Cat-o-nine tails sing in the breeze
Cutting through the distant night
A lone wolf emerges as the town wakes
Through the vacantness of the dawn
caressing the wheat as fingertips pass by
Watching, the silent moon
Piercing the vacantness
Hither and thither through the night to dawn
The lone wolf dances and sways
to the ghostly chant of the cat-o-nines
His haunting howl awakening the sun
Forcing the day to appear and the inky blackness to recede
A distinct separation between what was and what can be
His call a reminder
A gentle hand, instead of a harsh word
This is the chant of the cat-o-nines
This is for a dVerse prompt. The job is beggar and the poem is about whatever you think it’s about 
I’ve had some mental epiphanies of late. Nothing earth shattering to the people who live outside of my brain, but mentally mindfuckageblowing to those who live within.
I’ve come to realize it is not my job, responsibility, or reason for being to care for and fix things for every human being on this planet. I know, right? I was shocked too. I mean for years I’ve guilt tripped myself for not doing for others. I feel guilty for buying tampons so I don’t. Tampons. I mean any woman with a period over the age of 12 realizes tampons are necessity of life and yet I don’t buy them.
They’re a luxury. How did I get to the point in my life where tampons are a luxury that I feel “guilty” for splurging on myself for? Yes, guilty. Who the hell feels guilty over things like that?
I do.
But not so much anymore. Nowadays I feel pissed. Pissed and angry at myself mostly. I mean I can’t blame others. I allowed them to treat me this way. I created the guilt. Not them. Some may have contributed out of their sense of entitlement but I fed the beast.
But no more.
But yet even though I don’t want to feel this way. Guilty. I worry. Worry about swinging too far in the other direction. Too far into I don’t give a fuck if you live or die I’ll pour gawddamned gasoline on you if I see you on fire direction. I’ve been there before. It wasn’t fun.
Balance. Something I don’t do well. But am trying. Trying to know what the difference is between simply just taking care of myself and being selfish. There must be a balance, right?
A place of inbetween that I haven’t found yet. But I’m trying.
Maybe someday I’ll even buy tampons for myself again. I’m a dreamer.
May 10th,2012
General |
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In the inky darkness
The cadence calls
One by one
Piercing the silence
I close my eyes and listen
To the iridescence
Illuminating the night
A singularly being
Together becoming one
I dare not breathe
For to break their rhythm
A sacrilege
So I wait
To exhale
And then in unison
They stop
Just as they began
A rhythmic volume of cadence
Breaking the silence of the night
And I wait
Without inhale
For their return
This is for the dVerse Poet’s Pub writing prompt-music
This past week has been rough. The days did not turn to night willingly or easily. It took every ounce of strength, willpower, and determination for me to endure the last few days. It made me realize how important it is I insulate myself with the proper people.
People who are able to bear the explosion when it occurs and who can provide a buffer between me and myself during those moments when I’m unable to process sanity.
The damage was minimal. Most will never see it. Most never knew it was occurring. An unseen ripple floating through space and time.
My life is defined by the intensity of these unseen floating ripples. I’m grateful for my buffers and hope they know how much they mean to me.
Do you ever wonder what it would be like
To dance the dance with the dark of night
To sing a song unheard by man
To kiss the lips untouched by light
I once longed for days like those
Days when I knew not
It was to be a queen
Instead of now
Days when I longed for thee
A touch, a kiss, a moment
between the night and moon and stars and sky
A moment of time lost
between what was meant to be and now
Each night I call to thee a warning lost in time
His siren song beckoned me
And I danced to his rhyme
But a poet not he was
An evil lay within
And to the night a slave was born
Chained of kith and kin
My first link up with dVerse-Poets Pub. Prompt title was “Vampires”
April 29th,2012
Writing |
7 Comments
I live my life according to the bipolar code. It’s an exacting code.
A code that demands complete adherance and obedience at all times and at all costs. It does not accept excuses or refusals. You do or you die. It’ s just that simple.
A part of me, the part that lives in the area of my brain where the synapses still spark, knows the code that I enforce myself to live is irrational and unobtainable. I know this, but yet I force this upon myself and force myself to live according to what the bipolared me perceives as the correct moral standard.
Even if it’s a batshit insane standard, I still live by it.
Unfortunately for others I use the code as my moral compass to “test” friendships. To determine if others are really my friends or just using me. Sort of like a witch trial, there is no passing.
The tests are virtually impossible. But failure gets a person on “The List”.
The List of names of people I cannot trust who are toxic. Not because in reality they are untrustworthy, but because they failed to live up to the impossible standards of The Code.
This is my life. My world. My reality. Most days, it isn’t fun. I’d like to say if I could choose, I’d live my life differently, but in some ways I feel proud of the things I do. Proud I’m not like “others”.
It may not be right, but it is what it is.
Dinner time in our house is a battle of wills. A time when my husband and I fight the most and over the most tiny of infractions. ShahJi grew up in a walton-esque home. They eat at the same time. Together. Every. Day. At night I can almost hear “good night john boy” as they go to sleep.
I grew up with the total opposite of that. My family makes the Simpsons look functional. There were times when I would get locked out at night because no one bothered to notice I wasn’t actually in my room. I was sitting in the woods behind our house. So if my grandfather went to sleep early, then I was SOL because I’d have no way to get in until my grandmother came home from work at 2 am.
So I have trouble adjusting to life with ShahJi and life inside a family unit in general. But I do pretty well except for dinner time. There are days when I’m not hungry just because it’s 5 pm. Days when I don’t want to eat the food even though I’ve eaten it a million times before, but for whatever reason that even I don’t understand in that moment the thought of putting that food in my mouth makes me gag. Thinking of it now as I type this makes me gag.
When ShahJi asks “why”, all I can do is shrug because “it just is”.
If I don’t eat ShahJi thinks I’m hungry and that bothers him. The thought of me sitting hungry, but I’m not hungry. When I”m hungry I eat. When I’m not I don’t. To me that seems simple, but apparently it’s not.
People don’t understand the concept of “not hungry today”. Especially my husband. Because it’s time to eat so I should eat. When I don’t, there’s an argument.
There are times when I want to eat. I want to be able to pick up the food and put it in my mouth and swallow it. if for no other reason than to make ShahJi happy, but I can’t. I try and I gag. He thinks this is intentional, but it’s not.
Having issues with food is one of the hardest things I think. It seems that eating should just be natural. An instinct driven from primitive desires, but it isn’t. It’s much more complicated than that for some.
I don’t know if we’ll ever find a common ground. A place where we both can live peacefully. Content. But we try. Each of us gives a little. Tries. That’s all we can do.
pharisee: n. hypocrite
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Hypocrisy. Something I get accused of on a daily basis. I never quite understood why so many people think I’m a hypocrite. Maybe it’s because in so many ways I am. In their eyes.
But in my eyes. In the inky black wells that stare back at me from the looking glass, I am not a hypocrite. I am guarded. I am secretive. But hypocrite? No.
You see, I choose what parts of me people see and when and how often. There are people who have only seen very little of me and people who have seen much deeper, but I’m very particular about who sees what and when and how much. So does that make me a hypocrite?
Not to me it doesn’t, but to others, it very much does.
It’s difficult for people to understand the many depths within a person. I don’t think someone has to be mentally ill to have layers. All of us are a little bit onion. Some of us more than others.
But we are all layered and vast and bottomless. But most people are open layers while others like me are not. I realize it’s difficult for someone to understand the need to control who sees what and when and how much, but in our lives. In the lives of the shattered, we have had so little control over what happens to us that we grasp at any place for the semblance of control.
Sometimes this manifests itself in an eating disorder. Because the intake of food, or lack thereof, is the only thing we can control and in a world that is spinning out of control and filled with chaos, whatever we can grab onto and control, we grab it and hold on with all of our might. Regardless of how self-destructive and imaginary that control is.
I haven’t been able to write much lately. Not on my blog or anywhere. Writing use to be my outlet. My way of ridding myself of the internal toxins that flowed within. Somedays I can feel their build-up and feel the need to dump them on someone or someplace or something. Luckily for me I have amazingly supportive friends and husband who are willing to be my dumping ground. But I love to write. It gives me life. A purpose. It is not who I am but what I do. I don’t have dreams of writing a novel or being a “writer”. But I miss the dumping. The removal of the inner toxins that line my veins.
I would love to say I’ll write more often, but there are only 24 hrs in a day. I guess I could always stop sleeping. I mean I only sleep about 2-3 hrs a day anyways. Apparently it’s not as much of a necessity as people think it is.
April 18th,2012
Writing |
1 Comment
Well I’m a little behind. But if you know me, you probably aren’t surprised. I tend to take on a bazajillion things at once. Which means in the end I have to prioritize and unfortunately blogging is the first thing to be cut from the list. Much like the pinky toe of my husband after the cow incident. Remind me to tell you about the cow incident one day.
I just finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy. Wasn’t very impressed. It’s been made into such a hooplah I thought it’d be better. The characters were unlikeable and unbelievable. I totally did not like Katniss. Yes I said it. Out loud.
So I may be one of the few who wasn’t that thrilled with it. I did like the “idea” of it, but felt it could have been so much more than what it was. I didn’t like the “happily ever after” ending. It seemed to clash with the entire story line. I won’t go into too many details for those who haven’t read/seen it. But I was not impressed.
April 14th,2012
Writing |
8 Comments
image source
flarting – To mock or insult
gamine – A homeless girl
In the world, we tend to fear that which we do not know. We prefer the truth we create over an unknown truth that requires effort for us to find. This is human nature and exists within us. This fear causes us to alter the course of our lives based upon unfounded truths, but it is these truths when ripped from beneath we shed tears over.
When we look at others, we think we know the steps they’ve taken to reach the moment in time our eyes fall upon them. But can we truly know? Each step. Each footfall. Can we know how many and through what hurdles and obstacles they had to climb in order to be at that spot and in that moment for our eyes to fall upon them?
We see others and judge them based upon the “truths” we assume to be. We are too busy or too afraid to find out the real truth.
Have you ever gone up to a homeless person to ask them their story or do you assume they are too lazy/drunk/high to work?
It is much easier to accept the “truths” we tell ourselves than to search for the “lies” of the unknown.
April 6th,2012
Writing |
6 Comments
