Category: recovery

Secret Keepers

They always take the back roads,
virginal snow-covered lanes
lined with trees: pastoral views

Unmarked routes, out of sight,
use the innocence of landscape
to blot out their dark intentions

Pristine picture perfect scenes
lull the unsuspecting; breath-
taking vistas; secret keepers

The roads still exist in my dreams
the trees like soldiers, stiff and stark
stripped of their magical allure, now

guard the memories, painted red
with the loss of purity; I had not
guessed the danger of woods

Child mind incapable of conceiving
what wolves roamed in nature
the blood of their victims crimson

stains forever etched in silhouette
the shrillness of their screams
now silent echoes in the night.

(Image:  www.flickr.com)

Purge-a-story

undigested chunks
of memory spew from
depths of unconscious

regurgitated masses
of bloodied solids
mingled with mush

too repulsed to touch
unable to fathom
what force-fed garbage

initiated mind vomit;
churning emotions
physical revulsion

dreams of childhood
mutilated, ravaged
innocence, fragmented

images soaked in blood,
cry for acknowledgment
cannot stop convulsions

maggots exploding
in my brain, sucking
my soul, threatening

darkness, I am falling
backwards, consumed,
frail state of control

lapsing in this cesspool
of filth, remembering
unimaginable abuses.

(Image: http://derekjones.deviantart.com/art/troubled-soul-437229975)

Call It Wisdom

Get back to work! Bravado punches,
but my pick up is shelved – would love
to wheel out of here and take flight –
and interview skills are ungrounded,
fear I will let fly unfiltered gibberish.

Go for it! Boisterousness cajoles –
but boldness is dangerous, and pushy
only puts up walls; shifting gears might
be an option, but the road ahead’s a steep
decline, and I have to carefully find footing.

You have to try! Good-heartedness offers,
but the path and I are both handicapped,
movement needs support, and my focus
is failing – am more tortoise than hare –
regressing into this pedestrian existence.

You can’t just give up! Impatience scowls,
but not only is the party of energetics with
its social antics out of my reach – nuances
included – but to be honest, I am no longer
interested in being a part. Call it wisdom.

(Image: http://www.astrolog.org)

Regression

Fear drives me backwards, spinning
childhood tales, plunging into frigid
waters of isolation, desolation; falling

into the unknown; a mission to heal
the ruptures, out of season, past and
present colliding, frozen in time –

I am in need of extraction, need to
believe in flight of eagles – innocence’s
idol – need to initiate possibility; find

a match to melt icy deception – so
much betrayal – my sun is going down;
I stand at the water’s edge, ready to

launch; innocence and ignorance
co-conspirators of my youth; am
fighting an immature battle, out of

sync, hesitant, prefer avoidance to
combativeness, played one too many
addict’s game, felt the brunt of relapse

am powerless, emotionally responsible,
bear the burden of care, unable to release
control, swallowed by childhood’s chasm.

(Image from: www.egilpaulsen.com)

Self Portrait in Colours

Found an old diary – days
when I prayed to the angels,
painted myself white, believed
in a God that cared about personal
forever after – painted myself pathetic.

Took me back to days of heartbreak,
when I pined after a man, noncommittal,
painted myself pink – an altruistic heart
yearning after unrequitable love, willing
to sacrifice, change – painted myself foolish.

Read between the lines about a woman
so desperately co-dependent she’d risk it all,
painted herself yellow, projected sunshine,
believed in fairy tale endings, threw away
dignity, sanity – painted herself delusional.

Wondered how she’d ever survived, knew
that life intervened in the end, saved her –
painted her broken; but somehow she found
strength, moved on, made better choices,
learned to love herself, painted herself indigo.

Let Me Out Of Here!

Weighed down by complications –
you see, the amount of baggage
I carry surpasses my storage
capacity; and despite attempts
to simplify, paranoia tends to
my bathroom routines, and
no amount of persuasion can
appease her suspicions; and
the majority of my contents
have been accumulated by
my father’s business, and not
really mine to unload, although
I try, his tyranny still haunts me;
and well, anything new that I
start has to be protected from
the familial bouts of insanity;
and that is why I just want to
pack my bags and get out of
here, and be a mother to my
children; but it’s complicated.

Need A Road To Follow

Heading somewhere,
chauffeur unreliable –
treacherously absent
direction – any road

would be better than
these curb-hopping,
tendencies, head-on
into snowy banks –

Common sense –
usually a stabilizer –
is off duty, lacking
appropriate attire,

his willowy, tree-like
composure relaxed;
nonchalantly shrugs
off the current drama.

It’s not that I don’t
have dreams – have
birthed projects –
lack the stature to

move beyond the
laneway, ambition –
reduced by concern –
imagining catastrophe

death by recklessness,
or worse, attacked by
loyalty – vicious end
to a goal-less journey.

What Scars Remain?

Should I escape these shackles,
manage to re-surface, swim
despite this weakened condition
against the currents of disability,
find myself once again on the
solid grounds of civilization;
will I be embraced with cheers
of victory, or slotted into some
back room, reserved for the fallen,
spoken to in hushed tones,
forever handled at arms length,
an object to be feared?

And if I manage to fight these
bonds that for so long have
threatened to annihilate,
will I have the bravery to face
the calling that once defined me,
shake off the cobwebs of
disorientation, defy the
certainty of unpreparedness,
draw from the well of past
experiences and rise to
a new battle, proving the
validity of my return?

Or, with freedom, do I look
to opportunity, clear the slate
of former ambitions, rewrite
the pages of my destiny,
embrace an attitude of
rebirth, decide to relinquish
the sword, cut my losses
and redefine a new, gentler
way of being in the world,
less dependent on a system
which undoubtedly propelled
this descent in the first place?
th-1
(quoteko.com)

Compulsive Clotheshound

I would befriend hesitation,
take her shopping with me,
invest the time, but impulse
is my constant companion.

Hesitation, born of shared
trauma, labours over pain-
filled decisions; my need is
palpable, throbbing, must

suffocate it beneath layers
of numbing fabric, weight;
afraid to show myself, afraid
that she will find me, block

any progress, or worse, make
me pay for these layers of
stolen moments; encounter
crazy reflected in her eyes.

(Photo from getleashedmag.com)

Casting Call

Anticipation that life will one day recommence –
as if a curtain will open and there I’ll be, sitting
in the audience, hungrily waiting for the play –
has drawn me from my solitude, encouraged.

Have a friendly enough disposition, once graced
the boards myself – a lifetime ago now – confident
in my ability to engage, find kindred conversation,
may even make a friend or two, unless I disappear

again, slip back into the silence, abandon others
without a trace, grow restless, search for meaning
among the sheepish drones –a preponderance of
perpetual inactivity begetting obesity, choosing

comfort over confrontation – the curtain is drawn
the drama unfolding and we idol sitters, we fickle
non-committers watch agape, dumbfounded by
the acts, defy our better instincts, remain inert,

prefer to go back to sleep, but the dogged truths
of inhumanity are playing out on life’s stage, and
we are called to brush off the lull of anxious
politeness and dare to rise to anger, find passion

claim a role and be cast into the action, no time
for auditions, the script is unfolding, the ending
assured, unless we are willing to awaken, prod
the masses, and re-envision a less tragic ending.

(Image from camstage.com)