Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would

Talk

to

You

   More.

Look alike

The face of why.

The grip of a good bye to an idea that was . . . you.

Who you thought you were is no longer and what you are becoming is . . . painful.

But necessary.

A given even.

Take in the addictions you have craved since birth.

Let out the ones that no longer serve your purpose.

The poison can be caring and it also can lust. Creating dust in the mask of self kindness.

Give nothing to a mind that is driven by snow and madness.

 Give everything to the sky that birthed you and will survive long after the skeletons.

Dance in the purple fungus of time and relate to all things even the sadness.

Even the death.

All is all. All is all. All is all and so are you.

All is taken from the example of a mad man.

You wonder if the moon will still hang after these tears are shed.

The smile returns with medicine encrusted in promises the land never intended to make forbidden.

Raped are the medicine men.

Their children’s dreams driven out by desire of more.

The herb takes form of smoke and lets the thoughts trickle back out and they are free again.

Free to take on this look alike. This crazed ego that was given to them by sand.

Breathe in mother Earth, breathe out your idea of mortal.

 Take with you the idea that nothing is how it should be and all is as it seems.

The boogie man is real and he was not nurtured by the earth but will ravage it and all who try to dance upon it.

The fog lifts and you see again.

There you are.

In there.

In the deep grey of doubt but I see you still.

Come about the way it leaves. Inhale earth medicine received.

Depression can leave. 

More ways than one.

I am ill today.

In more ways than one.

Heavy insides ready to burst forth with my blood sacrifice for this month. The pains are thick, so is the emotion.

Also,

my brain works differently than some and I know this.

I have always known this.

I have been told by doctors all through out my life that the polar oposites of me can make life and love unbearable. Pills forced down my throat at a young tender age.

Forced down by wishful thinking of cures.

Cures for my brain.

The way it thinks.

The way it feels.

The way it acts out. . .

but I feel. . .

I feel like my brain is wonderful and lush with swirls of creation and thought I love to delve into. The only problems I see with my brain are the labels and pills that were beaten into me that now I swim through to find my genuine thought.

The last few days have been heavy with emotion and reflection. So today I rest and let the pains and tears lull me to sleep because…I am ill today… In more ways than one.

Instead . . .

This day has brought her many thoughts of many times she was many different people.

I wonder why she has chosen to settle into this one? And why as I say settle I feel the rebellious nature of her rise and deny having ‘become’ anything accept a great woman.

A tried and true ‘Liver’.

I take it in, all of it, in my own way. My way that is nothing real at the moment accept to just be.

Come to me in this sunlight you allow to exist with the vast amounts of you, you bring.

She will grapple with the idea of leaving a tremendous ache behind. In the grieving I will find myself.

Find my love of life again.

Looking for the pleasure in the glasses of ale has found you nothing but a thick depression. The pleasure of her is gone.

Yet she finds comfort in that. I find comfort in the tiredness they have settled into.

The grand love of living life. The life, which no matter how poetically you put it, is tormented with harsh realizations of our eternal connected loneliness.

 I was not supposed to be happy.

I was not supposed to become a writer, a musician, a great mother.

I was supposed to become nothing.

Instead . . .

I grow and I see others growing.

Always.

I know nothing of this God guy and I know nothing of the lack there of.

Backward is forward.

She sees magic.

I see growth born out of art, born out of creativity.

I see destruction born out of the same creative womb.

I have no answers.

I have no solutions.

I have moments.

I have stories.

I have emotions and colors to fling as I work through the dark, bright tinge of what life brings to me.

As I think, I change my reality.

Taking on different words of me.

Different outlooks for this time on this earth. I am free, always to change my reality of me.

I care not what you think of me. I have no control over your reality.

Even when I think I do, you can only see me how you see you.

I know how I see me in all things therefore any hate is me hating what I see. What I am. What I fear. What I give energy to.

Now she gives energy to travel.

 I need and ask for travel.

 Big and little travel.

 Pictures and different thicknesses of oxygen.

 “Give me stars and tears!” she cries.

No one will be able to take in how I will heal. I now know I am the warrior

I seek.

She will come and she will glide around and she will worry and I will take in the stars, alone.

 In depth I will take them in, alone . . . alone is good. . . alone is preferred. . . alone is a given. . .

 As I go back to the land I was born on, the land I was raped on, the land many have cried and died on .

The summer brings the West and I alone will grieve and heal .

 Give us growth.

love…

whylove

whynotlove

whygivelove

whytakelove

why’dyousaylove?

whenlove

whatlove

deeplove

leavelove…

wordslove

timinglove

angerlove

timinglove…

sayitandnothingatthesametimelove

sayitagainlove

whatlove?

Inhale…heal thy self.

The wounds were many, but nothing she couldn’t bare.

She knew others that had it worse.

Much worse.

She used to read old news paper articles on abuse cases.

One story she remembers particularly well.

A young boy 3 or 4 was put in a closet night after night. Arms tied in a shirt and hung in the closet by a hanger.

All day.

All night.

When the parents needed to get a little more aggression out they would pull out his teeth and finger nails.

The whipping child soon met a horrible, painful end. As you can only run from  imagining.

And although she cried, a part of her felt relieved.

Relieved to know others had it worse than her. It made her feel as if she could somehow continue on.

As if someone else’s torture lubricated her cracked existence.

She acted out due to her abuses. Same as any other marked child. Acting out to figure out. . .

Older now.

Her attention span fails her as she gets older.

She tends to ‘forget’ to let herself ravage the old memories.

So tonight she smokes more herb… and forgets to forget to let herself get anything out.

Inhale. . . Shhhhh…Let it out.

Exhale. . . Shhhhhh…get it out.

Heal thy self.

Paternal

Stop staring at yourself.

Stop it.

Right now.

Who said you were good enough to like yourself so damn much?

Who?! Tell me!

I’ll tell you what, they’re wrong. Dead wrong. You are nothing but a piece of shit.

You think you’ll be something someday don’t you?

With that stupid song and that stupid smile.

You stupid little bitch.

You will never be anything, anything at all but a worthless slut. A fucking looser. . .

Now. . . Pull up your pants. . . and if you tell your mother I will kill you.

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. . .

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.