The Price of Quiet Rest (in progress)
My pain comes out of hiding at night,
at least the kind that resides in my bones.
It might be that I sleep,
fetally folded,
in on myself,
tucked in,
but not held anymore.
Will I ever be held again?
An old goddess might shelter me if I let her.
Her mantra will replace,
the train of my thinking,
whose locomotion,
awakens me in the darkness,
instead of dictating my dreams.
My pain comes out of hiding at night,
at least the kind that resides in my bones.
It might be that I sleep,
fetally folded,
in on myself,
tucked in,
but not held anymore.
Will I ever be held again?
An old goddess might shelter me if I let her.
Her mantra will replace,
the train of my thinking,
whose locomotion,
awakens me in the darkness,
instead of dictating my dreams.
Ego Ruse (in progress)
Sometimes I want to be obliterated.
I want to be compressed and cemented into the stratum.
I'm so tired of the view,
from this set of eyes.
I'm so tired of the view,
I project onto this world.
I'm so tired of this nervous system,
that over-extends its dendrites,
tendrilling out and drawing in,
more than is mine,
more than I can handle.
I want to be free of the cycle,
of desire and disappointment,
that is created by my ego's need,
for some kind of definition.
Just tell me my margins.
Just give me a name.
The wanting never ends
and it makes everything harder.
All of the doings that need to get done.
The stacking and putting away.
The purchasing and discarding.
The purchasing of every thing.
Everything that could possibly be purchased.
Except for,
what I need to know about myself.
I've been rummaging through my ruminations.
I gouge out trenches,
and hollow out tiny tunnels,
so that the the view is internal now.
I am lost inside of my self,
with only the dull brilliance from my lamp;
since the anticipated glow at the end,
does not light my way.
The way out
is to not search,
but this answer was found,
by my seeking.
The game,
is of sliding back and forth,
between being awake and asleep,
and being able to tell the difference.
How do I let go of the view,
and instead,
view the viewer viewing the view,
whose purpose is to view the view.
Sometimes I want to be obliterated.
I want to be compressed and cemented into the stratum.
I'm so tired of the view,
from this set of eyes.
I'm so tired of the view,
I project onto this world.
I'm so tired of this nervous system,
that over-extends its dendrites,
tendrilling out and drawing in,
more than is mine,
more than I can handle.
I want to be free of the cycle,
of desire and disappointment,
that is created by my ego's need,
for some kind of definition.
Just tell me my margins.
Just give me a name.
The wanting never ends
and it makes everything harder.
All of the doings that need to get done.
The stacking and putting away.
The purchasing and discarding.
The purchasing of every thing.
Everything that could possibly be purchased.
Except for,
what I need to know about myself.
I've been rummaging through my ruminations.
I gouge out trenches,
and hollow out tiny tunnels,
so that the the view is internal now.
I am lost inside of my self,
with only the dull brilliance from my lamp;
since the anticipated glow at the end,
does not light my way.
The way out
is to not search,
but this answer was found,
by my seeking.
The game,
is of sliding back and forth,
between being awake and asleep,
and being able to tell the difference.
How do I let go of the view,
and instead,
view the viewer viewing the view,
whose purpose is to view the view.
Pit of Me (in progress)
What purple hard grief,
sits swallowed and undigested,
lying still,
waiting for birth,
in the womb,
of my mother's grave.
What purple hard grief,
sits swallowed and undigested,
lying still,
waiting for birth,
in the womb,
of my mother's grave.
Mother-wound (in progress)
They did not warn me,
when I was as full as the moon,
that the hardest part would be shielding my children,
from the quakes and the fire,
of my panic.
I am the ground they walk on,
the bed they sleep in,
so I must be even and steady and warm.
But it has been hard to keep my milk sweet,
when the possibility of poison,
swims in my blood stream.
There are sharp pieces of me that jut out,
so I must bend and contort,
to be consistently the consistency of softness.
I must not get it right,
the way that I was wronged.
I need to scream,
but the children will hear me.
I need to wail,
for a long,
long time,
but the dogs will start to panic.
I need to claw at my own skin.
I need to see the pain extruded from me.
But then everyone will see my cracks,
and know that I am broken.
I am getting closer, to outliving my source.
The phantom that I can't remember,
but that I extrapolate,
must have abandoned me;
more than just,
that
one
last
time.
Her last gulps of air,
might as well have stolen my very breath.
I need this breath for my scream now;
but her ears are dust now.
She can not hear me now.
She can not come to me now.
She can not repair any of my broken-ness.
It is up to me,
my poems,
and my paintings.
To find for myself and my children,
what she could not give herself,
and what she could not give to me.
They did not warn me,
when I was as full as the moon,
that the hardest part would be shielding my children,
from the quakes and the fire,
of my panic.
I am the ground they walk on,
the bed they sleep in,
so I must be even and steady and warm.
But it has been hard to keep my milk sweet,
when the possibility of poison,
swims in my blood stream.
There are sharp pieces of me that jut out,
so I must bend and contort,
to be consistently the consistency of softness.
I must not get it right,
the way that I was wronged.
I need to scream,
but the children will hear me.
I need to wail,
for a long,
long time,
but the dogs will start to panic.
I need to claw at my own skin.
I need to see the pain extruded from me.
But then everyone will see my cracks,
and know that I am broken.
I am getting closer, to outliving my source.
The phantom that I can't remember,
but that I extrapolate,
must have abandoned me;
more than just,
that
one
last
time.
Her last gulps of air,
might as well have stolen my very breath.
I need this breath for my scream now;
but her ears are dust now.
She can not hear me now.
She can not come to me now.
She can not repair any of my broken-ness.
It is up to me,
my poems,
and my paintings.
To find for myself and my children,
what she could not give herself,
and what she could not give to me.
Pain Portrait (in progress)
There is an emptiness inside of me.
It was born within me,
before I was born.
It is carved into each cell
and I feel it all of the time.
I try to fill it,
because its need stretches and reaches
out from the pit of me,
up into my throat.
It propels me forward
through the illusion of time.
I search the pained eyes of my people
and offer something,
but I take something too,
in the hopes that the ache,
will be settled for a moment.
Light, airy things will not suffice.
The emptiness requires something
dark and heavy,
that can press it down.
This hole,
that is always asking,
takes me to the places that beauty resides.
It forces me to perceive and consume
copious amounts of beauty,
that hide in the barks of trees
and songs that dance in my skin.
I am blessed by this longing.
It makes me literate
to the pain of my people.
It helps me birth,
and make
what needs to be made.
There is an emptiness inside of me.
It was born within me,
before I was born.
It is carved into each cell
and I feel it all of the time.
I try to fill it,
because its need stretches and reaches
out from the pit of me,
up into my throat.
It propels me forward
through the illusion of time.
I search the pained eyes of my people
and offer something,
but I take something too,
in the hopes that the ache,
will be settled for a moment.
Light, airy things will not suffice.
The emptiness requires something
dark and heavy,
that can press it down.
This hole,
that is always asking,
takes me to the places that beauty resides.
It forces me to perceive and consume
copious amounts of beauty,
that hide in the barks of trees
and songs that dance in my skin.
I am blessed by this longing.
It makes me literate
to the pain of my people.
It helps me birth,
and make
what needs to be made.
SHE
I did not claim it;
It...
was and is still
un-
claimable.
The desire that hid from me,
but would peak out from corners of my life,
shy and unnamable.
For a while,
what I wanted more,
was to be wanted.
That's where I thought
love resided,
that's where I thought,
some power might be,
bestowed to me.
Just like in all of the stories,
told to me.
So, my life has been built,
on the bricks of only one part of me,
but these bricks are stacked,
on the cemetaried version of me,
fertilized by the ashes,
of who I had to burn away,
So that I wouldn't burn my life down.
Sometimes, I'm fine.
Other times, I ask:
Why can't I do this?
What of the parts of me that don't get to be?
Will they be scattered in my garden?
dissolved back into my blood?
What will grow there?
Fruit and flowers?
or cancer?
I'm at the edge
and I don't know where to go.
There's no one to tell me what to do.
I'm just sort of waiting,
for life to unfold
and show me who I get to be.
I did not claim it;
It...
was and is still
un-
claimable.
The desire that hid from me,
but would peak out from corners of my life,
shy and unnamable.
For a while,
what I wanted more,
was to be wanted.
That's where I thought
love resided,
that's where I thought,
some power might be,
bestowed to me.
Just like in all of the stories,
told to me.
So, my life has been built,
on the bricks of only one part of me,
but these bricks are stacked,
on the cemetaried version of me,
fertilized by the ashes,
of who I had to burn away,
So that I wouldn't burn my life down.
Sometimes, I'm fine.
Other times, I ask:
Why can't I do this?
What of the parts of me that don't get to be?
Will they be scattered in my garden?
dissolved back into my blood?
What will grow there?
Fruit and flowers?
or cancer?
I'm at the edge
and I don't know where to go.
There's no one to tell me what to do.
I'm just sort of waiting,
for life to unfold
and show me who I get to be.
Creature (in progress)
I am a new creature now.
I don't know how,
or when,
it happened.
Perhaps it was a slow and invisible metamorphosis,
because there are times
when I have felt quite cocooned.
Like, the very soup of me is shifting.
It's composition is now so unfamiliar,
that I must reacquaint myself,
with myself.
The elements in me have lost their balance.
The earth in me is quaking.
The water in me is surging.
The air is me is thick and stagnant.
The fire in me has been smoldering for too long.
I am a nesting doll who has run out of dolls.
I think back to her,
who I used to be.
I have her memories.
As I recall, she was happier than me.
I have the authenticity now.
But she had the pleasure of pleasing
and I have lost that.
I've lost track of my layers.
Some that would get built up.
Some that would be peeled away.
They got lost in all of this time that is just,
slipping by me.
So here I am,
dismantling all of these structures,
that I can now see,
all of these structures,
that do not serve me,
but have been governing,
what I want,
so that now I don't know,
what I want.
I am a new creature now.
I don't know how,
or when,
it happened.
Perhaps it was a slow and invisible metamorphosis,
because there are times
when I have felt quite cocooned.
Like, the very soup of me is shifting.
It's composition is now so unfamiliar,
that I must reacquaint myself,
with myself.
The elements in me have lost their balance.
The earth in me is quaking.
The water in me is surging.
The air is me is thick and stagnant.
The fire in me has been smoldering for too long.
I am a nesting doll who has run out of dolls.
I think back to her,
who I used to be.
I have her memories.
As I recall, she was happier than me.
I have the authenticity now.
But she had the pleasure of pleasing
and I have lost that.
I've lost track of my layers.
Some that would get built up.
Some that would be peeled away.
They got lost in all of this time that is just,
slipping by me.
So here I am,
dismantling all of these structures,
that I can now see,
all of these structures,
that do not serve me,
but have been governing,
what I want,
so that now I don't know,
what I want.
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