Forensic Analysis –

“If suffering like hers had any use, she reasoned, it was not to the sufferer. The only way that an individual’s pain gained meaning was through its communication to others.”  ― Diane Wood Middlebrook, Anne Sexton: A Biography 

floweerheaad

 

I reach through the fodder of my mental plane wreck, grasping, trying to make sense of it. Like a forensic crash analyst, I picked up pieces of my shattered self and held them up to the light, turning them over and over looking for reasons of the devastation. Is it operator error? Did the machine break? Was it an act of God? Did someone fail to address issues that led to this? These questions are valid even when looking at my human psyche, and to that end I believe that all apply. I made mistakes, very big mistakes, and even if I were normal and my mind healthy, mistakes would still happen. Yes, the machine is broken, it’s totally fucking obvious to anyone who knows me for any length of time that I’m fucked up in the head, that shit ain’t right with this guy. People contributed to this trashing of my soul: abuse, neglect, rape, bullied, rejected, abandoned, violent brutal attacks on my body and mind, yep, all done by others. The sad thing’s not that these happened, ’cause shit happens to everyone, but that, like in movies when they dunk the guy underwater then before he can take a breath he is shoved underwater again, it’s the frequency of the shit that keeps hitting my fan. I’ll barely have a hold on my PTSD and I’ll be attacked violently, or someone will violate my space by stealing from me, betraying me, or whatever. It happens over and over again. What in the hell is God trying to show me? What fucking possible good can there come of my constant devastation? I’ve held on this long because I’m so concerned about taking the next breath that I can barely see beyond right now, in fact, dreams of the future are gone, if they ever were there. I only remember one dream, that of being a veterinarian. It was shot to hell very quickly as I got bullied and fucked with, even by teachers and adults. So that’s it, I was given one dream, it’s gone, so fuck me, all I have to look forward to is catching my breath the next time life pulls my head out from under the water. OK, wait, some self righteous asshole from the back says, “You carry yourself like a victim, that’s why you keep getting attacked.” Oh, fuck me, is that the answer? It’s my fault? Hell, well now I’m all better, thanks. This is not a whining rant where I want people to feel sorry for me, its mainly a way of examining the evidence and helping me toward recovery from all this shit. I don’t want advice, I just want to fucking yell at the trees and mountains ’til I’ve exhausted all my homicidal and suicidal screams, ’til I’ve cried all my tears and I can’t cry anymore, scream and scream until I break down and stop fighting against life. I’ve survived what would have killed most people, I’m still holding on to shreds of sanity and empathy that many would have lost by now. I’ll be OK, and perhaps somehow, I’ll find out how to piece this shit back together, but I seriously doubt it will ever fly again.
Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

 

Briars –

“If you don’t feel the pointed things in life, you’ll soon take the soft ones for granted.”
John Everson, Cage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions
gitsandshiggles1
Pushing through these thorny opinions and games which
like spinning through the clouds that have lost their
curved softness and have gained a razors edge with every
boiling motion of agitation.
Haunted by my mind and it’s incessant gathering of
these long stemmed painful abrasions seeping with
the sweet sap of noxious compliments all meant to
disarm and take advantage.
Lasting harm is at a strong disadvantage given
the scars and foreknowledge of a paranoid state
for what is plainly seen is scarcely real or continuous
except in my unseen world.

 

First Published in Opinionsofeye.com

 

Recluse –

“A certain recluse, I know not who, once said that no bonds attached him to this life, and the only thing he would regret leaving was the sky” –  Kenko Yoshida

Find this one, lock this one, cold, my heart runs around,
flicking off switches
Hurry be swift
Quick slam the door, locking the windows,  
hoping you don’t hear me
Hurry be swift
No I won’t come out, I’m staying in, quit calling me. 
So many switches,
Hurry be swift
Disconnect, follow these impulses, block the thoughts, 
they lead me out
Hurry be swift
Damn the lights, I forgot, turning off the lights, 
closing the blinds, pull the phone
Hurry be swift
There must never be another, never again, I must hide,  
protecting the remains,
Hurry be swift
Finally dark, all alone, no one knowing where I’ve gone, 
I’m the recluse, go away
Hurry be swift 
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Also published in: Broowaha

First published in Opinionsofeye.com

11222011 

Permutations

“The life of the dead is set in the memory of the living.” ― Cicero, Philippics
taliesyne
There’s something hidden, a suffocated wish tucked away in a forgotten cobwebbed corner. The gray green tints of death work their magic in transforming the wonder to a wasted sticky mess that’s never the same. A smell of the once alive, again persuades the living. We’re fatefully committed to the peer pressure of dead things and that without prejudice. A moment that died many years ago…it lives still, kept alive by the artificial respirator of my mind.  It then remains that the only way to kill it, is to kill me. Damn the longevity of dead dreams! Of dead love! May death release me from their vice, and if they were to live on, this will be the hell of the underworld.

Also published in Wingposse
02192014

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. 

Red trails – (Poem of the cutter)

“In case you didn’t know, dead people don’t bleed. If you can bleed-see it, feel it-then you know you’re alive. It’s irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.” – Amy Efaw, After 

  

“A razor drawn, through the colors of my life

Red trails follow, enough to spite
Angles deep and narrow channel
Direct the flow, excite the annals
Now I’m left with the tint of life
Spreading quickly toward a light
I yield again to the cutting’s peace
Nothing left not even speech.” – DMW

“People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights.
When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.” – Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care

Also published in Broowaha
01042012 

The Beautiful Rejected Ones – Spontaneous acts of kindness

 “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.” – Plato
“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”
Mother Teresa
 
paintingmania

How strong am I? I didn’t know until I faced death, loneliness, depression, lost a loved one, felt the pain of hating my body, experienced the betrayal of a lover, and wrestled with an addiction. These I have done and come back from, being rewarded with an understanding and compassion for those teetering on the point of no return. So many people on that edge, looking self loathing, rejection, and death in the face. These are the outcasts, the downtrodden, the incarcerated, the elderly, the dis-formed, the dysfunctional, the addicted. I will be a friend, a partner to those rejected by the crowd. Starving for affection and acceptance, withering beneath the blazing sun of rejection by family, by friends, by society. Orphans, left behind, stranded on islands of disorders: disorders of eating, thinking, mobility, and socializing. I don’t know their pain, their reason for leaving the path to wander aimlessly through a deep and lonely sea, finding themselves without a way back. I will be the ship on the horizon. I will send up the smoke of my prayers that they may see a sign before they see me and have hope.  Many don’t want, or will refuse help. I mean no offense to their independence, I don’t want to change them, that they must do themselves, if they need to change at all. I wish only to offer a respite from their routine. That is my resolution for this new year, to travel to the edge of my world, the edge of the parties, the edge of church services, the edge of bars, the edge of communities, and bring to them a concerned and loving hand of compassion. I will bring hope, an opportunity to get back up and try again, a break to breathe easier, refreshing them. With this sip of cold water, perhaps I may save a life or revive a weary soul to get up and come out of the cold, into the warmth of love. Look for me this new year, you will find me in the company of these, the beautiful rejected ones.

Also published in: Broowaha 
12312011

The Beautiful Rejected Ones – Spontaneous acts of kindness

 “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.” – Plato
“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”
Mother Teresa
 
paintingmania

How strong am I? I didn’t know until I faced death, loneliness, depression, lost a loved one, felt the pain of hating my body, experienced the betrayal of a lover, and wrestled with an addiction. These I have done and come back from, being rewarded with an understanding and compassion for those teetering on the point of no return. So many people on that edge, looking self loathing, rejection, and death in the face. These are the outcasts, the downtrodden, the incarcerated, the elderly, the dis-formed, the dysfunctional, the addicted. I will be a friend, a partner to those rejected by the crowd. Starving for affection and acceptance, withering beneath the blazing sun of rejection by family, by friends, by society. Orphans, left behind, stranded on islands of disorders: disorders of eating, thinking, mobility, and socializing. I don’t know their pain, their reason for leaving the path to wander aimlessly through a deep and lonely sea, finding themselves without a way back. I will be the ship on the horizon. I will send up the smoke of my prayers that they may see a sign before they see me and have hope.  Many don’t want, or will refuse help. I mean no offense to their independence, I don’t want to change them, that they must do themselves, if they need to change at all. I wish only to offer a respite from their routine. That is my resolution for this new year, to travel to the edge of my world, the edge of the parties, the edge of church services, the edge of bars, the edge of communities, and bring to them a concerned and loving hand of compassion. I will bring hope, an opportunity to get back up and try again, a break to breathe easier, refreshing them. With this sip of cold water, perhaps I may save a life or revive a weary soul to get up and come out of the cold, into the warmth of love. Look for me this new year, you will find me in the company of these, the beautiful rejected ones.

Also published in: Broowaha 
12312011