Sunday, November 25, 2012

An Artists View on Heartbreak

"I'm sorry...Nothing can hold me...Do you really want me? I adore you still. But I hear them calling...calling...and nothing can hold me..." Evanescence "Swimming Home"

I've been so lost beneath the surface
of my own skin, waiting, waiting, waiting
to hear you call to me once more,
Pull me past the watery reflection of my eyes
that seem, to most, to go on for miles inside
my head,
Nothing can hold me here anymore, though,
I've finally let myself grab onto the truth -
nothing more than a simple pair of rusted pliers,
used to pull out the shards of your lies from
my heart,
The one that used to beat for you, and you alone..
But I heard my name from somewhere
far beyond and darling, it was not your voice,
the one that used to be melodic to me,
used to lull me into the most wonderful sleep
while lost in your arms, surrounded by
your soothing body heat,
But I finally learned to sleep alone
and in the cold, and darling, that's alright,
Because if I cannot learn to love myself, you said,
I would never love anything else,
You were right,
I am finding that you were right on
plenty of issues that no one else
even saw,
I wonder, though, what you saw in me...
there...there at the very last...
Did you see my desperation?
Did you peel the masque from
my face one night as I slept, soundly
and safe, in your arms,
You know I adore you still,
But this voice, love, it keeps hollering
out my name, all hours of the day and night,
and it smells of places unseen and experiences that
I am letting slip through my grasp,
All because you decided to break our bond
of trust and shove the tiny shards deep into
my already broken heart,
& darling, removing them takes time,
but I'm finally making some progress,
& from the depth of my soul, where
I've spent so many months staring at the water's
surface far above - wishing someone would come
and find me,
A trapped mermaid in this rusted cage of your "love"
and let me out, I am beginning to pick the lock
Because Prince Charming cannot swim,
Cannot dive into the depths of one's humanity
and release them from a self-constructed cage,
especially while they sit within that cage and hold the key around
their bruised throat,
I changed down here, love,
I am not myself, or the self that you knew, or the self that I was
or the self that I hated,
I am evolving like Darwin's theory and am slowly adapting
my emotional genetics so that someday, someday
I can pull these keys from my throat, unlock my cage,
and swim out the door,
& I will rise, someday, to the surface,
& when I break through it, I will break through
everything that kept me bound by you,
I thought you were going to be my everything,
my only one, my soulmate, my eternity,
Had dreams of us sitting upon a lovely porch
swing in our golden years, drinking tea and
talking of our life together, you & I,
But some dreams are not meant to be
and there is nothing we can do to change that,
So we lock ourselves away inside,
trapped, only mentally, by the hauntings in our mind,
the terror and trauma of abandonment,
the loss of a dream that we desperately pursued,
and we wait, beneath our skin...waiting...
Until one day we realize that we held
the clay from that dream in our hands the
entire time,
and only we can set fire to it, purify it
like gold, and reconstruct another
dream, until it's finally able to stand the
test of fire, able to be painted, glossed,
turned into something beautiful,
Because that's what artists do - we
take our broken pieces and assemble them
into something already good, and make it
We are the life-givers to a million
dreams, hopes, plans, desires, passions,
and we never discard any piece of material,
because, just what if it is THE piece left to finish
our greatest work of all...
So darling, I don't dare discard your memory,
or hate it, despise it...
I just keep it in a box and hope that someday I will
find the canvas upon which to attach it - making
my greatest work: life...

Thursday, November 15, 2012

The Little Girl Inside

She lives behind the epidermis
of my skin, covered with red
gashes and bone-white scars,

She sits and taunts and
haunts me, as she always has
and always will,

She waits until darkness
falls and I have sunken deep
into the coma-like death of
cold sleep,

My heartbeat erased to almost nothing...

Once she sees my vulnerability
from the inside, her tiny, child
spindle-fingers lace through the
xylophone of my ribs, wrapping,
winding, clutching with all of her

& she cracks them apart...

I shriek and wake, jolted
upright in bed, cats mewling,
having been roused from slumber,
staring at my frame - arch-backed
as a smooth, crescent moon,

I cannot scream for the pain...

She punches her fist
past my sternum, & I
hear it clink on the floor
somewhere in the room,
landing between the crinkled
backing of Marya Hornbacher
and Christ, himself,

& she sinks her little
fingernails into my skin
from the inside out, digging
her way out of my soul like a
pale-faced, empty-eyed corpse
from my flesh-grave,

& she does know that I will soon perish...

She possesses the strings that hold
me and contain me - her plaything, a
marionette - she swings me to my
cupboards where the thousands of
rainbow colored pills lay in wait
for my immediate consumption,

Jerking my wrists this way
and that, my Puppet Master,
she has me take everything in sight,
and then off to the dresser drawers
we return, where she keeps my
razorblades "just in case"...

& she turns my strings just right
and I slit my wrists "just so"...and
she smiles with her black, hollow
little eyes that gleam a bubbling,
foaming hatred for him, for me
and everything else that ever was
or will be...

& we sit together and have
a tea party, while the pills and
blood loss become my fatal

& we are playing Alice in Wonderland and
I am Alice, she is the Mad Hatter, and
I have eaten the cake and drank the bottle
of poison, but I am neither large nor small,
for I am dead now...

& she pours my corpse another cup of magic tea...

Monday, November 12, 2012

To Love a Poetess

If you ever love a poetess, prepare yourself,
For poetesses are creatures of great feeling,
Great, deep, all consuming feeling
and once you are encompassed within
those feelings,
You can never be erased from within her,
She will write you love letters, sonnets,
lullaby's, haiku's and maybe even a book,
She will wrap her mind, body, heart and
soul around your entire being and cocoon
you in her adoration and love,
You will be nestled there for eternity - or
as long as you choose,
Should you love a poetess,
She will display her affections towards you
in a myriad of ways,
Some will surprise you,
Some will shock you,
Some might even be a tad embarrassing,
But the poetess has long since
learned that the only way to leave
a mark on the world, is to
scar it with one's presence,
Should you choose to love a poet,
she will place herself behind you,
never before you,
She will turn you into her muse,
Her opus,
Her art,
You will be the focal point of the entirety of
her blissful existence,
Should you decide that her affections
are no longer required, her love no
longer needed, her presence no longer
Prepare yourself to become
her Grand Epic,
She will have lost everything with you,
She will believe that everything that she ever
wanted, needed, craved - is waltzing
right out the door of her Universe right
along with you and the stubborn 'clickclick'
of your heels,
And once you have slammed the door
in your triumphant, egotistical finality,
She may just put on her finest furs, jewelry,
manuscripts on the table, waltz to the garage with
all of her love letters to you, turn on the engine of her car
with a bottle of vodka and suck carbon monoxide
until she sleeps and dreams of you forever...
For if you love the poetess, you will become
her heart, and should you rip yourself
from the body of her world, she surely
will die,
without you...

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Cutting Addiction

I am a slave to the blade,
A slave to my pain, punishment
and purgatory,
I slip a needle in my skin to try
and silence the demon that
causes my flesh to burn.
But I cant...
He screams at me still,
to slash open my legs, arms,
chest...I can't get him to stop
I plead in my voiceless way,
Plead for some help,
but they none of them see me,
None of them see me for what I am...

I don't need you to tell me that I am
"strong", "brave" "made so much progress"
or "i can't deal with your depression"
....I need you to tell me that one day, when
I fall off the wagon (as every addict does)
you will still love me and you won't change or
abandon me....

Because "I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking, maybe six feet ain't so far down" ...