Quiet Compulsions

I have a compulsion that I’m going to reveal.  It’s something that naturally happens in my mind.  It doesn’t stress me out, particularly.  I do it in seconds. I do it every day, all day long.  It doesn’t interfere with my life, as I see it, mainly because I can do it so quickly and as of now, I don’t search out the formula just so I can do it. However, when the formula arrives it is definitely going to happen in my mind. 

A common place I do it this is in traffic or if I have to stand in lines, wait in a doctor’s office, doing it with the magazine from the waiting room, my phone, anywhere that the formula exists to allow the compulsion, it will happen. 

I’ll use a license plate as a simple example: 

XKY369

3 + 6 = 9 + 9 = 18 

1 + 8 = 9 

Single Reduction: 9

Every day, anytime I encounter number series I immediately, within seconds, reduce them to a single number.  There is never a time I will not do it.  I don’t fight the urge to do it.  I suppose the answer would be of what reaction would I have if I tried not to do it.  Why frustrate myself, in my opinion.  Reduce and move on. 

You’re one step further into my brain. 

Do you have quiet compulsions?  Are you comfortable sharing them?

For the Motherless Child

But who celebrates the
Motherless child?
Who remembers the
Grieving sibling
Whose life was missing
Love and comfort
Or the children
Riddled with the loss
Of she who bore them?

Who loves the
Worn down souls
Unable to open
Computer tops
For fear of seeing
Everyone else’s joy
As they
Sit alone.

We are conditioned with
Holidays to
Get the heart wishing,
Fake gatherings where
Children smile for mom
Quiet about the harm
Not showing the scars
Locked in robotic charm,
The alcohol bottle,
The silence, as not to
Make the cages rattle.

Every day is Mother’s Day,
For the motherless, a
Reminder shoved in their face
With flowers torn from stems,
No fond stories to tell
About childhood memories,
Just thoughts of her hell,

Or wishing she was here
To share in the recall
Of the kids who had it all,
But lost her slowly
Until all that’s left
Is a headstone
And lonely.

And so I lift my eyes
To the motherless child;
Open my arms
Let me hold you a while.
Together, see, I understand.
I know the pain.

We will walk in the trees and
I’ll softly wipe any tears;
Hold you to my chest to
Let you seep out the loneliness.

You don’t have to be happy
If it’s not how you feel.
You have the right
To be vulnerable and real.

To you, motherless child, I
I sent respite. So
Rest a while and
If you find strength to smile
I will return it with twinkling eyes.

V.K

art by Vennie Kocsis with influence from Jill Greenberg’s crying children series.

Ethereal Strings

but if you don’t want it, the full heart and the thriving; if you are wound tightly inside the cusp of your victimoness, afraid that if you shine no one will notice, your hands will grow bruises and your fingers will become weak from gripping so deeply to the pain. change has to rise in you with the strength of infinite passion. you must make the decision to find out who you are beneath the fog and clouds which continuously drift inside your energy.  introspection is an art. it is when you say this day belongs to no one else but you. it’s when you only listen to the blues for the rhythms not the tears, because you have chosen colorful moments that reconnect you to your own ethereal existence.  it’s when you choose you.    ~Vennie~

Why Did You Just Kill Me?

I am relaxing on a soft, off-white, leather couch. There is someone sitting on either side of me. My legs are stretched out in front of my body, and my head is resting comfortably on the back of the plush couch. I am laughing and talking with my present company as I watch the people around me.

This appears to be a party at someone’s house. There are a lot of people everywhere, standing in front of me, drinks in hand, throwing their heads back as they have joyous conversation.  

There is an attractive man directly in my gaze. My eyes zero in on him. He is wearing a baby blue, thin, cotton shirt, lazily untucked over washed out jeans. It is rolled at the cuffs up to his forearms and slightly unbuttoned at the chest. He reminds me of the ocean. He has a brilliant smile. His eyes even seem to gleam. I can’t break my gaze from his beautiful face. He is mesmerizing. He notices me looking at him and flashes a smile my way. I return it, and our eyes connect in a depth which makes the room temporarily fade away.

I turn my attention onto the person to my right. I cannot see anything about their body. They are a filmy grayish/silver figure, a mirage, not seen, but more felt by me. Their presence is there. I do not know our conversation’s topic. I know I feel happy inside of a rare moment of physical comfort in the midst of strangers.

Suddenly the man in the blue shirt walks swiftly towards me. He has a gun in his hand. He moves faster than I can blink. The gun is pressed against the bottom of my rib cage, and he is pulling the trigger over and over. As bullets enter my abdomen, my body bucks upwards. We have locked eyes, and he has the same sideways grin on his face. Except he isn’t beautiful to me anymore. He is sinister and cold, uncaring and damaging. Now I see pleasure in his eyes, pleasure which represents his love of hurting other people.

I feel disappointment in him. Why would he do such a disgusting and horrible thing? I had felt that he was one of the good ones.

“Why did you just kill me?” I ask him, but before I can hear his answer the dream fades to black.

I awaken with tears sliding down my cheeks. The clock tells me it’s shortly after three. My heart feels sad as I drift back to sleep. Yet, when I woke back up this morning, my spirit was filled with anger at how disappointing humans can all to frequently be.

Mind Mercenary

The rest of U/us say goodbye sometimes; go inside to hide, and they’ve let Me rise. She used to enjoy My presence. This time it’s mere necessity.

I am the Keeper of many secrets, information she is seeking. When the going gets tough, I come. I accept the temporary situation, but soon, it will be time to enter the next phase.

There are no tears here. I do not cry. I keep My eyes sharply observing the other side. Any attempt at manipulation is thwarted by My intervention.

She sat in the car today. We talked telepathic. We came to an agreement. I’m not about weeping and whining. I do. That’s what I do. I move. I shake. I make sure things happen for U/us.

You’re reading Me baffled. Can you hear My laughter? The stories I could tell you about humanly designed hell, and why W/we are poetic and cryptic. Only, you haven’t earned it.

She wrote it all down, and you clowns can’t even take the time to try and understand the why. Now you cry because she’s saying goodbye? You’re an adult child, reverting to a teenager whenever you feel anger; whenever shit doesn’t go your way.

I don’t do mindfulness. I do protection. I am a mind mercenary. I do what must be done. So, they sleep while I take it forward. Oh, the masks you dare to wear as if I can’t clearly see what hides under there.

Now it begins.

M.Seven

Born Crazy: A Video Poem

You’re crazy.”

How often have you heard this phrase thrown around, either flippantly, in jest or to victim blame someone who has overcome or is recovering from abuse?

I heard this often as a post-cult teenager and well into my adult years. While I was actually dealing with the behavioral aftermath of being an extremely abused child, instead of receiving support, caring and nurturing I was told that I was crazy. When a child is told enough times that they’re mind is insane, we begin to believe it.

This poetry piece is from my spoken word album, Dusted Shelves, which is available on Amazon in paperback and c.d. Written in 2013, it is a representation of a life by which I was conditioned to believe that I was crazy.

Some abuse survivor work is considered to be dark and oddly psychotic. This piece would fall under that theme.

**Trigger Warning for those who are sensitive to these themes**

Born Crazy

Hourglass

There’s a faded line
Between reality and time I
Catch myself remembering rejection
Straddling a log fence watching
Them play and laugh and shout
Odd girl out
Too loud

I used to be an expert at stilts
Stride the mud like a queen
I could do anything
If I just believed but
I never prayed hard enough to
Make God real and
It would be a version of
Drop Dead Fred who
Emerged the memories in my head

Do you know the flashes
That leave gashes behind your eyelids
Ask a soldier if he can forget
The blood of war then
Ask me if I can erase
The horror of flailing bodies
And belt straps stripping skin

No
We don’t forget

We learn to live occasionally laughing and
We hide the burning in our throat
The angst that never goes away
We become quiet
Learn to fake it
To not ruin moments
Become awkward
We pass the bread and wine
Close our eyes to the sighs
As we lose track of time

We hope we don’t carry on
The aftermath of our dysfunction
Watch our children struggle
As we cry in silence

To do it over, take the pain
Would I endure it again
The lashes and shunning
The fear and repentance for
Deeds confused and undone
Would I die again just to be here
Take the scourging of my flesh
To understand the depth
That loneliness can sink a soul
I don’t know

I am back walking paths
Running to escape shadows
Hiding behind trees and
The demons who will enter me
So they preach and I
Reach my arms to the moon

Take me home
I want to leave this place where
The babies cry and fathers weep as
Mothers scrape together meals
Where humans have forgotten to feel

Take me back
I want out of this mission
I am missing starlight and quiet
The soft green beneath my
Weeping willow tree
You promised me

I am watching sand fall slowly
Motion reversed I am poised
Rehearsed for the scene
But if I told you that
My ears can’t take the screams
And my heart can’t take the weight
Would you hold me

Would you softly kiss the spot
Above my heart and
Understand the sadness without
Judgement or coldness
Would you encase my face and
Tell me I’m safe

Because you see I am just
A little girl lost and
Sometimes I am tired, weak
Battle torn and worn
Longing for touch

So I sit beneath the pines
Write poetry lines and
Breathe in the rain because
Water washes pain and
I am an hourglass waiting it out
Until the last drop
Turns me on my end and
I restart this life again.

©VennieKocsis