Poem: Simple Does It

​

I’m a simple creature,

I’ll never need material things, 

When I state my simplest of wants, I mean what I mean when I say it’s the physical things,

It’s the smile across the room after a joke has been cracked, 

It’s the teasing comeback and the snort of humor that came after,

It’s the raised eyebrows in question when you tap your nose in reply,

It’s speaking the same language but never having to explain why, 

It’s feeling your body physically relax in the presence of a safe soul,

It’s realizing you’ve been so tense after witnessing their peace, 

It’s enjoying the silence or laughing up at the moon,

It’s conversations that flow one upon another until it’s late and time stands still,

It’s the ease, the laughter, the understanding,

.

So at the end of the day, you didn’t just misunderstand me,

You just forgot how too.

I wasn’t hard to love or unwilling to try; you gave up your chances by forgetting it was me who stood by your side,

I told you I’d leave if you ever disrespected me,

And when you did it,

It killed me.

.

I’m not hard to love,

You just became hard to hold when everything began to break. 

Poetry: Blissful Reticence

Writing Prompt: Do not put out your fire because someone else doesn't understand your flame.

Song: Demons by Jacob Lee

Where others have faltered, you did not,

You reached past the scars and through the dark,

Your nimble fingers navigate without pause along my very existence,

No hesitation in your touch, not a delay in your stride,

You stroked the bits of me I tend to hide,

My darkness you accepted along with your own,

You traced my scars and made me feel seen,

You placed a healing balm on the cuts in between,

With words so soft and acceptance so calm,

You made my pain-weary soul hum to your voice as if it were a sacred Psalm.

WP: Head In The Clouds

 Writing Prompt: Write a scene in which a character's last words are: I find peace in the rain.

From the POV of Madi from my work in progress: Looks Like That.

Song: Head In The Clouds by Hyde

 

Trusting my gut is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

 I've read every article, asked every one of my questions, and researched the topic until I'm no closer to trusting myself than I have come to truly trust in human nature. Trusting others is more manageable even though there's more probability they'll break me. I'll blindly throw my trust out like a life preserver for others to grab and drown in my sorrow before I trust myself. 

 It's a vicious process I wish I could understand, but I've failed thus far to shake the ground beneath my weary feet.

Sure, I can blame the abuse, blame the change in the tides, the weather, or the simple act of human nature doing what it was hard-wired to do. To survive. I could also blame survival, lay blame at the feet of my mother, or throw blame into the wind and hope it sticks to something. Yet now, in all the realities I've lived in my head, I'm afraid all the blame is on me. On me holding on to this archaic belief system I was raised on, if you could call my upbringing being raised. 

 I guess I don't trust myself or my gut instincts because, many times, they have steered me wrong or right. Still, the simple fact is, is that I didn't rightly know if I was feeling an actual feeling or if I was stuck somewhere else, in the past, holding onto the last shred of hope. Was I experiencing a pang of the present, or was it the gut punch of the past? Was I entirely in my present, or did my nervous system slip back into the cold winters from years ago? Was I clutching my red string of fate, or was it the blood-red snow in my shaking hand?

 I couldn't be sure, I could never be sure, even as I sat in the rain, staring at the bobbing of umbrellas in the distance at the park entrance. Reality was what reality was, but the reality in which I found myself sitting was rather dull and damp and convoluted with outdated thoughts, thoughts I was sure I had healed long ago. This is why I didn't trust my gut because it made me run. It made me run, made me numb, and made everything on my body drag me down because I failed to feel the rain saturating me straight through to my soul until I was heavy. 

 I blame my blind panic, then, if I could blame anything at all for the shitty reality, I find myself in. Even with the jumbled mess of emotions rioting inside my veins or with the heaviness I find myself draped across a park bench, soaked head to toe, I find a sad peace in being weighed down. Like a balloon tethered to society, my head in the clouds, I find a mellow kind of peace in the violence of the rain as it washes my tears away. With no one around to fake the happiness I don't feel, I can be free to express the emotional wreck inside of me versus holding it just under the surface of false hope and faulty gut instincts. 

 A shiver creeps up my spine as I straighten up, looking side to side before I roll my head back and close my eyes, letting the rain wash over all of the pain I had held onto. Why I ran, I had no idea, but inside, it had made sense; as my sure-footed feet slapped at the pavement, it all had been clear, but now? Running made no sense. Slipping out unnoticed did nothing but make my heart heavy; creeping across the hall on tiptoes and ducking in between rain gear passersby like a ghost made me weak with grief. Was I to be stuck in this constant battle of past and present? Was this to be my future? Sitting in the summer rain, head tilted to the sky as grief and years of pent-up sadness mixed and mingled with raindrops? Was I destined to feel this sad time and time again?

 If my gut instinct was right, we'd be here for a little while longer.

 

 I guess, then, it's lucky for me that I find peace in the rain.

WP: Every Side Of You

 Writing Prompt:  Describe the iris of a loved one when sunlight hits it.

Written from the POV of Madi from my work in progress: Looks Like Us.

 Song: Every Side Of You- Vance Joy

I see it.

 It’s as if every bit of that look is amplified threefold inside my body, like a zing flowing straight through my bloodstream to my heart, my toes, and every single thought I’ve had of you. 

 I see what you mean to say, like it’s the morning dew forming a sentence on your lips. No words need to be spoken because it’s there in your amber eyes, as quiet as a whisper but as loud as thunder in my soul. The whiskey depths of your eyes have me losing my grip on the reality I had clung to in hopes of not being pushed out into your seas.

 But that’s the thing. 

 I see it; clearly, me losing my hold and being perfectly all right with drowning in that effervescent amber haze. Lost in the crinkle of your cheeks, the warmth in your gaze, and the hold in which I lose myself before ever having touched you, confuses me in ways I could never have fathomed. I would let loose my grip on reality in order to get lost in my thoughts of you if that meant I could be with you.

 Each time our gazes lock, I can’t tear myself away; I want more, need more. The thought of drowning is more pleasant than living in the mundane. In your eyes, I see something I’ve never witnessed in this life, a warm and gentle cradle of promise I’ve felt once, twice before. It’s like we’ve traveled across time and space and ended up here in this place, two souls floundering for the same foot purchase and connecting at the right time. You were the dream I dreamt, and never did I think it would be you in the great divine we find ourselves in; it’s funny that we met where we did. As inconvenient as it was, I realized it was the right time for our souls to clash, for my memories to slide into place, and for my earthly body to find home in your arms. In your eyes, I see the swirl of a life before this; in my soul, I feel the love we had and that we will have, even if it has its ups and downs. Fate stepped in that day, and since then, I haven’t been able to dig myself out of the amber depths I willingly sacrifice myself to. If your eyes were wild, I’d lose myself forever down the path it led me down. I’d submit myself to the pain of brambles, the sharpness of the rocks under my palms, and the fears of the unknown if it meant being with you until my last breath. 

 In the light of day, it’s worse for me because your eyes radiate this multifaceted gem of hope; like Tigers Eye, it has me entranced in the depth of your soul, clearly visible from your gaze as you look straight into my broken soul. Like a balm, your gaze soothes the burns, the cuts, and the hurt from the past and gives me a taste of the healing elixir of hope. In your eyes, I’ve found a faith I’d long ago lost trust in, but in you, I see a peace I forgot about. In your sparkling whiskey depths, I find a soothing place to rest my world-weary soul without a worry of more harm to be done; in you, I see a breath of fresh air I’d been desperately gasping for.

 In your sunlit eyes and the silent ‘O’ of your lips, I see the promise of what could be, and I hold on to that tether of security, of hope, that lovely whiskey ray of sunshine because, without that little bit of red string, I wouldn’t know where I would be.

 I’d be lost at these relentlessly weathered seas, no hold to be had or preserver to her held. So if all I ever get in this lifetime is that look in your eye, I’d count myself blessed because knowing you is well worth not having held you.

The Movement of Words

​

Sometimes you need space, the absence of sounds and voice, and a forced calm to see things come full picture: no distractions, no people, nothing.

I find it hard to speak out or feel feelings authentically because they sneak up on me from out of nowhere sometimes, and I’m left wondering why they were there. I’ll feel this pressure in my chest, a turning in my gut, and this overwhelming sense of dread that knocks the wind from me. I FEEL but lack the words to express what causes these attacks of pure sadness to cloud over me.

Today I realized I love the written word in any way I can get my hands on it, wrap my soul around it, and devour it. 

It’s why I love music, read books, and scroll through endless quotes with pretty, dark pictures; they speak louder than I know how to. They speak for me because I learned to be quiet. I repost or save up quotes because they speak volumes when I lack the ability to grasp at words. They sing to me the hurt I’ve felt inside for years so I can cry and let the pain out.

When I read, I’ll sit for hours in this world, swimming around in my head while I cry, laugh, and go through a field of emotions, running my fingers through the flowers of written dreams. 

I get lost in music; I find relevance in lyrics, hope in quotes, home between the pages of books, and religion in how the violin moves me to tears.  

I often wondered what was wrong with me because I didn't feel or express myself, or behave, the way others did, but I think that's the part that makes me, me.

I'm a human that finds peace in devouring the written word. I discover myself written in pages long ago. I learn about myself and others and send them where they need to go. Like I'm a librarian of human emotions that have been bleeding forth onto paper for the last millennia, just searching the cosmos for someone else to understand. 

I'm not meant to be normal, and I love that about myself. 

Two Halves of a Whole

 Two parts of me fight it out emotionally and logically. It's a never-ending ping-pong match that no one wins because we need to understand the rules of polite society, but we were never taught. We've gone feral and stuck in survival mode for a small hellish eternity. 

What this means is that: 

There's half of me that works endlessly, tirelessly to try and fit into a normal, functioning society. I twist my life into some version of what is deemed normal or normal enough. Normal adjacent?

I can keep up the act for only so long before the tides roll in and take me with them. Pills won't work because it's not a simple diagnosis of Bipolar or Severe Depression. Childhood trauma caused the C-PTSD, and I don't believe in taking medication to cover up my emotions. I wasted years hiding my every emotion, hurt, and tear shed; why cover it with a rug now when I'm making such great strides for my mental health?

I'm healing, just not in the way others want me to. 

The old me would say that's okay, but it's not. I know I'm putting in the work; no one is me and knows me better than me. I've spent years in my head, alone, don't think for one minute I don't see how it looks from the outside.

I know. It's not good. 

Then there's the other half of me that's bitter because I'm trying to fix something, lots of things, a never-ending barrage of things, and have been working nonstop for over twenty years on something I didn't break.

But it never seems like enough, like I'm not fixing myself fast enough or putting enough time or effort into healing my broken parts and pieces. I had been asked if I could improve myself more by people I care about, and I say I'm trying. Still, the truth is that I've been trying for so long to mend myself that I don't know if anybody can genuinely fix me any more than I already am.

And I feel like I've failed these people.

Especially when you are told to look into medication when I already had, I've opened that conversation with all medical professionals, and I get told the same thing.

I'll tell you now, if you're reading this, medication for someone like me is a cop-out. Authentic healing is when you force yourself to feel your bullshit without hiding behind the feel-good effects of drugs, alcohol, and medication.

I don't want to continue numbing myself to be more digestible in society. I don't want to be numb and not feel things; I want to cry when I'm sad; I want to feel my pain because at least I know I can feel it. 

And after being numb in situations that cause me great emotional harm and pause, I don't want to be back there. 

I'm not okay, but I'm working on myself, and I'll be there one day. But I'm not going to numb myself anymore in order to be liked or be bearable.

I'm a mess, and I've never told anyone anything but the truth about who I am. I'm still learning the depths of the hurt, but I see the light. 

Because there's this tiny sliver of something inside of me that yearns for peace, to forget the past, and just go mindlessly into the present and move forward.

Not backward.

Because when we are blinded by the past, by pain, and wander through life in a depression haze, we don't see right away, when we run until we are too far gone to make the walk back. 

Sometimes it's easier to just, I guess, let everyone else think you're crazy instead of explaining yourself because… you've been told so many times that no one understands you, and you kind of give up trying to be heard.

If you don't understand what it's like to live through severe domestic violence where hitting and drinking, and yelling are involved and wondering if this is the night someone goes to the hospital, physical/mental/emotional abuse on yourself and others in the household, and substance abuse that doesn't stop at alcohol for twenty plus years of your life. Then I won't be able to accurately explain to you why certain things physically take my breath away and throw me into unspeakable amounts of mental anguish before being taken on a weeks/months-long emotional hell ride, just to be told: "I don't understand why this is so bad."

You wouldn't.

But medication isn't going to erase my memories, erase the feelings I remember vividly, feeling as if I either hid somewhere or stood up to be a target. The nightmares won't just disappear, and my brain won't rewire to be somewhat normal. 

I've been telling everyone for years; I'm not normal.

I'll never be normal.

But I'm a work in progress. 

One day I hope to be okay-er; I type that as I roll my eyes because I'm exhausted from typing this. And the use of 'one day' is the lie I keep telling myself, which is a blog for another day.

But, yeah.

One day…

One Day...

​One day…

One day is the lie I’ve been telling myself since the beginning of time. One day is my lifeline, life preserver, the beginning and end of my inner dialogue, and will probably be the last two words on my last will or my tombstone.

One. Day.

One day I’ll escape this house, my younger self will away the day, daydreaming for hours, and no one will ever hurt me again. 

That one day never came because the hurt is within’, forever following, attached like a cancer.

It stops you from having an ordinary life because you’re bound to make patterns. Your one days don’t matter in its scheme, only sucking dry your hopes and dreams. 

One day I will move, and my parents will be happy; I’d pray every night we can be a typical family then.

That one day never came because unchecked mental health swooped in like a predator and claimed each soul that entered those doors. Normal was a social construct you weren't meant to taste. It was there to tease but, my dear, never to please. 

One day I’ll fall in love, and I’ll be finally happy; I’d wish on every star as I stared up at the sky, tears in my eyes.

“I wish… for happiness.” I’d whisper. I still prayed, but they were left unheard, unread, words spoken and never read. The abuse was worse. The yelling lasted longer and came on more frequently and so much harder. Dear God, I’d plead, where did you go? 

But no one would answer, and no phone calls were returned. It’s like these issues were expected because no one would look twice, no ears to our door, or a glance at my face.

One day, I’ll be normal; I’d look in the mirror around my red-rimmed eyes and tear-tracked cheeks. It will be okay; you will see, it’s character building, that’s right, that’s precisely what it will be. Until our character is guarded and our words forever misconstrued, when we hid inside of our head and clung alone to basic human curiosity.

One day, I sit in my car, thumbs plucking up tears as they fall, you’ll see. We will stop running, I whisper in the night. We won’t have to run because one day, we will be healed enough not to have to worry about being misunderstood. You’ll see, I promise.

We will be okay one day.

One day…

One day we will be okay.

Fragility -poem-

​I am, in the infinite world of every possibility, completely broken. Like an egg that fell to the floor or a window after a baseball.

I’ve been shattered, accidentally or on purpose, but broken nonetheless by people I let inside. 

It started when I was young and continued until I was a vase pieced back together over time. This stained glass effect on my soul shows light through the cracks where darkness still hides. 

I grasp at each crack, hoping for a shard of light to penetrate. My fingers itch for warmth, the tiniest bit will do.

Until the warmth touches my sallow skin, do I shrink away.

How can I want something so bad, but fall away from its touch? 

It’s like I want until I can’t fathom, then once in reach, I get scared and push back into my cool shadow.

Safety in darkness, but in want of the light.

It teases the wisps of the dark at my edges, but the light never intrudes.

It’s like I crave the softness, but curl up instead of the crude. 

In comfort I find in jagged corners where monsters are want to hide.

Because if I cross the dark and into the light, I fear I’ll see where other demons hide. 

Better Days -poem-

I think it’s the way you used to hold me,

Versus how you do now,

That grants me a more significant pause,

It’s like you cannot remember how to be gentle,

When you reach for me,

Because,

Your fingertips bruise, and my lips turn down,

Instead of lighting a fire, you stoke stone-cold embers,

There’s a phantom of you and me,

Lingering passionately in the in-between, 

As we roll to our respective sides,

Both of us living in dreams of finer times.