Alone –

 “Imaginary lovers
Never turn you down
When all the others turn you away
They’re around
It’s my private pleasure
Midnight fantasy
Someone to share my
Wildest dreams with me” 

– Atlanta Rhythm Section

 

DreamWind

I’d do anything to keep from being alone, pay any price, be used to the “nth” degree and never say a word. Being used is better than being alone but it stings knowing the object of my affection will hurt me, maim my spirit, and destroy my forward progress. Still, I follow hard after her, giving all to maintain that relationship and avoid the terrors of being alone. What compromises have I willing conceded to? What violations of my self-esteem and personal space have I allowed for unrequited affection? What tortures has my heart been through, my body feeling the wretch of emotions that sets my nerves on fire? Being addicted, not to a substance, but to a world of egocentric affection that I’ve created by taking the object of my affection and embellishing her to a fantastic degree. I should know better, I do know better. The voices of friends and family, concerned that I am “being used”, try to slap me awake. Ignoring their advice, pushing away the voice of truth, I continue to live a world that only I see. Go away you bearers of truth, you wreckers of dreams, this is my world, I will not see it in your light! I take my script and apply it haphazardly, patching up the holes in the dike containing my empty dreams. Eagerly lapping up my lack of self-control and willful delusion, the protagonist in my play continues to feed my world of facades with empty compliments, cool affections, and eyes empty of love.  One day I’ll wake up and grab hold of myself, one day I’ll acknowledge this self-imposed hell, one day…but for now, I look at her and imagine how she loves me.

Also published in Broowaha

012112

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Cruel – My body wears her marks –

 “People speak sometimes about the “bestial” cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.” ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

“True beauty is something that attacks, overpowers, robs, and finally destroys.”
― Yukio Mishima 

ladyjordison

Cruel her whips of love,

Holding hands in chains

Giving a slap and shove

Cruel her feet lead away

Left with a subtle kiss

Leather and studded sway

Cruel her hands choke and rub

Enduring eager strokes

With angry slick gloves

Cruel her wet licks on thighs

Stains of lips and teeth

Bring to head deep sighs

Cruel the game she plays

In the morning lights glow

Tortured memories remain

First published in Opinionsofeye.com

05192013

Pee – The stain never fades

 “PTSD is a whole-body tragedy, an integral human event of enormous proportions with massive repercussions.” – Susan Pease Banitt

dirtifulmind

The stain spread across her crotch and down her legs. Not sure why, being far past the age when self control is learned, but her young body seemed to respond this way. She knew what this meant, the beatings, the torture, the hell that came by the hand of adopted dads and step moms who didn’t understand why. Did they consider that maybe something’s wrong? Did they know that a babysitter used the bathroom to defile her innocence, violating her with fucked up fantasies? No, she was left to deal with the severe repercussions, searching for a remedy. The diaper she wore in public (embarrassment being the rod of chastisement her step parents thought her worthy of), locked her in stocks of shame that forever took the pee stain, and engraved that young mind with its stench. She prayed often in those days for the God that raised people from the dead, the God that made blind men see, to just do a simple thing and dry her stain. Of course, the wetness never dried until it was to late, and her young faith died after many unanswered prayers. Let this be a warning for parents everywhere, pay attention to your kids, there are reasons why.

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

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