Posted in stream of consciousness

The Truth Have I Murdered

Music: All Them Witches – Dying Surfer Meets His Maker
Taken loosely from the idea of a lyrical essay

The boy doesn’t love you.

And why should he?

Don’t “please mister” me …

You’re the culprit here. Look at those hands, doused in red.

Disgust! That’s what I feel when I look at you.

The truth deserved better.

Better than being dragged by your breathless frame,

Heaving from the act,

Down the drain.

Witless.

I’ll ask you again.

When no was the answer …

Why didn’t you just give in?

Posted in stream of consciousness

Baby Spiders Before 7 AM

This is not at all what I would normally post but … I don’t know, I’ll call it a slice of life.

This morning I had to kill a spider.

It wasn’t just any spider. No. I didn’t realize this was some mutant momma spider.

I thought it looked weird … but what the hell do I know before 7 AM when my daughter is refusing to go in her bathroom because of said spider.

So I smashed it

And baby spiders scattered across the tile.

I … Just stared for a second … I had that “sweet baby Jesus what have I done” moment.

Of course, I can’t shut the bathroom door and leave them. No, they’ll regroup into some Cartoon Network mutant villainy crap if I do that.

So I start screaming at my daughter to get the bug spray from the garage.

I’m pretty sure this shit is outdoor only use. It’s probably straight up expired acid at this point.

I do not care. I douse those innocent babies like I’m going burn the whole place and never look back.

Then I shut the door and walk away because I’m officially out of time for this to be a problem.

The more I think about it, the more I think that this was hidden in the fine print when I signed the parent contract. I didn’t knowingly sign up for baby spiders before 7AM.

Posted in Word Prompt

Insanity

I can’t assume this isn’t what falling into insanity feels like.
Memories amiss, blanket gaps in my revolving life show.
Yet something exists, just beyond the wall I’ve come to know.
Gentle waters stirred by an ever wandering, probing heart.
Diluting, circling, among the truths we can’t start.

Today’s random word was arise

Click here to generate your own word or feel free to use this one. 

Posted in Word Prompt

Blacklight

If you examine me under a blacklight
Chalk outlines under blue light flash
You’ll see not a thing which doesn’t glow upon me
Words etched into skin, meaning carved to bone
Paths traced from hair to toe
By imaginary fingers, prying as we walk
Stripping me raw as I stand and talk
Every move a dance along a pole
Made just for the eyes of every soul
I am nothing more, nothing less
Pieces of raw, degrading flesh
Fit for consumption, mass presumption

My random word generator gave me think, if you’re interested in generating a word click here

Posted in Word Prompt

For Your Eyes Only …

I fret over what you’ll see
If you look too closely.
I fear you may find
I’m just a monster in disguise.
One foot in reality
The other always wandering.
Forever split in two
By these worlds in my mind.
But if you promise,
We can seal it with a kiss,
I’ll keep your truth hidden
From prying eyes.
Because I see inside,
You’re a monster just like I am.

Fret

The prompt spurred something else but it fits with a different project I’m working on so I’m keeping it to myself for now.

Also, Jimi Hendrix Both Sides of the Sky … is just grand. 

Oh, and it’s my 2 year anniversary of starting this blog apparently! I didn’t post much my first year but to celebrate (of sorts) here’s my more popular post of 2016 (with a whopping 20 views). 

Filthy Love

You’re dirty,
Unkept hair and grungy hands.
You’re filthy,
As your cigarette dangles

The smoke wafts, slow and pungent
Your filthy smile, your stormy eyes.

Watching me
Watch you.

Wringing your filthy hands,
How I long for them

You’re dirty
Slow burn and fading ash.
You’re filthy
As you pull me close.

The smoke conceals, thick and dark
Your filthy words, your gentle lips

Seducing me
Seduce you.

Sliding your filthy hands,
How I long for them

You’re dirty
So filthy,

As you pull me
To my knees.

As I pull you
Into me.

Posted in Word Prompt

Writing Didn’t Save Me

Look out, actual kind of blog incoming. 

I’ve been thinking, as us sentient beings are wont to do, about life and the semi-permanence of it all.

And I’ve been tossing around the idea of reposting this here for a few days.

Just as a reminder: None of us are alone. 

Writing Didn’t Save Me

This week is all about writing through the pain, using our words to pull us through and out of the darkest of times.

Seems like it should be right up my alley, right?

The depressed chick with gothic tendencies that was always cynical and hated the world? She should definitely have something to say about that right?

Honestly, when I was at my lowest points, in my darkest corners, I didn’t write.

I went years without writing.

I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel sad, I didn’t feel inspired, I didn’t feel angry … I didn’t feel anything.

I was so numb that I hurt myself to feel anything.

I was so numb that I pushed everyone away because I was convinced I would just pull everyone down with me.

I lost family, friends, love.

And I did it all on purpose because I was scared. I believed that I deserved to be alone. I believed on the off-chance I managed to feel something, probably right at the moment of my death, then it shouldn’t be anyone’s responsibility to clean up after me.

If I couldn’t feel anything then I didn’t deserve the love and support of these people around me.

I didn’t write.

Not a word.

But I wrote on my way down. I pumped out poetry and stories by pouring every ounce of emotion I could muster into them. As if my preserving them onto pages and pages of lined notebook paper would somehow make them easier for me to recall when I truly needed them.

I was falling apart loudly and dramatically in my stories long before the cracks ever began to seep into my real life.

But once I was there? Once I was standing in the darkness facing the ultimate battle?

There wasn’t a single word I could have written.

Because depression steals things from you like a thief in the night. It turns up, triggered by something you never saw coming or sometimes nothing at all, and it takes until it can take no more.

But it’s silent.

It doesn’t come with screaming, crying fits … not in public anyway. It doesn’t sneak in on a jet plane with a roaring engine. It slides under your door like smoke from a fire brewing inside your walls, one you didn’t know you had to worry about.

It’s empty, like staring into a void that’s just sucked away everything you ever cared about but, for some reason you can’t comprehend, spared you. It’s that vast swirling nothingness that we imagined outer space to be so long ago. What is it they say about space? No one can hear you scream?

So, I didn’t write and I won’t pretend writing pulled me out of it.

I went to therapy and at some point, my therapist had to remind me there were things depression stole from me that I could take back. I could regain some control by reclaiming the passions I had so helplessly watched my depression make off with years before.

That’s when I started to write again.

At first it was hard, my words felt heavy and clumsy. I felt less than adequate, drained and like maybe depression had completely stolen my ability.

It was easy to put my pen down and simply say I just didn’t have it anymore. Writing would forever be a casualty of war.

However, I needed an outlet, I had words that I could use now but I needed somewhere to put them. Even though I thought my writing was horrible I kept returning to it. I kept picking my pen back up and scribbling away. Most of the time I re-read what I wrote and felt like a kindergartener trying to write on a Hemingway level.

The seeds of self-doubt had been sown pretty thick.

I was encouraged to keep practicing, even if what I was producing seemed to be awful, the point was I was doing something.

I was proving to myself that depression didn’t own me.

That’s what writing did for me. It helped to prove that depression, for me, did not win the war no matter how many battles I lost to its deafening silence. It helped me to see the person I thought depression did away with was still there, just tired and in dire need of a break. It helped to remind me that living with passion makes the moments worth it because when depression rears its head around the corner again I will need reminding.

Writing didn’t save me but it will always be a reminder of what I can never lose.

I originally posted this on a collaboration blog I’m part of, The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, last year. 

Rush

Posted in Word Prompt

Blue Doors

Blue doors stoic against white washed summer walls
What awaits me beyond those carefully curated wooden walls?
Are there candles aglow or choirs angelic?
A return to life which withstood pandemics?
Were every role played
Within the confines of finite memory?
Perhaps there awaits all which we’ve lost.
Tears shed over damp sheets
And fresh mounds of dirt;
Carefully sculpted castles for our bones.
For once I may say, we’ll never truly know.
As my ornate blue doors slide into the distance,
The way our true love fades
From your memories and words,
Meant for another, promised over sun bleached summer days.


A little story time to go with this little poem.

When I was a snotty pre-teen, maybe around 11 or 12, I was giving my mom a hard time as we drove home. I don’t remember about what, it doesn’t matter really but it was a moment for her that unleashed something else. Without saying much she swung her old minivan into the parking lot of a mixed Korean/Baptist church at the end of our street and started crying.

“Maybe one day I just won’t come home.”

I didn’t know how to react. I kept telling her it would be ok but what I really remember is that we were parked right in front of the church doors.

Looking back I’m fairly sure my mom probably suffered from the same anxiety and depression that now plagues me and my sisters in various forms. Coupled with the weight of my narcissistic father’s constant cruelty and I’m certain this wasn’t her only breaking point.

It may not have been a breaking point at all but more of a blip on the radar of constant pressure to provide when the one you’ve promised to walk beside has more or less declared “jokes on you”.

Today’s International Women’s Day and I’ve seen posts all over social media remembering and celebrating accomplishments. That’s wonderful, I embrace it. I also ask that we not forget about the women who are dragging themselves out of bed everyday simply because they have to. The women who have laid awake all night threatened by their own nightmares and now have little people depending on them to function. The women who have gently laid dreams aside or practice them quietly after hours because there’s simply no one else to “bring home the bacon” and the dreams they have aren’t to that point yet. The women who have found themselves trapped and unable to leave for fear, so they trudge through every day the best they can while pretending everything is ok.

Society has come far but society still has a way to go.

Daily Prompt – Uncompromising

Posted in stream of consciousness

Chase Them Away

It’s Sunday, I’m still working out a good opening here.

Prompt – Congregate

Music – Pink Floyd – Meddle

*Started writing, forgot to start timer, delete, start timer*

Congregate

Congregation.

I don’t go to church.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise.

When I was 15 my parents moved from a city area to a much more rural area.

I went from a performing arts high school to an agricultural one

I didn’t even know that was a thing …

One day I was on the bus

I took my headphones out at the request of a boy who was wearing a fish hook on his hat and had a clump of dip in his lip

I can’t remember what he asked but the subject turned to religion

To which I responded “I don’t know, I’m not Christian, I don’t go to church.”

At the time, if I had to put a name to some idea of religious practices, then I’d say I was Pagan.

Poor guy was floored.

“I thought you were a good Christian girl!”

I congregate in a different way.

I go to concerts.

One time I went because I thought maybe the music would be loud enough to drown the bullshit in my head.

Now I can’t always understand what you’re saying in normal settings and I go to shows to drown myself under the sound.

Let it wash over me and take away all the self hate that can settle in my mind.

This morning I woke up and something just hit me, straight to my core.

I found myself thinking in terms of self hate, “pathetic piece of …”

I push those things away and congregate in big, or sometimes not big, raucous, sometimes not raucous, groups

To let loud melodies chase them away.


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in Word Prompt

Preordained

WordPress Daily Prompt – Suspicious (suspicious on Valentines Day wordpress? Really? What’re you trying to say?)

It seems suspicious
The motives that would lead me here
In this world where our demise
Is predetermined in the skies.
It’s no question about my fate.
It’s sealed in the tongues of gods.
Destiny has provided me a bed
In which to lie alone
In hopes I may awaken wise.
So pardon me, my muse,
For questioning this mirrored sable truth.
But it’s almost as if I could touch you
Although it’s for naught.
We’re preordained from the start.
You’re destined for greater things,
A glorious truth of which I’m certain,
While I’m merely reserved
A slot in the wall of sounds
Haunting hallowed grounds.


The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, go see what’s new