Pieces – Beautiful when held away from memories –

“Sometimes I wonder if we ever truly let anyone completely in. The desire for another human being to know you, all of you, all the pieces, even the ones you’re ashamed of — is huge. But too often, we sit down and sort through the pieces only picking out the pretty ones, leaving the ugly ones behind, not realizing that choosing not to share with someone else is like committing a crime against our very soul” ― Rachel Van Dyken, Toxic
 
pozadia

Pieces. Making up a whole, many parts nested together, each influencing another, producing new parts by virtue of the interaction. I pick out a few, examine them closely and find interesting details. They’re beautiful, when held away from the fray of the many tentacled reach of memories and fantasies. After holding them up to the light, seeing their potential array, I shudder to place them back into the filthy nest of my mind. Pulling out the best pieces, I shake them violently to break them free from the sticky strands of complexity and insanity. It encourages me to see the good in the midst of the shadowy world of loathing self esteem. I go through life in this juggling act, bringing out the best, keeping them out front, trying to not corrupt them or damage them. It’s true that others caused the breaks in my beautiful things, but I cannot put them away, even if it means harm, they’re all that I believe is good in me.

First published in Opinions Of Eye
03162012

Drowned

“Well, any love makes us vulnerable. Whatever we love will give the gift of pain somewhere along the road. But who would live sealed in spiritual cellophane just to keep from ever being hurt? There are a few people like that. I’m sorry for them. I think they are as good as dead.” ― Gladys Taber, Harvest at Stillmeadow  
 

aniaikiru

 Thinking she with baited breath, breathed the bearing winds
and with heated highs holding hands of holy fortune
But I was wrong

Believing the best of both between beaten breaking waves
and with hope helping a healing of heavy history
But I was wrong

Being wrong is easy, but the scorching blisters that remain from the heat of desire bring the pain of dying belief. Having lifted her up with my service and hope, giving all of my time and energy to see a buck shot doe come to life, who would know that she would attack me? A desperate soul uses no discretion in the flailing attempts at survival. Once on solid ground she looked back and saw me, floating on an ocean created by my sweat and tears, upside down, blue and bloated with discouraged heartache. In my resurrected state I can see her, and still I believe in her, being taught that my sacrifice means nothing in the comeback of the starlet. I only see her from a distance, and beholding her as the stars, hope that I never see her come streaking out of the night sky, burning through the atmosphere of her wantonness, and crashing into a broken blaze of kindling people.

Be it religion or love, in the end, who will use you up?

One Thing, Everyday – Do something to help

“How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it, except the pleasure of seeing it.” 

I saw this picture, a boy collapsed on the road to a UN Food Camp, a vulture waiting for him to die, and I said to myself, “way the hell am I whining about anything?” Am I that frigging spoiled that I don’t recognize how good I have it? After a good self flagellation, I determined these goals in life: take the weight off of those who I’m around, bring a smile to a desperate soul, lift up a broken human being back onto the path of life, and give one hungry soul a bite to eat. Basically, look for the opportunity, everyday, to reach out of my comfort zone and help someone. What if I could do just one thing, everyday, to help someone out? Then my perspective would be changed, then I would stop complaining, then I would really be living.

Windshield

“The boy is fragile, broken—broke himself—broke everything. I asked him why he did it. He said because the world was unlivable. He said it was unlovable, 
but I think he meant himself.” – Brenna Yovanoff
torchstar

“Push, pull, shove me, to that end we both know is there
Cheat, steal, cut me, when we both know you don’t care
Lie, prey, vex me, the broken windshield will show
Anger, pain, crush me, glass in bloodied water glows” 
– DMW


Love so strong and innocent dies betrayed, the broken windshield another victim of your lies. My knuckles are wounded from defending your evil intentions. The glass buried in them, kept there by darkened bloody scabs, seeps out, along with your memory, in tainted fluids of slow death. This windshield isn’t the first broken by fists of rage fueled with shattered feelings from your childish manipulations of my undefiled affection. A little grin of amusement decorates your facade, you’re entertained by the show you’ve created, and with that smirk, you settle back to wait. Playing the innocent, you set the trap for another Savior to ride in on his white horse, a chivalrous fool coming to your feigned rescue. Like you, the windshield is easily replaced, it’s easy to buy inanimate cold things.

The Tub – Abuse cannot be cleansed

“When you aren’t loved, you aren’t real. Life is cold, like the stone against my palm.”
  – Richelle E. Goodrich,
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
“Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom…She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma.”
Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery  
 
I hear him coming, old truck grumbling

Stumbling up the stairs.

I hear him cussing, broken glassesthrowing

Threatening me to tears.

I hear his belt undoing, drunken fury lashing,

Bringing my young fears

I hear the slaps landing, bruises are coming

Staining my skin with smears

I hear the bath filling, his sorrow is falling

Draining his guilty water clears

I hear the door slamming, darkness is calling

Suffering my torment through the years

Related Post: Slamming Doors
Also published in Broowaha Magazine

02282012

The Tub – Abuse cannot be cleansed

“When you aren’t loved, you aren’t real. Life is cold, like the stone against my palm.”
  – Richelle E. Goodrich,
Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
“Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom…She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma.”
Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery  
 
I hear him coming, old truck grumbling

Stumbling up the stairs.

I hear him cussing, broken glassesthrowing

Threatening me to tears.

I hear his belt undoing, drunken fury lashing,

Bringing my young fears

I hear the slaps landing, bruises are coming

Staining my skin with smears

I hear the bath filling, his sorrow is falling

Draining his guilty water clears

I hear the door slamming, darkness is calling

Suffering my torment through the years

Related Post: Slamming Doors
Also published in Broowaha Magazine

02282012

Victim of love?

 “…and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love’s ever been the more destructive weapon, sure.” – Stephen King, The Dark Tower

deppography

Speak to me of love’s glories and I’ll show you the teeth of this wild thing. Love is used as a lever to control people and deliver them to the slaughter. I think of the lonely woman, in love with her man. He beats her, cusses her, rapes her, and demeans her at every turn, yet, because of love, she stays with him. I think of mean and nefarious men who hold a woman captive and force her compliance by threatening her family. Her love for her family is the means by which they control her. Men are not exempt from this cruel trick of nature. I’ve seen a man destroy his family, his career, and ultimately his life because he fell in “love” with another woman. I’ve seen the drug addicted lead many down the road to ruin by courting their love and then using them till they are reduced to only a crust of bread for dinner. I’ve seen children, holding their parents hostage by the same love shown them. When will it end? When will I see that love is evil in this way. It constrains me to act in harmful and completely unreasonable courses of action. It forces me to make choices that are in the end, all the worse things that could be done.


Here is the mistake Love is not the holy stamp of approval on my dealings with humanity. Love does not guarantee the success or validity of a relationship. I see the reality and necessity of love, but only as a by-product of a healthy relationship, not as the final goal. The relationship should not be ruled by this love, but give birth to it, then raise it in subjection. How should I act when faced with my “love”? Love needs a system of checks and balances. A spiritual check can help control my direction, whether this is a good choice or bad. A logic check is important as well. Seriously, can my love for an abuser, child molester, or addict be expressed best by exposing myself and my family to his/her aberrations? Love will choose the death of the loved one for the best of the whole. If I am held hostage, my wife being raped, my belongings pilfered, all under the threat of killing my children, I say, “Be damned! I’ll not let them ravage my life using that lever of love. If I give in and allow the pillaging of my life, what will be left for the children, or woman, or whoever is the object used to force my compliance? What is left is a broken and shattered form, unable to provide for the family in any way. This is what is left for love when it is used to violate: brokenness, shattered dreams, and an inability to provide. Let us, my friends, be careful to not let love lead us down these treacherous paths and check ourselves lest we be found as victims of love.

Victim of love?

 “…and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love’s ever been the more destructive weapon, sure.” – Stephen King, The Dark Tower

deppography

Speak to me of love’s glories and I’ll show you the teeth of this wild thing. Love is used as a lever to control people and deliver them to the slaughter. I think of the lonely woman, in love with her man. He beats her, cusses her, rapes her, and demeans her at every turn, yet, because of love, she stays with him. I think of mean and nefarious men who hold a woman captive and force her compliance by threatening her family. Her love for her family is the means by which they control her. Men are not exempt from this cruel trick of nature. I’ve seen a man destroy his family, his career, and ultimately his life because he fell in “love” with another woman. I’ve seen the drug addicted lead many down the road to ruin by courting their love and then using them till they are reduced to only a crust of bread for dinner. I’ve seen children, holding their parents hostage by the same love shown them. When will it end? When will I see that love is evil in this way. It constrains me to act in harmful and completely unreasonable courses of action. It forces me to make choices that are in the end, all the worse things that could be done.


Here is the mistake Love is not the holy stamp of approval on my dealings with humanity. Love does not guarantee the success or validity of a relationship. I see the reality and necessity of love, but only as a by-product of a healthy relationship, not as the final goal. The relationship should not be ruled by this love, but give birth to it, then raise it in subjection. How should I act when faced with my “love”? Love needs a system of checks and balances. A spiritual check can help control my direction, whether this is a good choice or bad. A logic check is important as well. Seriously, can my love for an abuser, child molester, or addict be expressed best by exposing myself and my family to his/her aberrations? Love will choose the death of the loved one for the best of the whole. If I am held hostage, my wife being raped, my belongings pilfered, all under the threat of killing my children, I say, “Be damned! I’ll not let them ravage my life using that lever of love. If I give in and allow the pillaging of my life, what will be left for the children, or woman, or whoever is the object used to force my compliance? What is left is a broken and shattered form, unable to provide for the family in any way. This is what is left for love when it is used to violate: brokenness, shattered dreams, and an inability to provide. Let us, my friends, be careful to not let love lead us down these treacherous paths and check ourselves lest we be found as victims of love.

Brokenness – No pain, No gain

“A broken soul is not the absence of beauty, but a cracked and torn soul reeks of the sweet incense it contains.” – C. JoyBell C.

Broken. A pervasive and hopeless sadness following a loss or traumatic experience. There is another side to brokenness, a side that is beautiful. When my mind snaps, when my heart breaks, when I’m left alone, when I’m betrayed, I am cast down on the stones of life and the shards of peace and hope scatter everywhere. In the aftermath, when all I’m left with are pieces, there lies a hidden gift of recovery. The process of healing and restoration initiates a change that, if I were left whole, could not occur. For brokenness to help me, for it to begin surprising and wondrous changes, I must take my mess to the Creator. He formed the grandeur of the universe from chaotic clutter and He will bring awesome galaxies of restoration to the darkness of my broken soul. When I yield to Him, a resurrection of hope reaches from the grave. I find real beauty in brokenness, it allows me to be an understanding and compassionate companion to the many that lay in ruins. Brokenness, it allows me a chance to be a healer, and as I heal others, I restore myself. 

Also published in Broowaha

An Essay of Change – Great change comes from within

In the death of a moment, there lies the birth of tomorrow
I give way this time, but in the end, no sorrow.

crestock

    
I have to clear the way for a change to take place. I have to shove off from shore, from the expected, the habitual. Push myself into the storm were I will see what I am, and better yet, become a new thing. How will I know of what I am capable of unless Im pushed to the outermost limits of my understanding and endurance, physically, mentally, and emotionally? I must embrace the cataclysm of my existence. Great man are great by passing through the vice-like press of doubt, fear, loneliness, and tragedy. Through being broken, I can be made whole, maxing out my potential. 
     
I have no way to explain that who I am now, is no where near who I was a year ago. Remnants, yes, perhaps. It is a strange knowing, a responsibility, to be made whole after so long. No more blame for the past, no more excuses. I am tethered up so high on the crux of the rock, that even if I fall from here, I will never be as far down as I was earlier in my life. Now, I set my sights ever higher. To the next summit, the next storm, I will press on.