Intoxicated with your thoughts
wild with intention, but realistic in their goals.
My mind drifts into yours,
without chance,
We blend to One.
The fence keeping my life
suddenly falls to the floor.
My world, previously seen by others,
now can be touched and contaminated
by One.
The only One that has this effect,
you scare and entice me.
I know better, but the desire is too strong.
My mind and feelings in conflict.
I know, if I fall, I will be caught.
Caught in your warmth,
Safe in your arms.
I am fine here
I will be fine here
Let go
I am fine here
I will be fine here
One.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Desolation
sitting in my thoughts
thoughts of life
life of scars
scars of others
others and myself
myself is deteriorating
deteriorating into parts
parts of my body numb
numb and alone
alone I stay
thoughts of life
life of scars
scars of others
others and myself
myself is deteriorating
deteriorating into parts
parts of my body numb
numb and alone
alone I stay
Up from the Glass...
Coming up from the glass, a reflection gazes into her eyes.
Eyes not her own.
A glisten from a life long before, distant from this moment.
Her strength and weakness scattered across the reflecting face,
a reminder of the current state she leads.
Falling forward again, the pain and draw are addicting.
Coming up from the glass the haze of the room is intoxicating.
Filling my mind to every depth.
Chaos at every angle reflects my current state of mind.
Remnants of a structured life, taken over by the need.
My need to fill the void left by my first addiction.
I must part from this situation, step into the cold clean air.
A relief, but I will return.
Return to the haze and the desolate reflection staring back.
Eyes not her own.
A glisten from a life long before, distant from this moment.
Her strength and weakness scattered across the reflecting face,
a reminder of the current state she leads.
Falling forward again, the pain and draw are addicting.
Coming up from the glass the haze of the room is intoxicating.
Filling my mind to every depth.
Chaos at every angle reflects my current state of mind.
Remnants of a structured life, taken over by the need.
My need to fill the void left by my first addiction.
I must part from this situation, step into the cold clean air.
A relief, but I will return.
Return to the haze and the desolate reflection staring back.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Claustophobia
Gasping for air as though there weren't any
The tube around my body funneling to nothing
Hot and dry surrounds my head
Thoughts faster, stronger, vivid in my mind
My eyes swirl throughout my skull
Trying to find a stable place to rest
A pounding in my ears consume me
Thoughts faster, stronger, vivid in my mind
A drop finding a place on my arm
The color unknown to my eyes
It draws down to the hand succumbing to gravity
The rain comes down
Slower, blurred and sleep
The tube around my body funneling to nothing
Hot and dry surrounds my head
Thoughts faster, stronger, vivid in my mind
My eyes swirl throughout my skull
Trying to find a stable place to rest
A pounding in my ears consume me
Thoughts faster, stronger, vivid in my mind
A drop finding a place on my arm
The color unknown to my eyes
It draws down to the hand succumbing to gravity
The rain comes down
Slower, blurred and sleep
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
My Mama
Mama is always sleeping; I can’t help but wonder why she needs so much sleep. She left my sandwich on the kitchen counter, half made, and not what I wanted anyway. Ham and cheese is gross, I told her peanut butter, not the one with the nuts in it, the other kind. But then again, remembering even to make my sandwich for school is a start, because sometimes I have to take quarters and dines from my jar to pay for lunch, I really hate the school lunch, so the sandwich is a little better than school food. Anyway today is Swiss steak for lunch, and I hate Swiss steak, so I’m taking the ham and cheese.
School was boring, but home isn’t much better. Mama doesn’t like the lights on, and the house is a mess. My friend’s moms don’t sleep all the time, and let the house get this way. But my Mama is different. I try to wake her up, so she can see my report card, but I always have trouble getting myself to wake her up. She looks so happy sleeping, except when she snores, then it’s not so nice and I have to go to my room cause I can’t stand the noise. I start the usual after school routine by picking up the kitchen; there are two almost empty bottles of my mom’s favorite drink. Pouring them down the drain, I hold my breath because the smell will make me puke. I see her container of medications and put them away in the bathroom, where they should be, and continue into the living room and into her bedroom. Dad is gone, he left a while ago. But sometimes he calls on my birthday.
My mama is awake now, stumbling through the room she goes into the kitchen and starts screaming, I know I did something wrong. I run to the kitchen and see my mom leaning against the counter, and she looks me straight in the eye and her arm reaches across and grabs me by the shirt. Her other hand whips across my face. With a sting I remembered what I did wrong. I can’t believe I could have done something wrong, but the coming bruise on my left cheek will remind me. I moved her pills.
Walking into the empty house I know memories are going to flood my mind. My mother has just passed away, and I need to empty the house, so I can finally get rid of this chapter in my life. The house itself smells like stale whiskey and cigarette smoke. Years of my life were spent here and I hate those years in my life. I walk into the kitchen and thoughts race through my head.
I was at school like any other day, and came home to find my mother still in bed, hung over and still in her nightgown for the week. She usually didn’t change out of her pajamas during the week. Ten years old, I was still in elementary school and I didn’t know anything about my mother. But that day specifically stands out in my mind. She was screaming at me, telling me that I emptied her liquor bottles, and moved her medications. I know I shouldn’t have moved them, but I just wanted a life like my friend’s lives. My mother raised her hand, and for the first and last time, she slapped me across the face. After that she turned around and left. I couldn’t believe she had actually hit me. What kind of mother does that? Certainly not my mother. My face stung with the hand on my face. I just wanted some normalcy, some stability, and I got a mark that reminded me that I would never have that with my mother. She apologized some time after that, but to this day I hate my mother for the life she put me through. I can still feel her hand on my face, not the hand of a loving mother, but of the hand of an addicted woman.
School was boring, but home isn’t much better. Mama doesn’t like the lights on, and the house is a mess. My friend’s moms don’t sleep all the time, and let the house get this way. But my Mama is different. I try to wake her up, so she can see my report card, but I always have trouble getting myself to wake her up. She looks so happy sleeping, except when she snores, then it’s not so nice and I have to go to my room cause I can’t stand the noise. I start the usual after school routine by picking up the kitchen; there are two almost empty bottles of my mom’s favorite drink. Pouring them down the drain, I hold my breath because the smell will make me puke. I see her container of medications and put them away in the bathroom, where they should be, and continue into the living room and into her bedroom. Dad is gone, he left a while ago. But sometimes he calls on my birthday.
My mama is awake now, stumbling through the room she goes into the kitchen and starts screaming, I know I did something wrong. I run to the kitchen and see my mom leaning against the counter, and she looks me straight in the eye and her arm reaches across and grabs me by the shirt. Her other hand whips across my face. With a sting I remembered what I did wrong. I can’t believe I could have done something wrong, but the coming bruise on my left cheek will remind me. I moved her pills.
Walking into the empty house I know memories are going to flood my mind. My mother has just passed away, and I need to empty the house, so I can finally get rid of this chapter in my life. The house itself smells like stale whiskey and cigarette smoke. Years of my life were spent here and I hate those years in my life. I walk into the kitchen and thoughts race through my head.
I was at school like any other day, and came home to find my mother still in bed, hung over and still in her nightgown for the week. She usually didn’t change out of her pajamas during the week. Ten years old, I was still in elementary school and I didn’t know anything about my mother. But that day specifically stands out in my mind. She was screaming at me, telling me that I emptied her liquor bottles, and moved her medications. I know I shouldn’t have moved them, but I just wanted a life like my friend’s lives. My mother raised her hand, and for the first and last time, she slapped me across the face. After that she turned around and left. I couldn’t believe she had actually hit me. What kind of mother does that? Certainly not my mother. My face stung with the hand on my face. I just wanted some normalcy, some stability, and I got a mark that reminded me that I would never have that with my mother. She apologized some time after that, but to this day I hate my mother for the life she put me through. I can still feel her hand on my face, not the hand of a loving mother, but of the hand of an addicted woman.
Smoke from a Life
Smoke from a life
wisping and winding
through the air releasing
the contents burning, being
let go out of the binding.
the source of pain, or relief
for me the relief of winding
tight personality and pain.
pain of schedules, pain from
others.
this addiction transferred,
transferred from the blade and
the blood. in my mind
the lesser of two evils.
wisping and winding
through the air releasing
the contents burning, being
let go out of the binding.
the source of pain, or relief
for me the relief of winding
tight personality and pain.
pain of schedules, pain from
others.
this addiction transferred,
transferred from the blade and
the blood. in my mind
the lesser of two evils.
Significant Other
She sits, waiting for the one she loves, but knows he does not love her. Last night, she waited more. She knows what he is doing, but wants to ignore it. Late nights and she knows he’s back to the same substance. Something she tried to keep away from him, but eventually gave up. She has a love who loves her far away, but something draws her to him; maybe his addiction, or maybe something else. But that she will never know. He shows up, walking through the door, stumbling and his eyes darting. She has given him plenty of chances, but now doesn’t have the energy to care. He comes home, what else can she ask of him? The pain, mixed with love is something she has tried to get away from, but keeps finding people to love and give her pain. Her mother was always in pain, and the pain spread throughout the family. Being released from that relationship gave her hope, but she finds another to fill that void in her heart and mind. Can love really last without some type of pain? She’s starting to be disenchanted with love, as a growing up romantic; she thought she would find a love for life, but has started to doubt the love in Disney movies. Those women never cried in pain for their love, but maybe they just didn’t show that part. She falls deeper into the pain of love, and finds herself ignoring the cares of the world. Falling into space she has felt before, the space which was filled with blades, and blood, and addiction of her own. Society tells us to find the soul-mate we apparently have out there, but should love radiate this kind of pain within a person?
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