I was taking the Zoloft and asked if I was in therapy and all that junk. I’m just disappointed that I still don’t have much of an answer or much of a cure to the rash itself. Just lotions and a topical medication.

I didn’t have to mention anything about the unrelated scars on my arms though, thankfully. Worrying about that I’m sure was helping me none.

My thoughts are all over the place. Not only is my brother back into trouble with the law out of his own blatant stupidity, but my therapist is making me feel like shit about how I still have not managed to get my license, or even paid the money for my temps (for the third time). All of that costs money that I don’t have; money I will not ask my family for, especially when I am taking money already for my damn prescription. Not to forget about the money wasted on co-pays and prescriptions regarding this skin rash.

And why? My mother, at 60 years old as of June 6th, tries not to think about what the next ten years will hold; if she’ll be her or not. At 19, I’m almost certain I won’t be here ten years from now. To actually make it that long scares me.

I’m still going to volunteer at the hospital where I did my clinical training. Maybe that’ll make it easier for me to get picked up for a job. I’m hoping, but I won’t count on ever getting a break with this job searching. There are just too many people shooting for the same thing.

I am so numb about my life right now, and I know it’s got to be the anti-depressants. I’m debating if they’re worth it anymore. To be here feeling nothing, but being functional, or feeling miserable and being unstable, but having something to feel, having something to think about actually. Which one is really living?

My therapist asked me is it more the depression or the anxiety that’s causing problems. I said the depression, but she said she thought it was the anxiety (as if saying it would make it true…) But as far as I’m concerned, I am stuck either way and just don’t give a damn. I feel like John Travolta’s character in the new movie I saw “The Taking of Pelham 123” where he demands Denzel Washington’s character to shoot him dead, or he’ll kill him….He was caught, and would die in prison anyway….I guess I just mean that I don’t see a way out, no matter which way I go in making decisions. We all will eventually get caught in the same trap, so no one’s life means very much.

Dying Note

 Dying Note

Slow wave and beat
Its given tears of melody
Listening near,
Now I’ve fallen in
The dying note takes me with it

A quiet leave
Consumed whole by its own grief
And we are in the dark,
Where whispers bleed
The heart, the sight–all memory

From light without a plea
Strained along by the echo’s breeze
As we dissolve cold,
One deep inbreathe
At end, in frozen reach

 

This weak poem was where I left off back in March. The poem was written before I made the image, which is inverted from it’s original.

 I seriously thought about it yesterday and said if I’m not writing something, or even attempting to write, even when I’m fresh out of ideas, I should not bother anymore. Nothing else I do is going to keep me here. There’s enough anger over it now, after three months of putting it off my list of priorities, to write in between every empty moment. There are a lot of empty moments now. And there’s always something to say.