Clean You

You.

You will not come to my dreams and torment me,make me hate me,take me sexually.

Give me remorse in the color of lusting after you, while the groan you carry on your lips is as deep as a valley.

Non-penetrable by genuine caring.

Genuine art.

You.

You will not come to my dreams in the form of the ultimate love, the one I cannot win.

Craving me.

Delving into me.

Taking me.

Then leaving me.

Not leaving me in the sheets for that would be welcomed but leaving me in understanding .

Understanding the lust.

Understanding the artist.

Understanding the creative process and the yearning for more.

You will not come to me in my fucking dreams and then wake me to the idea of not good enough.

Your ass crippled from the life you chose to take place of your genuine questioning.

Glittered in the saliva of your childrens conquests while the chair you sit in folds in from the weight.

The blue that sparkles in the eyes of you will not take the bad taste you have left in my mouth out.

You.

You serve no purpose but to watch the show go on and detest the actors risking their sanity to bring you reality.

Normal.

Normal you will stay.

Untouched you will meet your grave.

Gentle.

Gentle existence.

Gentle exiting.

Harsh reality…

of all you didn’t try in order to cleanly survive.

Yellow

Third person, fourth person, none person…

Change inevitable.

Like the clouds changing from dog to tornado and ripping away the child from your arms.

Speak  freely of the liquor you ingested to tell you the truth of  all things out side of yourself.

I looked at you today and you looked ill for a man of 40.

Eyes yellow. Burnt yellow like the stains on  your finger tips from endless tobacco burn.

I wondered if you knew, that we know, you are an alcoholic.

I know you fear the inevitable grave or closet.

But I am here to free  you.

Step out into this air  I call, you.

I call it  you because all air is you.

All air is all things.

So simply complicated at the moment that you must drink to take it in.

If you are wanting to die, and you will, eventually, but if you are wanting to die from alcoholism then you are on your way.

You are allowed to choose to die this way.I will support you in all you choose.

I support you in all you have no control over.

I support  you even though you remind me of my father. Do you stick your dick in everything too? . . .I care not.

I judge not.

I only live to witness and to comfort the soul inside the ailed body.

I am  here for you.

I am here for  your yellow eyes and your nicotine stained hands and lips.

I am here for you while you sit in the basement alone  hating everything about yourself, wishing something would change, knowing it is you but wishing it weren’t.

I sit with  you and I let  you put your head on my shoulder. shhhhh, breathe. shhhhh, take your drink. or . . . don’t.

Either way I am here .

Only the eyes.

Only the story.

Only the poem.

Only the forgotten daughter.

Nothing more.

Nothing less. . . Just witness.

Mud

Let us not loose our minds.

Let us know we are the stars children, created to dance in the colors we choose to flail about.

Let us not let our eyes roll back in ecstasy only alone in the room of closet.

Let us release and love the outburst that is us.

Let it be more colorful than beige.

Bland.

All color taken out.

Let it sear the skin and make all things seem inevitable.

Let the pleasure dry the mouth and moisten the hips.

Allowing the swerve of the curve of your lip to rest on the knee.

Tickle the insides of me.

Let us not loose our minds in the desert of doubt the plantation more raped than pleasured.

Let us breathe in the sweet smell of delicate encounters chipped by desire.

Let us not reflect like glass yet soak up like earth.

Allowing the moisture to turn us to mud.

Feet swollen with ache in fun.

Ache in romance.

Ache in acting.

Ache in painting.

Ache in laughter.

No ache in heart. Leave ache of heart in the land of bland.

Give in.

Give stand and. . . well. . . dance. 

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.

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.

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. . .