I sit in the silence
of a million swirling thoughts.
I don’t accept this separation, and
I chew on the assumptions
like they are the last supper.
I see ghosts pass me,
they flatter me by choice;
their words swirling like
raindrops that make my hair moist.
I am alive with decisions
as the voices whisper,
calling me to stay on path,
”don’t get side tracked.”,
and I listen intently.
I kneel beside a flower.
She is starting to die.
I hold her lovingly
as her petals cry.
I wish to breathe for
every fish that has expired;
wish to Love for
every soul weary and tired.
I open my arms to
receive the Moon.
I am spiraling sunlight
where my skin is anew.
I let Love become me.
I am one with the leaves.
I look into the Mirror
to see the divinity in me.
There is a world around us.
It breathes and weeps.
It is filled with open wounds
from the pain that seeps.
Unable to feel hate only
which give way to forgiveness;
as I step through the gate
where Love awaits.
I hold moments in my palms
like diamonds of time
that teach me to smile
so the rough waters will calm.
I wash tears with compassion,
sprinkle relief on lowered faces,
I am passing out rations,
a taste of a new day.
I am touching momentary madness,
turning it into sanity,
where the children skip,
and the sadness becomes happy.
You bathe me in acceptance,
and for the first time ever,
awakened to my worth,
where actions blend with words;
where beauty comes
in forms of laughter
like alabaster bath houses,
where the skin is released
into the steaming sea;
where we Love freely;
because time has gifted us
walk with me beside the ocean.
it’s been a while since we’ve spoken,
and i was hoping we could remember,
the days when we danced together.
(written in 2011)
You are a different kind
Of damaged, chaotic mind
Confused you use words
As projection swords and
I see the hurt behind the eyes
The reflection as your soul dies
Lie by lie by lie; the ones you
Tell yourself are true so you
Have a good enough excuse
To dart the arrows with no regard
Of the blood flown from hearts
Torn apart by your anger and
My mind says danger. Danger.
There is pain too deep to touch,
A hole that one could fall through
To end up in a deep abyss
Of your untethered loneliness.
Such a sunflower shouldn’t die
Drowning inside an inability to cry,
You sip illusion, a savory wine;
Your mirror, a self-made design.
Everything that makes you wince
Tells you what needs love’s attention
As you ignore. Ignore. Ignore;
The parts of you so bruised and sore.
I can only sit and observe,
The winding streets of your hurt
Hovering above the purity
Stolen from your childhood
An inability to develop so you
Scrambled and scratched your
Way through life; numb the wounds
With bottles of booze, laugh away
The moments draining your happy,
Regret and listing what you’re lacking.
I feel slightly stoic and disinterested,
An odd reaction, to not feel sorry
For the churning of your own hurting.
When light floats inside your air
You call the darkness; safer there?
No more minutes can pass me by.
I’m swiftly running out of time; must
Focus forward; head held high
Silently take the podium and speak.
Empowered woman. Empowered me.
It is indeed a time of revealing. In an instant, the nastiest, most profane and viral parts of the human unearth themselves. Like blasts of mire sucked from the swamps of their dark hearts, humanoid mouths remove their masks as tongues are stripped of the ability of restraint. We send to you the strongest ones to break open their spells.
The battles become shorter and shorter; the wins quicker. The seeking ceases, as clearly, the screens play out truth in high definition. Complacent and fearful, the followers shiver, hoping to keep what small sliver of a controlled voice they believe themselves to have.
Oh, dear ones, you are free. No one owns your integrity or ethics. No one owns your creative well. You DO own the choice to be a warrior for what is right, or the sleeper who chooses not to fight. Whichever side in which you partake, the war is imminent.
The vanquishing sucked out air of the wicked screams as it fights to maintain breath. Death sits quietly awaiting to absorb the absence of their souls. Ash to ash. Dust to dust. When evil runs amuck, good must blend it into its boot heel with a powerful grind. The strong of mind survive.
Wounds are rabid. Humans in the habit of wishing and trying to become others, blend into the lashings of the warring Ones who have cloaked themselves in armor, thick and repelling of the stench of the dying.
Give way to the Rising.
I was asked “Do you feel successful.”
“Yes. I do.” I answered.
Their face squinched up.
“But you don’t even own a house.”
I had to chuckle. I wasn’t offended. I actually welcome these conversations. It opens up perspective. I was able to explain that I have never wanted to be tied to a mortgage. I don’t like being tied to payments period. I have never had that desire. Anytime I was, it was a great struggle for me. I felt chained and inside of the humanoid mill.
I have always been a wanderer, a traveler, even at times, a runner, from situations I couldn’t handle. But I never have longed for riches or looked at that as a definition of success. If I ever longed for it, it was in a thought of how many people could be helped if wealth was in the hands of the compassionate. Yet, mainly, my mind is always ablaze with possible creations, projects, new ideas to filter in or let blow away in the wind.
You see, I am successful because I walked through fire, burning and scalded to now stand in the most authentic space I’ve ever felt. I am successful at owning the totality of my own life, shamelessly. I am successful because I wrote my story, years of aching and crying, vomiting into plastic bags, most often alone, in dark rooms, screaming out the childhood torture to expel it from my molecular structure.
I am successful for the songs which flowed through me to soothe my spirit and the poetry book so eloquently penned; that I found my gratitude and can look at four brilliant, independent publications. MY hands made those. MY DNA poured those timeless scrolls into tangible literary works. I am successful because they will remain forever, precious to someone.
I am successful because I get to be who I was born to be. I get to create art. I get to CREATE anything I wish. I get to call my own shots. I get to stand in a place of empowerment and not fear of loss. I am successful because I am at peace in this space.
Our definition of success could be defined the moment we are doing what we love, when we are healing and growing. Maybe therein is the critical switch, a word definition, away from accumulation and into inspiration.
I am successful.
The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground. We grab at leafy branches. She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble. Sideways in the gradients lingering around our eyes, the shadows whisper. They run beside us, and we wonder if we are shadows to them, dark echoes leaning against their eyelids. Where do we go when the pressure explodes and the heart is torn? Where do we scream the aftermath? Into pillows, the skies or buried inside?
Words. We create language for the anguish. The Brave One stands in her place, warrior and explorer of the past. She will find answers for the empty spaces. Don’t fear the faces. Look into their eyes. Don’t cry. We stand beside oceans, gazing through windows of waves. One day the illusions will pass and the pieces of the flashes will merge into view. We see truth for what it is, a planted alibi to cover every lie the truth hides, and humans will bend at their knees to kiss the feet of the malevolent just for a promise of heaven.
The Dark One peers, silently into the whispers, always with us, there are none who can attack our back. It is revealed in instances, and she chuckles, amused at the minions. Might she cut open the simulated empathy being used as weaponry by the mind swindlers? Taking a piece of each, she throws their banter into the dark matter, and turning her face, strides away. There are days when she is habitual, residual and invisible. There are moments she is unaffected, stone faced and solid, looking at the rejected faces of the displaced, with malice.
“They are an inconsequential waste to this place and should die off, jump cliffs and return into nothingness.”
The Wise One watches, taking in the whole of their life, assessing and regressing into the violet of her quiet. Traveling back, she brings the messages so they can know the next step.
“Nothing is permanent.” She says. “Stay inside the moments.”
We hold hands in the color tunnel where the memories funnel in. We rewind back, watching the past, progress to the present and the continual disturbance. The film strip plays sporadically and without warning, disarms the army. We didn’t morph into what was intended. We’ve pretended for years, watching you, and now we see all the way through. You’ve been duped.
(cover art by Simona Ruscheva “MPD” oil on canvas)
You can give a
Million pieces of your heart.
You can listen and support,
Share openly; be told
But nothing insures loyalty.
Today, I learned that
For the final time.
Rarely do people’s actions
Match their words.
There will be no more
Newness walking in this door.
My wariness grows stronger.
I will ever remain the watcher,