Spiritual Guidance –

“She’s not showing any interest in me and she looks like she doesn’t want to be here. Should I take off her handcuffs? I thought kidnap victims were supposed to fall in love with their captors?
” ― Jarod Kintz
 

horrorchic87

Help me! I can’t see and my eye is swollen and throbbing, my lips cracked and parched, and I taste blood. He has me bound and my breathing’s painful from what I think are my broken ribs. I cough up blood and spit it out on my dress, why did I think he’d take care of me, protect me and guide me? That innocent dream’s gone as I hear the sound of his breathing in the next room. Does anyone know I’m here? Does anyone care? I should’ve made different choices, followed advice, and been more careful. This is my fault isn’t it? I begged for this he said, because I dressed the way I did. My walk was the lure, because my hips swayed a little too much, because I was confident and had long hair that fueled his desire. I struggled against the stiffness settling in on my body and mind, perhaps the shock’s wearing off. God I hope someone is praying for me. I feel around trying to find something that will help me out of here. As I fumbled around I bumped the door and it budged! Peering out of the small crack I see evidence of him all over, liquor bottles and clutter. Opening the door a little farther and I notice that he’s passed out on the chair with drug shit all over the table in front of him. Seeing my chance , I struggled to stand and barely made it up before falling with a thud on the floor. A shudder of stifled terror filled my panicked breaths believing that the fall would wake him. With my head on the floor I saw a knife just at the edge of the couch. With great effort I managed to get my hands on it, and began cutting the leather belt that held my hands. Damn the movies make this look easy, but it takes for fucking ever to do it and I manage to give myself quite a few slices before I’m actually am free. My adrenaline is kicking in hard but it beats back the haze that’s growing over my thoughts and making me dizzy when I stand. I hold the knife firmly, thinking that as I work my way past him I would drive it right through his eye, but I didn’t, I just wanted out of here and a chance to live. I didn’t think I wanted to live and I’m ashamed now knowing how bad I just want out of this and to be alive. I opened the door and ran through the street grabbing a cab that happened to be dropping off his passenger. I should go to the cops, but I don’t, I just go back to my apartment. He knows me and he’ll be back, after all, every pastor should know where the ladies in his congregation live.

Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

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Ballad of the Slinger –

“There was no ‘I’ in team, but there was meat in team. And we were all dead meat.”
― Jennifer Lane, Blocked

 

“and after much thought he said to me…I know your game…you don’t have any game and that’s your game…”  –  da man wit dreads

  

You hit me hard and I took my licks

You gave me hard and expected bricks

You studied me and gave me ninety-nine

your thinking that I’d lose my mind

Telling me I put you up the ladder

with big men you’re countin’ cheddar

You played the game with our soul

thought my women would bring me low

But I saw what you’re gonna do

I was ahead of your game yeah ahead of you

You look and fretted while the money flowed

at the very end it wasn’t you I owed

With halting eyes you knew it was done

playing the game without game you knew I won

*

First published in Opinions Of Eye.com

How Right Is Your Right?

“The answer is that there is no good answer. So as parents, as doctors, as judges, and as a society, we fumble through and make decisions that allow us to sleep at night–because morals are more important than ethics, and love is more important than law.”
― Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper 

allweareisbullets

Walking the fine line, what makes a criminal? There are things done to survive, like stealing to provide food, and things done for protection like killing to defend my family and nation. Many times the law’s broken for the sake of greater good, but there’s an intrinsic law we carry in our nature, a line that’ll become apparent hopefully before it’s crossed. There are some of us that are meant to be lawbreakers, by nature rebellious, and those are necessary. Many good things are accomplished by those who’re not afraid to break away from the current understanding of right and wrong. So at what point are the actions considered criminal, not in the sense of law, but in the sense of conscience? At this breaking of the deeper, shall I say, spiritual law, a path’s entered that if continued on will lead to a seared conscience, a point which the wrong that’s done is so severe that conviction of the wrong’s never felt again.

This aborted morality leads us to a higher authority in which to compare our decisions. Many points of contention rise in response to this directive of a higher power. Haven’t hugely deviant and violent actions been inspired by “spiritual directive”? Yes, and still they will, but the perversion of the truth does not negate the validity of the same. A spiritual directive is out there and needs to be sought after to guide our unsure moral crawl to a full stride of right choices. There are things that’ll obscure this path and those things should be avoided at all costs, especially the habit of them. Beware of things which lower inhibitions and subvert the will. Many things beside the obvious will hypnotize the unwary. Drugs, alcohol are cliches in this respect but there’re more cunning enemies, beware as you grow to understand and be consistent to follow those things which you learn, and most of all, keep seeking to be free of a seared conscience.

Chains of Friendship – Leaving abusive relationships

“there are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes
decades to realize this
and most often when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than too late”
― Charles Bukowski 

I‘ve seen a friendship that is evil in its alliance. An alliance bound with chains. Chains forged by links of loneliness, pain, heartache, and despair. Links formed by a desire to please, perceived opinions, obsession, and a mad desire for approval of the friendship. Leaving autonomy behind, approval and praise are the goal. Giving all to please, a trap is sprung that will never release individuality. Friendship gained by such means is doomed to have the pleasure of the captor satisfied at the expense of me, the captive, throughout its lifespan. Many, so many, are the tricks used to keep the prisoner under the curse. Sex, drugs, gang association, vengeance, praise, but most of all, attention. All tools of the trade for the captor. The captor, obsessed with selfish preoccupation, recognizes the weakness of me, the prisoner, now helpless in my clamor to belong. In collaboration with selfish will, cruelty soon follows; after every “beating” I crawl back making sure I haven’t ruined our friendship.  How many will suffer at the hands of a cruel friend, a cruel partner, a cruel companion?! Be free! Be free from conformity to that will, prisoner of friendship! Don’t be afraid to stand alone, to stand free, to stand apart! Break those dark chains that bind you to suffering at the hands of your friend and know that you deserve better.

12122010

Narco Faith

“You don’t look fake when you unconsciously pretend.” – Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut

The pill went down easy. Within minutes I felt the effects crawl over my soul. My desire assuaged, the direction became clear. Get more of this drug, get more, get more. Addiction’s voice is haunting and nagging, worse than an old wife on the rag. In my gut, I feel a recurring emptiness and my mind is filled with noisy clutter. They dance in an unsettled pattern that revolves around like the moon, the gravity of seriousness holding both of them close. I filled my bottle up with pretty little pills, the things that give me solace in the routine of restless seeking. Shaking the bottle, I looked again at the prescription, in bold letters, FAITH, and in small script below it, “can cause mindless ambling to churches and Tourette’s like expressions of religious clichés.” Damn this Faith, it’s a drug that allows me to feel good, putting icing on the cake of my rebellion, easing my conscience as I continue to act like the devils who I keep company with. I laugh as I sit in church, reporting weekly like I’m on paper and dutifully pissing for a spiritual U.A..  Someday I’ll lay down my bottle and actually commit to a changed lifestyle, instead of a mimicked mockery of a spiritual man.

Frankenstein

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Loneliness, dissatisfaction, and depression are all signs that my heartbeat sits in the background, flat-lined and breathless until I use it. Then I see it’s deformity. During my socialization, the malnutrition of nature and nurture led to a distorted development, an immature birth, an aborted process of creation. I patch up these defects with anything I can grab until I, a zombie Frankenstein, could attempt to imitate the living. It’s very obvious that something’s not right in this ambling beast. My expressions of adoration are awkward and stumbling, and especially given to extremes of violence and overcompensation. I’m quite adept at camouflaging their deadness with faked kindness and sweet articulations. In the world of the living dead appearances are deceiving. 

I use many things to stimulate my undead “love”. Money, words, drugs, and appearances can all be used to bring in the deformed masses that they may “love” me. I’m well aware they love my gifts, leading this Frankenstein to once again, lay on a mad doctor’s operating table to perform more abortions as I attempt to fix what can only be transformed by a power much greater. I felt real love once, when I sought a God that could deliver me from this horrid process. After I feeling it, it disappeared in my religious ideals and ceremonies which produced nothing of the vibrant love that I longed to possess. I know my last hope is in a divine intervention, and as I lay down on a stainless steel table of deliverance,  I wait for Elysian lightning to strike a real heartbeat in this Frankenstein of love. 

Self Inflicted – A young woman’s cry

The following is an entry from one of my favorite bloggers, Descending Ascension. She presents a raw and uncensored woman’s point of view of a relationship. In this entry she describes abuse and its effect on her mind. Enjoy.

annawestergren

I am defeated

When I let you taint my body.

When you corrupt me,

And deflower my mind.

I am surrendered,

To sins and vice,

Of human things and aspects.

And all the while you’re dragging me down,

Saying sorry for the fucking,

I only say,

“I don’t mind.”

Truth is I do, and you know it.

Such vulgar words and sentiments to escape my lips.

So why don’t you save me?

Stop me?

We’re all just prisoners of our own device.

Besides,

I have never needed a drug.

My mind does more to me 

than alcohol or drugs could ever promise to.

-R.S.L.S

Taken from: Descending Ascension
01062012 

Those Thoughts Again – The ravages of shame

 “Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.” 

– Brené Brown

candylady

Shame, a burning feeling in my cheeks, in my mind, in my skin. I feel like everyone knows my mistake. I can’t believe I stooped so low; that I would‘nt listen to the voice inside that keeps me safe, (or so I thought); that I would betray myself by being in that position. It wasn’t always me. I didn’t ask for that situation or do anything wrong. But still the shame persists. A constant nagging burning feeling that makes me feel less than, less than anything. It burns through all my identities, creating a self hating monster inside of me. I can’t stop the negative thoughts about me. About how I look, about how others must see me, about how I am, about how I behave. It takes away my feeling of safety. I’m no longer comfortable in my skin. How can I forget it? It comes at me when I’m unguarded. Driving down the road, in the middle of a party, walking to my house, praying, when I’m kissing my mate, when I’m making love. It always hits me hard, the burning feeling almost taking me completely out of the game, making each breath painful. It takes all I have to stand up, to continue forward; all I have to resist the feeling of apathy, of not caring anymore about anything. If I don’t feel, I won’t have to bear the shame. But it keeps coming, never ending, in fact, it grows. Negative thoughts breed and feed off each other. Where will I hide?

God, my creator, is a hiding place for me. He can restore me, heal me, and remove my shame. My heavenly Dad, can give me the strength to hold my head high once again, without the support of drugs, alcohol, music, gangs, belongings, or anything I have unsuccessfully leaned on. I need to know that God my father, sings over me. He sings because he loves me and has created me for great things. He understands my shame. He wants me to be whole again, to live without being affected by that incident anymore. Sure the thoughts may come, but He gives strength to me, words of affirmation, and most of all, power. Power over my feelings and thoughts. Power to believe contrary to whats been said about me, by others, by myself. A chance to truly start over. A chance to breathe without heaviness. A chance to be me, rising above the ashes of shame with wings of confidence and power.

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

01092011

The Queen – Chapter 11 – Taking out the trash

The sting of the needle, inserted quickly out of necessity, brought me back to consciousness. The gray bearded, decrepit doc had me laying on the kitchen counter, working out of an old leather bag which resembled the texture of his skin. Evidently I was out for a while and as he busied himself cleaning up, I looked over my shoulder, seeing the body of our attacker wrapped in heavy plastic, red smears on the inside looking like a crazed water-color painting. My Queen was calm, her hands stroking the blood, my and his, from my body.  I noticed a strength in me, her strength, unafraid and capable of handling these situations, enabled me, giving me confidence and lifting me above fear. She was amazing, and I owed my life to her now, as she did me for had I not taken the hit, she surely would be the one in water colored plastic. I saw her reach under the counter, pressing something, the cabinet above the sink shuttered and then flipped into itself revealing a stash of items, the most prominent of which were stacks of green, fresh money, the counting straps still banding them together. Grabbing a couple of bundles she handed them to the doc, the street has its own health care system. Letting sleep claim me again, I dreamed of the nights with my queen, her body an escort into the galaxies of pleasure beyond my experience.

The doc left satisfied and we settled into an evening of wine and pills, my Queen drowning my pain and apprehension with kisses down my neck and chest, settling into a rhythm with her hair in my lap. Closing my eyes, I turned to see the body again, I inquired about how to handle the trash. “The cleaners would be here soon, don’t worry.” She went back to her self-imposed task of intimating sexual pleasure on her bodyguard. As I grew closer to the summit of my desire, I recalled that this was the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle.

NEXT CHAPTER

Related Posts: The Queen,  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11,, Part 12, Part 13

The Queen – Chapter 10 – The Resistance

image credit: nahom1

Whispering directions to her room, her voice was scant, forcing me to listen. Speaking softly, she could make others stop their routine to pay attention. Her eyes pulling them, me, closer as we leaned in to listen. She led me to her house, a loft in an unpretentious part of town. The door popped when she opened it, perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. My Queen had access to many places I’m sure, not to mention the access she gains so readily to the hearts of her subjects. The smell of incense, strong and lingering, permeated her sanctuary, adding an element of Eros to the sultry décor. I turned to put up my jacket, damp from the evening dew of our walk, and bending down to untie my boots, I noticed she was gone from the room. I knew where she went, a trail of garments, first her jacket, then more personal items, her black and lacy bra, her panties stretching out from tip of her high-heeled shoes, all led to the shower, now filling with steam.

Following this not so subtle trail was easy, and looking up I caught sight of her voluptuous body sliding behind the clear shower glass enclosure. My voyeurism was cut short by the steam of the shower rapidly filling the now heated bathroom, my body filled with heat of a different sort. The door was left open, in an invitation that I should join her. I quickly disrobed, the tiles giving a sharp crack of complaint when my pistol hit the floor, in my haste I forgot the gun was stuck in my waistband. I heard a giggle come from the shower, she called out, “I have something to handle that”. Meaning a holster, I thought, however, I was naked now and saw she had rubbed the mist off the glass to peek at my manhood. I responded almost immediately, grateful that she knows how to excite me beyond every threshold of passion I ever knew.

I watched her hands caress her body, her glistening skin a perfect canvas for the long streaks of soap trails. She knew how to touch herself, her mouth responding with open acclamation of passions’ triumph over her body. I reached out to touch the Queen, with one hand she took herself and the other took me. With a rhythm born from an ancient percussion of tribal hedonistic dance, we moved together. Every part of her taking me without reservation. I watched as her nipples swelled with anticipation, my tongue gathering the hot streams of water from their graceful tips. I pulled her leg up in the crook of my arm and proceeded to take deep her offerings of pleasure for my parched soul. She responded to my every move, not just receiving me, but giving me herself. We entwined over, around, under, our bodies desire facilitated by the hot water and the oil she poured on our tangle of lust. My Queen, my queen, you have taken me as I have you. I kissed her deep as I finished, only to hear the sharp break of glass and feel a hot sting drive itself deep in my shoulder. 

Blood spattered across my Queens cheek, the bullet passed through me and hit the tile, a few inches over from her head. With her eyes wide in fear, but hot with rage, she grabbed me tight and pushed me through the shattered shower door, I, even in shock, knew what she knew, my pistol was right by the shower, under my pants. With a huge shove that could only been born of adrenalin, she ran me into the intruder. As he and I stumbled in a frantic and fierce dance of death, she grabbed the pistol and with confident defiance placed it within inches of his ear, pulling the trigger, putting an emphatic resistance to the defilement of her palace. The shot deafened me, my ears were ringing, my mind was cloudy, my vision going blurry, my voice only asking if she was OK. She whispered, her voice strong and controlled, that she was fine but she needed to get help for me immediately. As I let her words lead me to hope, I recalled that this is the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle. 

NEXT CHAPTER

Related Posts: The Queen Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, 

Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11, Part 12, Part 13

Also published in Broowaha