Lizzzzzzzzzzbeth

Her name?

Lizbeth.

But when she drinks and flirts she pronounces it, Lizzzzzbeth , extra pouty red lips and breath on the TH.

Cigarette in her left hand gin and tonic in the right.

Two revolvers tattooed on her chest…

 

The tattoos over her heart won’t keep it from breaking.

Nor will they lock it in when she tosses it out to yet another unworthy soul. She hungers for intense intimacy.

The kind she writes about… lips pressed, toes tingling, hearts bursting. Breakfast in bed not for a day or two but forEVER.

Someone that will look into her sobbing eyes, puffy and snuggled by the slick dripping mascara and eyeliner, and tell her she is not crazy.

Hold her close and whisper, “you are greatness even in falling . . . ”

The problem?

She needs the whispers to never end.

They can’t be there one day and gone the next.

To brutal.

She can’t bare the toss about.

But who could bare such a burden of carrying her to self worth when she burned up all her energy on the nurturing of others that she forgot, yet. . . again. . . to save any worth for herself.

So she keeps tossing out that heart.

Hoping for Super human.

Hoping he’ll come in the form of eternal smiles and forgivable flaws.

So, no one like her.

No one with tattoos to keep their heart in.

No one with eyes puffy day in and day out from the need to feel.

No one with yellow fingers tips from smoking and aching guts from drinking.

No, no one like her.

No one like Lizzzzzbeth. . .

Growth Stirs Crazy

Deep blue and green.

Pond of crimson grasped between a thumb and memory. . .

The breeze came and went along brightly and I was relieved to stare at the golden red in your hair.

Mental weariness clinging to the corners of the cob webs. Our journey undefined.

Magical

as

smoke. . .

nets appear below out stretched feet.

Understanding smiles and continuous growth stirs crazy.

But with you I rest easy.

Dear universe let this U turn pass. Let this heaven be grasped.

Continuous, momentous growth is the point of this journey.

Walking through the tossing of the past, I clench your hand and ask for another day.

Looking for Patterns in Lola.

Looking for patterns of questioning.

Again. . . She ponders patterns.

Is she unhappy in love because she can’t escape her unstable childhood?

When she looks in the mirror in the morning and see’s her mothers face, is that nature or a warning?

Is it her drinking that makes her so angry or is it her anger that makes her drink?

Does she really enjoy kindness to others or is it the only way she feels she can find the energy to muster up self kindness?

Lola has wrung through these questions of her patterns for years. Really for as long as she can remember. She was raised in the generation of self help.

Book stores filled to the brim with ‘Do it yourself’ ‘ self help guides. “Reclaim your soul.” ,”Leave that tormented love.”, “Stop overeating and regain your self confidence! “. All teaching that YOU  have the power to be a better you.  And Lola has read them all. Each one filled her with a sense of hope and accomplishment to change her insides into the happy outsides of others she saw.

Weeks after she finishes the books, she finds herself stuck. . .combing through the thoughts.

Combing through her actions of each and every day.

Did she use the day to it’s fullest?

Did she pay attention to the true Lola?

Who the hell is the true Lola? She’s been so busy changing Lola she has no idea which her is the real her or the her she should be getting rid of!

The self help books showed no way accept to magnify all that she was and over analyze every little thing about herself and her day.

Speaking of over analyzing, she’s been meaning to work on that as well.

Shit! She just can’t stop. Add it to the long list of things to do. . . Analyze why you analyze so damn much!

Generations of people accepting who they are for the chance to change. Be the better YOU.

Today, just for today. Lola sits and relaxes her stomach. Puts down the book. Picks up her pen. She doesn’t know what she’ll write about but you can bet your sweet ass it won’t be about self help.

she uses she

She uses everything. She hates and hurts and loves and weeps all at the same time.

She dresses in black and morns the loss of her true love. . . Herself.

Once in a room painted purple she plummets into the bleak beige world of self delusion. All things hurting stem from her, for her. Even unleashing on others. She gripes at the scorn and tears at the heart of home. Nothing sacred and no pleasure does she find in such mental tattering.

Simply raised this way. Not born this way. Raised this way.

Today she woke with her hair in knots and her stomach playing catch up with her running brain. Coughing she stumbled upon a sleeping child. . . the child was her. . . twitching about in her sleep she was not. So, mistaken, it could not be her.

For she, as a child, was not friends with the sand man. Nor any man. All they wanted from her was the redemption of their orgasm in her tight twat and budding tits.

Another story for another day the point being. . . this child sleeping was not her. It was the children about her whom she cared for that were sleeping. Peaceful and dreaming.

Waking annoyed with the every day twitches of all living things due to their comforts. She, relating to everything and yet finding no one to relate to her. She, nurtures the others.

Her nurturing comes with a bite though. A hurt so deep it will strike if you are tearing at any part of who she is. Or what she is trying to create. She will rear up and smack the taste out of your mouth. Disrespect she takes none of and yet she can spit it out in an instant. No one comparing to her as she yells, no one comparing to you. Selfishly calling you selfish. But she wants health. She aches for it in fact, it is the very reason she acts out. Her perfectionism of balance makes her unstable. And yet her awareness makes her the most stable person on this planet.

Today she uses everyone and everything to figure out what is the reality of the realities? Let it linger on her own thoughts, she knows what you would think. You have spewed same as she has flung it back with her own venom added. This is about her. She . She using she to relate to we.

Now. . . breathe.

ggrroo00OOWING

My father. Strict and blocked. He is an artist. he will not admit it even to this day.

So many different memories come up when I think of my father. His sternness. His anger.His drinking and pilling. His cheating and tearing up the family over and over again.

I wonder often if he is the reason I have a hard time believing in the ‘family unit’. That term seems false to me. Restrictive. Keeping people from claiming themselves, for the better of the unit. Shells. Shells are what they become and I fear I may be one as well.

My father loves to ponder and draw. But thinks it silly to allow such gifts for himself. I did not grasp this when I was younger. I thought he was mean and powerful. I thought he hated me. Wished for the life when I did not tie him down.

I pulled this picture out the other day. I am beginning to look back at where I came from. Admit to my adult self what I have lived through and how to see all I have changed. Not just for myself but for future generations. My daughter finds it completely acceptable to call yourself an artist. A word that would have brought about immense laughter in my house growing up. Not because they didnt really think we were but because it would have meant they could call themselves such things.

Today I am reminded of the amazing possibility for the soul to change. I have changed and I can accept my family unit and invest great deals of creativity and emotion into this dream as well. . . I was not taught to be happy so this will be hard but I am ready. . . I accept I am still ggrrRoo00OOWING.