Glory Undone – A woman succumbs to vice –

“She’s not happy about the life she is living but to jump through the hoop would mean to succumb to death.” – Kit Williams

*

I saw her give up and fall to addictions vice:

 

“Your legs splayed in graphic way

Wanting to leave this world, come and play

Scoring your hits underneath dark worlds
Flying, inhibition burned in pink pearl

Reaching to touch your body magnificent

I’m held at bay by your habit’s descent

Changed from a fondled object of desire

Picking at your curves that soft skin on fire

Tears they are my lover as you fade from sight

Pleasure was ours until you hid in your night”

– Nightfall, D.M.W. Sager

*

Glory is undone as the softness turns to a melted waste of surrender

 

Gone is the shine from the jewel of your womanhood

 

Shame clothes a golden soul tarnished by wantonness

 

Laying down your fight as your thoughts of peace fall with fear

 

What’s left now that you gave your glory to another?

 

Stained garments of unusual color adorn your nakedness

 

Dive into the murky river as it flows away

 

Perhaps your deeds will not settle on your life

*

Pressing back the past, recover your glory undone.

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

First published in Opinions Of Eye.com

 02132012 

 

Remnants –

“Love. Of course, love. Flames for a year, ashes for thirty.”
― Giuseppe di Lampedusa, The Leopard

“The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.”
― Pierre Corneille

ineluctablewords

The dreams you thought should happen

they never came to be

The plans spent in the night pursuing

disappeared unseen

With shattered glass under your feet

precious things undone

In a foreclosed heart your hiding

thinking shadows won

Fears your always one forgotten

on thirsty ground

Thunder is heard in cloudy darkness

stirring ashes found

Remnant future slain in jest

giving life to plains

Revelation in the reaching bolts

healing of the shame

*

First published in Opinions Of Eye

 

 

Scorpion

“We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother’s shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.”– Alfred Lord Tennyson

I gathered the ugly scorpion to my chest, holding it close

though it stung and poked my skin, the sting is what I chose

The violence of the act is not mine, but the memory stays

I relive it over and over, for this torture I eagerly pay

I understand my choice, led to this daily deprecation

I bite off the flailing stinger, using my meal for extrication

The dire creature lays at my side, in an obvious and final death

Over the shame of my choice, without pain taking my breath

Related post: Stinger

What She Thinks – An addicts inner struggle after relapse

“Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.” – Hal Borland

“Permanence, perseverance and persistence in spite of all obstacles, discouragements, and impossibilities: It is this, that in all things distinguishes the strong soul from the weak.“ – Thomas Carlyle

 

 

“I will not give up, I don’t care what I feel like, what they say, or how many times I fail, I will keep trying…” This became my mantra on nights that never seem to end.
 
Up all night. I’m tired but can’t sleep. I ache with fear, anxiety, wanting so badly to do good, to be a better person. Seeing the sunrise through my tears, sobs coming deep from my soul, I’m ashamed at what I did to get high. My will’s held captive to this lifestyle that I despise, and yet seek at every opportunity. Shame burns in my soul every time I fail. I overheard their comments, “she’s so cool except when she gets high.” Thieves gather around my life and seeing my weakness, they intend to rob me of what little possessions I have, my own body. Here’s my shame, I know better, I can do better, yet I fall prey to my craving and the traps they lay for me. I pray for a way out, morning after morning, failure after failure, long tortuous night after long tortuous night. I no longer enjoy getting wasted, it leaves me wanting, thirsty for more, there’s never enough to make me satisfied. There’s so many people to blame and I even blame God for the cruel things that have happened to me, time and time again. Funny how I blame and cuss the same God I call on for help when I’m scared out of my mind. Deep inside, I know that I can get out of this mess. I will be a success. Someone will love me, not just use me. I’ll stop this madness, my shame will be forgotten and my tired soul will sleep without fear. Until then I’ll keep trying and never stop getting back on my feet.

 

“No matter what others see, though I’m beat down on the outside, inside I refuse to give up and I will stand again.”

Also published in: Wingposse, 05-08-13
 

12112011

                            

Burnt Bridges

“The only bad thing about burning your bridges behind you is that the world is round”

“That bridge you burn, in laughing pride walking on

Is the path that destiny forces to spawn

That one that is rejected will lead you the pawn

The day that died will be reborn atdawn.” – DMW

He laughed under the command of alcohol. With mockery his grand speech proclaimed the worthlessness of my life that he used to facilitate his riches. Needing his provision for my daily supply, I grew rebellious inside. The Boss continued his diatribe in the firelight. On my struggle he built his joy. My work, that though he taught it to me, stood alone in stark contrast to his proclamations. Joyfully he lit a match to burn the bridges and isolate me in shame. As the last timber fell in ashen dismay, the universe set in motion a turn of events that always humbles the proud. Within in months, he fell under the spell of my promotion and others saw to my advancement. The year ground on and then, in the new birth of spring, when burned things turn green again, his mistake of taking the common man for granted gave him a startling revelation. His work is now for me, and I, with humility, take his reigns and learn this, that all bridges will one day be crossed again, so be careful of the paths we leave behind. 

The Snake – There is someone out there as dangerous as you

“Never assume that the person you are dealing with is weaker or less important than you are. Some people are slow to take offense, which may make you misjudge the thickness of their skin, and fail to worry about insulting them. But should you offend their honor and their pride, they will overwhelm you with a violence that seems sudden and extreme given their slowness to anger.” – Robert Greene, 48 Laws of Power

 

“What gets me is the laughter. Laughing, mocking, putting me to shame. Be careful to never shame others, there is someone out there just like you, like me, waiting in the shadows for the final stroke, the lash that brings to light the hidden madness. Be careful young soul that you do not mock the snake.”

I coil around these young, nurturing their venomous beginnings. Ever aware, hyper-vigilant, to protect and bring to maturation these slithering things. They‘ve become my children. In them I invest my time and energy, daily laboring, thinking about their growth and how they will manifest in this humbled time. My nest, being formed in the moist and dark, is where they grow, and where the stench festers inciting more depravity from the natural courses that flow so easily. The rubbish of shame and hate piled on my fertile ground, gives rise to a perfect incubator for my brood. Throw another log on you spoiled soul, forget not that under your insults, warmth and protection brought about by numb insulation, cords piled high, will let my life swarm. Not one bite will injure you, but many, not from one direction, but from several. You gave me advantage by leaving the dark crevices where I crawl and my thirst for poisoned blood grows. I can prosper in obscurity, in the loneliness you force on me with your betrayals and mocking laughter. Night has come, I find myself drawn from the pile. You forget that life grows dark even in your world and there is where I prosper, having grown accustomed to the dimness in your dungeon. Feel your skin crawl as sounds of my approach come near. I taste your fear with my carefully timed flicks of tongue. I feel your vibrations, you can’t run. Where will you go? Naturally you will find a dark place, a hole to run to. There I will catch you, and the dull red of your hatred of my life will flow thickly into my long furnace. Here the heat will consume you, and I will crawl, satiated with revenge, leaving the bones and fur of your carcass as testimony to the lethality of leaving your shamed captives alive.

Diary of a Mad Man – Living with mental illness

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” ― Aristotle

sagennext

They said to me, “Walk!”. My feet wouldn’t move, frozen by the accident. Appendages that are normally useful, mobile, and independent, I drag them along, taking care that I don’t injure them. The accident, as I call it, was not an accident, but a purposeful intended act, inspired by lust and hate. What they did to me I cannot tell, the acts so horrific. Regardless of the details of their brutal incursion, what I was left with is a handicap, one of the mind, not the body. Having to make do with a shredded normality, crawling through my life, instead of walking, never able to run. What was taken for granted, now became a challenge for me. While others run, leap, climb, and move about with impunity to mental mobility. I must develop new ways, ways that hurt, ways that require intense concentration, intense discipline. Still they taunt me, “get up and walk”, “why can’t you just be like the rest of us”. They can’t see I’m disabled, bound by forces that were neither chosen, nor desired, but forced on me in a cruel and harsh manner.

My injury cannot be seen, my useless legs are a shattered self-esteem, a mind crippled from ever thinking in a sane manner again. Insanity, psychosis, visions, voices, nightmares, self-deprecating thoughts, and accusations invade my every waking moment. Perceptions of reality and fantasy mix together, making the deciphering of fact and fiction a huge effort in itself. All day, every day, I roll around in a mental wheelchair, like one with paralyzed legs, committed to implements of bothersome necessity. I watch the heads wag, “Tsk, tsk. Quit being a pansy, just get up and walk”. Damn it! Can’t you see I can’t freaking walk? Can’t you see that it takes me longer to do normal things? I must make preparations for the ordinary, that which you do without an effort takes me great pains to produce, to perform, to succeed.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I’m a success and exceedingly happy, and in these I’ll continue, but the insensitivity of others upsets me. Refusing patience with, or acceptance of the fact, that I’m not like them. I cannot get up in the morning and be without fear, I cannot go into a crowd and relax, I cannot be in the dark. Paranoia haunts me, I sense conspiracies coming from everyone, from everything. Shame burns in me, flushing my cheeks at the least exposure of my faults or idiosyncrasies. My mind races with thousands of thoughts a minute, deep thoughts, all of them.

I ask for no special treatment, just for a bit of patience with me as you accompany me on my journey through this world. Please, not only with me, but with the many others afflicted in a like manner, be sure you understand that although the pain of mental illness is not visible, it does handicap us from doing things in a normal manner. Be patient with crazy people, we really are cool, even if it takes us awhile to work our way through the battlefields of life.

Also published in Broowaha

12282011