Going through the motions

When your heart
lacks love for today
a mere shadow, chasing the sun away
close the curtains
ban the songs
people got in your way.

I remember
a time -certainly
now, not to be high
perhaps it was last night
the outline of a face
traced in the dust, aroused.

You wait for your ship
a turn around
right about face
float until the motion -going
shifts your head.
It’s this tread you dread.

eyes have seen the light

eyes have seen the light, charcoal, 2015 (original photographed and edited)

paths to follow
exertion
against blindness
she chose
resistance and solitude
forged her way
into realities unknown
wandered
in landscapes lit
by strangers
kindness too great
to let go

devil in the details

all these thoughts

pouring down

welcome prayers;

the slowing

of my heart,

catching my breath.

i remain hidden

in a catatonic state

realizing opening sin

and boxed memories

rips the curtains

leaving the soul scorched.

Insecurities

My mouth blooms like a cut. –Anne Sexton

her insatiable death wish

sweat and tears

hanging gardens border on the brow,

a victim of her own thorns

the hand-written letters

left to wither, sent

but never answered.

she waits for succulent lips

painted black

to help her feel better.

he never loved her after all.

———–

Insecurities. We all have them. Don’t we? We sit in the ditch, abandoned. Crashed, broken and lifeless, fantasizing movement beyond. Petals draped, glossed over with death. All that feels good is frozen breath, blossomed. Cut open. To blue.

No regrets

I have no regrets in life. Not even when the outcome was less than favorable for me. I am better for the experience. The stretching. The climbing. Mostly the listening, even hearing the quiet. Witnessing the fear. The hiding.

The challenge for me was to share intimately with another, and i did so.

Connection to another, whether spiritual, intellectual or physical, gives and takes. When we take, we fill an empty place that was left ravaged by circumstance. When we give, we pour from the soul.

So i do not regret giving to another who needed something, more than i needed. The act of giving itself fills up. The thanks and smiles are more than enough for a girl who has learned to never regret the road.

And perhaps, since i am working on my patience, this is a test of true friendship. I will never purposely jump ship. Even when the tests are excruciating and i wish, pray, for death, I will remain as long as people decide i am worthy of them. To witness I AM a heartfelt existence and friend. ๐Ÿค— And if i end up pushing you aside, it is my fear, not your lack of love.

๐Ÿงก๐Ÿ•Š

Reasons

“Lives of Grass” Mathilde Roussel

the dewy grass clings
closer venture towards her, hear
this body sings blues

Paris artist Mathilde Roussel explores the transforming relationship of nature. Look closer. What appears alive is really death.

just a few words…

For such a quiet person, I write a lot.

This simple sentence is me in a nutshell. Although i don a cracked exterior, which has let in too much world. Now i exist as warped. A walking, wounded soldier, who has witnessed too much pain. In turn, i turned crass. I am working on that aspect of me, but in reality, reality has sunken in from the first funeral i attended as a child, unable to look at the lifeless figure of a person i adored, until the moment i snuck a letter into my brother’s cold hand.

He clenched that letter as if his life depended on it. I believe he did one last loving thing for me. There was no removing those words i sent him off with. They now reside in each breath i take. Forever dust in the wind. And each snowflake, a kaleidoscope of memories shared.

I don’t recall what i wrote in my anguish. That letter held a lifetime of our experiences in less than 50 words. Writing it set me free from my heart. At least for the moment.

Today, reading a blurb on infp personality, i realized how little my brother and i talked, yet we understood each other so well. Often our eyes would connect and both of us would burst with laughter. Mostly at my dad’s expense which he never took to, too kindly. I recall one such incident in a restaurant in Madison WI, on our way to visit his parents. We both considered ourselves safe, being in public, amongst watching eyes, but boy were we wrong. He kicked us both under the table.

Silence can be a relationship killer. So is violence. My dad treated us both with that kind of discipline, which was learned from his father. Which was learned somewhere else, along the generational lines. Then a few days later it would be a trip to the soda station where they bottled his favorite drink, since he gave up beer from his Army days. It was always confusing to consider my father. What exactly was he expecting of us?

It killed my dad to know my brother committed suicide. It never dawned on him to consider why. It broke him but never encouraged him to change. He died set in his ways. I never left my dad a letter. Nor did I cry. I had nothing to give him. And only one tear was shed for my mother.

It is just the way life was growing up and it never changed for as long as our family was together. We were together but never aware of each other. It certainly made it easy to say goodbye.

i die

a little inside

each day;

i don’t remember

the strength

you talk about,

how i lifted high

the clouds,

revealed the mountain,

sun peaks inside

my mind.

i try

to light the fire

ignite a spark;

i am

too cold,

worn and tired,

an angel banished

to walk this earth

alone

thinking of you

so close

yet starlight years away.