Hindsight

“Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”
Charles Bukowski
skins
The morning after, it’s plain to see,
the drunken mistakes, you did to me
Your eyes are teary, with stains of sorrow
I’m hardened to that, it’ll happen tomorrow
As the sun sets fear, sings lullabies
Soon you’ll be home, bringing hell and goodbyes
Again the saddest story is now told
I’m becoming a drunk too, as I grow old
You stained my mind, with intoxicated words
Breaking my soul, with your scourge
this morning tells a story, of my final plea
I lay this bottle down, because you have become me.
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Little Pills

“It is not seen as insane when a fighter, under an attack that will inevitably lead to his death, chooses to take his own life first. In fact, this act has been encouraged for centuries, and is accepted even now as an honorable reason to do the deed. How is it any different when you are under attack by your own mind?” 

These little pills, make me all of me.

Many times, taking one

and sometimes three

I shake my head, tsk tsk, I’m not awake

I sleep with my eyes open

its not all fake

This daylight walker needs to really know

these little pills

aren’t a pretty show

In the noisy stillness of slippery caverns

my madness breeds

like drunks in taverns

I’m held aloft by the chemicals they give

Is this really me,

or the little pills I hid?
Prescriptions are given to those with mental illnesses that produced a variety of effects both positive and negative. The thought occurs to me, is this the real me when I take the pills? Or is this another me produced by them? Do I want to be the real me? or a product of chemicals? Can I be me when under the influence of these treatments? This battle of identity is the primary reason I don’t take psychotropic medicines (even those prescribed), I just wanna be the crazy, insane me. There are however some conditions that are treated with meds which, if the subject is to be in society at large, need to be adhered to. Always seek professional help about going off your meds. 

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

Slamming Doors – The sound of violence

“A door slamming makes one jump, but
it doesn’t make one afraid. What one fears
is the serpent that crawls underneath it.” – Collete

“Starting when I was a kid barely four,

I knew the beating was coming

by the sound of a slamming door


Picking myself up from off the cold floor

His bruises held my mind in fear

by the sound of a slamming door


Older now and wiser but still my soul abhors

the awful things that come and anger shown

by the sound of a slamming door”
 – DMW



How can I describe the feeling I get when a door slams? Hundreds of heartbreaking moments all carry that signature. I can tell when lives carry the heat of anger by the condition of the doors. Splintered frames, stripped hinges, door knobs shattered with pieces strewn around the room, the bottom of the door scraping the floor. I’ve locked doors, only to see them broken down by a significant other – be it a drunk father, jealous girlfriend, or some random hell bent soul. The sound impacts me psychologically now. It initiates a vigilance and tense anticipation of impending doom. It makes me mad, really mad, like a rage that crawls over me with it’s claws out. There are doors inside my heart as well. You can’t hear them but I do. Women slam them when they betray me, kids slam them when they reject me, and men slam them when they threaten me. I can’t turn off the feelings quick enough when I’m energized by the sound of the slamming doors. I long to live in peace, and right now, I feel real peaceful but wait, did you hear that? Nooooooooo!!!

Related Post: The Tub

Slamming Doors – The sound of violence

“A door slamming makes one jump, but
it doesn’t make one afraid. What one fears
is the serpent that crawls underneath it.” – Collete

“Starting when I was a kid barely four,

I knew the beating was coming

by the sound of a slamming door


Picking myself up from off the cold floor

His bruises held my mind in fear

by the sound of a slamming door


Older now and wiser but still my soul abhors

the awful things that come and anger shown

by the sound of a slamming door”
 – DMW



How can I describe the feeling I get when a door slams? Hundreds of heartbreaking moments all carry that signature. I can tell when lives carry the heat of anger by the condition of the doors. Splintered frames, stripped hinges, door knobs shattered with pieces strewn around the room, the bottom of the door scraping the floor. I’ve locked doors, only to see them broken down by a significant other – be it a drunk father, jealous girlfriend, or some random hell bent soul. The sound impacts me psychologically now. It initiates a vigilance and tense anticipation of impending doom. It makes me mad, really mad, like a rage that crawls over me with it’s claws out. There are doors inside my heart as well. You can’t hear them but I do. Women slam them when they betray me, kids slam them when they reject me, and men slam them when they threaten me. I can’t turn off the feelings quick enough when I’m energized by the sound of the slamming doors. I long to live in peace, and right now, I feel real peaceful but wait, did you hear that? Nooooooooo!!!

Related Post: The Tub