Hooked

 “Assure a man that he has a soul and then frighten him with old wives’ tales as to what is to become of him afterward, and you have hooked a fish, a mental slave.”
– Theodore Dreiser

The following is a poem from an exceptionally talented new friend, Arne Tornek. Enjoy.



 
fantasygoth
The hook slicks in.
How easily she snags.
How tightly she tugs.
 
She knows no surrender.
Long in exile, she returns,
To lead you to forgotten rooms.
 
In a careless moment
She sucks the tongue from your mouth.
Coils it round your demon need,
Slips it back behind your lips.
 
You swallow her hard.
Scornfully, she sniggers at you.
Knows that you can’t do without her,
In spite of your painstaking
Hopeless attempts.
 
She washes over your mind like an old friend,
With the comforting allure of a new lover.
And she’s back with her pedicure
In the ring of your desires;
Your powerless soul at prayer
Under the Gothic arch of her painted foot.

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The Addiction of Belonging – Approval is addictive drug

 “A truly strong person does not need the approval of others any more than a lion needs the approval of sheep.” – Vernon Howard

secretdiaryofacollege-girl

There are purveyors of affection and belonging that ply their wares on the corner of our mind and emotions. Like the dealers who sell illicit and addictive substances, they, with great subtlety, offer tidbits of friendship that draw the lonely, hurting, or naive soul into their game.  Society today generates many deformities of social maturity. Single parent families, domestic abuse, molestation, and apathetic parenting leave many souls thirsty for belonging, for approval, and for a sense of family. This “drug” of approval is not an illegal sort, it is nonetheless, just as deadly.


Once the hook is set through approval, and acceptance is feigned in the “family”(the group or persons the searching heart wished to belong to), pressure is exerted to perform the will of the those who possess the “fix” of affection. The “addict” is drawn further away from their own independence and individuality and is conformed to the will of the “dealer”. Eager for approval, the walls of inhibition are broken down and the victim finds their choices of right and wrong becoming choices of the lesser of two evils. Gangs operate this way, drawing in the young, unwary, and inexperienced souls, transforming them into soldiers ready to obey their command. In a sexual relationship the same effect is accomplished. The end result is the dissolution of individuality and the creation of an extremely unhealthy social interaction that ends in the destruction of the victim, either physically, through death, emotionally, through heartache, or through social isolation and imprisonment to a partners will.

To break free from this cycle and bondage, the victim, the “addict”, must exert his/her individuality at any cost. The victim must stand on their own beliefs and moral decisions. Depending on how deep their involvement may be, this could be a costly and life changing act. When the victim is in too deep, it may well cost them their life to escape the hold of that “family”. But, breaking that hold is a must, an imperative, for without that break, there exists only a life of imprisonment and eventual misery and regret as the suppliant gives away their life for the selfish goal of another. Be careful my friends that you don’t find yourself in this hidden addiction of belonging. Choose your friends wisely and be sure to stand on your own ground. 

Also published in Broowaha

06252012 

A Broken Seed

 “Some of us look for the way in opium and some in God, some of us in whisky and some of us in love. It is all the same way and it leads nowhere.”
W. Somerset Maugham,
The Painted Veil
wehaveforgotten

Me, the living dead, a zombie of a man, a tortured and near empty soul made void by the very thing that I sought to deliver me from the pain of existence. I sought Them. The caretakers of darkness, who, pawning their wares to this little child, made sure their victory. Taking their empty promise, I swallowed the hook and ran. They, laughing, knew it was a matter of time before they would pull up hard on that line and watch me struggle valiantly, but in vain, against the taught leash. I jumped, thrashing against the line, but into their hold I fell. In the misery of the company around me, I saw I wasn’t alone in my plight. There were many who, in an act of innocence, in an attempt at living, took the camouflaged snare, and, like myself, struggled to retract their explorations and be safe again. Years have passed now, a blur of feigned life, an echo of songs long since expired. My hands reached out of their cage many times, hoping to connect with freedom. I found my release, unexpectedly, born on the wings of tumultuous circumstance. My cage was thrown to the wild waves, into a deep sea of desperation, leaving me, in heaving labored breaths, to struggle against the inevitable. Death. Cold and final. Release. It wasn’t my end, but my beginning. Spring, bringing tender green shoots and a fresh vitality, broke me from the seed that bore my soul. In a dance of liberty that only those who are long held captive can know, I spun around and around in delighted exuberance of the death that brought life. Captured and prostituted soul, find your open door through a death. But not a death, a door. For how can it be called death when you live again? It is a door, not an end, but an eternal beginning.

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine

                   

A Broken Seed

 “Some of us look for the way in opium and some in God, some of us in whisky and some of us in love. It is all the same way and it leads nowhere.”
W. Somerset Maugham,
The Painted Veil
wehaveforgotten

Me, the living dead, a zombie of a man, a tortured and near empty soul made void by the very thing that I sought to deliver me from the pain of existence. I sought Them. The caretakers of darkness, who, pawning their wares to this little child, made sure their victory. Taking their empty promise, I swallowed the hook and ran. They, laughing, knew it was a matter of time before they would pull up hard on that line and watch me struggle valiantly, but in vain, against the taught leash. I jumped, thrashing against the line, but into their hold I fell. In the misery of the company around me, I saw I wasn’t alone in my plight. There were many who, in an act of innocence, in an attempt at living, took the camouflaged snare, and, like myself, struggled to retract their explorations and be safe again. Years have passed now, a blur of feigned life, an echo of songs long since expired. My hands reached out of their cage many times, hoping to connect with freedom. I found my release, unexpectedly, born on the wings of tumultuous circumstance. My cage was thrown to the wild waves, into a deep sea of desperation, leaving me, in heaving labored breaths, to struggle against the inevitable. Death. Cold and final. Release. It wasn’t my end, but my beginning. Spring, bringing tender green shoots and a fresh vitality, broke me from the seed that bore my soul. In a dance of liberty that only those who are long held captive can know, I spun around and around in delighted exuberance of the death that brought life. Captured and prostituted soul, find your open door through a death. But not a death, a door. For how can it be called death when you live again? It is a door, not an end, but an eternal beginning.

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine