Parts Two and Three…lol

       My internet access has been out for days, so I can finally post the rest of the lines I wrote. These last parts are probably the weirdest pieces of writing I’ve ever done. I was looking through a signs and symbols book while writing them so I included images I would normally have been lost and clueless to. Besides the internet being out though, there has been a little family drama. My spirits have been low and this mood has set off familiar thoughts I’m trying to fight off. Thoughts about worthlessness and what I could do about it. Out of nowhere though I thought to try volunteering one more time. At the art museum, instead of a hospital. No medical tests would be needed and I would be in a quiet atmosphere. I wanted to volunteer at the museum months ago, but like always I talked myself out of it. This time I truly don’t have a choice. It feels life or death, because I’ve been thinking about death, to be honest. Art has been a good distraction though. I’m making pendants with my drawings glued onto them to sell at a craft show in November my mom signed us up for. It’s all I’m looking forward to really.

So here are the other two parts…..They are more about my past relationships and how I wish they would have been, and also about what I have substituted in place of things that are missing. When I say doctor, I’m referring to my therapist.

 

Pt 2. 

 

The lone, irregular piece of opal with occasional, mean tendencies

I am the unlucky, the stubborn lock in the spoke of my dear Fortunes wheel.

I try to drink more goodness but it dries and disrespects my throat

And chokes me on ideals so often,

 

I say I’d rather be alone to perfect their judgment.

To make sure the dark rays murder each blessing correctly.

Prominent, unattractive noise and sight, simply because I walk by

As I silently acknowledge the critical disgust in words others will say, do say

And should.   

 

The knife in a dream, and collapse once it breathes, gives the circle its power

And resistance. With Its narcissistic ways…. Its reach and quick steal of calm securities.

But only with my blood and my lungs and contemplation, do these anxieties exist.

Only through my distant relationships and neglect, and frigid death to each one does this

Recluse, hermit creep.  

 

I didn’t need a friend, Doctor. I needed a blade, final words and a blinding migraine.

That year I had easy, hopeless ground on which to dig my grave

With a once in a while smile begging that I wait. I sat beside the hollow and listened

For non-existence. For the love and will carried by the hum of End.

 

You could say that I need help.

Some days I do agree, but Shadow has persuaded that I mark today my last.

He at least insists I mark it a wish to keep secret,

As the always unlocked door you will not know about. 

 

 

 

Pt. 3   

 

You should know the blood I sought refuge within

Has become nothing more than the place I languish in numbness.

The lasting nights of isolation swirling its shadows in justification has

Been a caring father. As soft and true as the birth-death disappearances

Of the moon.

 

There when I need it. Just like the black choker and fire fringed corset

Tightening their squeeze, a mother purging the poisoned germ of a

Measured, pulsating decay. This safety is unbreakable, knowing I will not fight

What leaves me shameless in its loyalty and guiltless in its crime.

 

I must keep away from their opened eyes. To see my flesh so saturated in fear

And distrust, the face of a deep ugliness hidden by a pitiful mask, it would

Mean an end on their terms. My five swords and all consuming fall.

Saying ‘don’t think of what they say’ won’t coax me from my cage.

 

I’ve inoculate myself with rejection’s shard-like tears, and I ignore the fact

It doesn’t work. I avoid, stealing from the pain, for solitude with my love.

Shadow has my heart, and welcome treatments of calm and clarity.

Your expertise presumes me ‘figured out’.

 

While my spirit dies of faithlessness.

You don’t know- my prayers are laced with doom.

Licks of a sick passion that scars the blinks between my weeping fits.

I quiver with flashes of cold shock, thoughts on a drenched scene,

 

Their piano song is muddled. I am the broken key. 

Yet, I continue to pretend I am something of significance.

Not a near death situation. Sleeping on what would be my finish of perfection,

Or daydreaming of the sort…. They want to be free of me. Do tell them I am sorry

I take so long to end.   

  

It’s a lot and I don’t think I made much sense at all, but I like the release writing this gave me. I can read over each part whenever I don’t feel understood.