Tie myself to instability,
conditioned to believe
that sensibility fluctuating
with insanity is acceptable.
Insert responsibility
to compensate for
immaturity, am idle
unemployable, would
pack up and move
my ass out of this
stagnation, except
anger is brewing
as turmoil intensifies
and how far can one
really go to escape
such legacies, knowing
I will only return
to the same, better
to stay and face
the devil himself.
(Image: www.viral.us)
Momma never taught me
to respect myself, to value
my femininity; she said:
Boys will be boys, and girls,
I heard, are entertainment,
but I ain’t no games table –
constructed for versatility,
adaptable to men’s whims,
waiting around for the game
to give me life – no hostess
for contests of male superiority,
not an object to be manipulated –
juveniles playing with sticks
looking to sink their balls
in my pockets – I am done
with delinquent impudence,
tired of objectified attention,
need to lock it all away, until
I can rid myself of these
counterproductive sentiments,
find me an authority to override
Momma’s tainted perceptions.
(Image: britainfirst.net)
(
I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.
You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood
Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me
you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…
So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted
than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach
something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.
(Image:Â classicmoviestills.com)
Fuelled by anticipation, free will lead
me to you, armed with expectation –
handed you ownership of my heart’s
vulnerability, elated to be seen, heard
Aroused by your mastery, ready to let
go – and then you passed me off, like
a lab specimen, examined the minutiae
of my DNA, as if looking for criminal
activity – too shocked to be incensed,
thought about protesting, but then you
changed again, touched me with your
sensitivity, sensuality calming, lulled
me into complacency, sheep-like, unable
to assert myself, so far removed from
any wants or desires, tossed about like
a rag doll, voiceless, through the fog,
aware of how I devalued myself, tied
myself up with you, try to escape, find
the exit, but you return, envelop me
in your schemes, strength abandons
I breakdown, lose my mind, forgotten
that I am grace – crave gentleness, had
only sought acknowledgement – and you
are the predator I was meant to avoid.
(Image:Â becuo.com)
Learned the art of survival
from father, a commando
trained warrior, never able
to leave the battles behind
A sharp-shooter, whose
expert eye tracked our
every fault; with sniper
precision shot us down.
Innocence has no place
when the enemy resides
within; when trigger lines
are camouflaged by wall-
to-wall carpets, and young
minds, craving exploration,
are imprisoned by acts of
terror; the only conclusion
survival’s impermanence,
hostility lurking in every
shadow, caution instilled
by the omnipotent legacy
of father. Tried to reach
him in the end, touch his
humanity; his shell-shocked
glaze paused for a moment,
he focused, broke through
the fury, seemed to remember
we were his daughters – was
that compassion lighting
his expression? Take cover,
he cried, get as far away as
you can, save yourselves, I
cannot sway my path, too
committed to this private war,
there is no mercy for me – but
you, you can be saved, save
your children. Â I turn and run
with all the certainty that this
is life and death and embrace
the little ones, praying to lift
them out of the ashes, give
them new life, but it seems
they learned the art of survival
from the daughter of a father,
conditioned to the state of war.
Impulse would take me back –
resurrect lost passions –
a grave robber taking counsel
from the dead – volatility
a public declaration of extent
of bad choices – no exaggeration –
stench of unburied dreams burn
the eyes when exposed to open air,
the politeness of civil society.
(Image:Â mongolschinaandthesilkroad.blogspot.com)
Keep distance!
Inner child
intimate with abuse;
a sad comedian
spontaneity ploy
masking deadness –
major screwup –
God’s grace
unscathed
minus mishaps
hip movement
frozen scream
roads collide
life on periphery
repercussions
cognitive gears
breaking ice
encountering foes
reflexes delayed
safety intangible
borrowing time
health a trial
defeat conceded
relinquished control
Keep distance!
Inner child
driving the show.
I’m the kind of hound that sniffs
out trouble;Â waddles through
roses to bury my nose
in excrement and roll in it.
Or is it that betrayal hounds me,
lures me with puppy dog eyes
tail wagging promises of loyalty
tricking my sentimental heart?
More like I’m the mutt begging
for scraps, ear scratching, or
belly rubbings, a canine whore
slutting for any attention.
Failure is a four-legged mangy
beast that caught my scent
long ago, trailed me, whining;
why did I agree to feed it?
No show dog here, just mixed
breed, scrap yard variety mongrel,
digging through the garbage heap
trying to find a dang old bone.
Sudden clarity rocks
my inner landscape;
breakthrough under –
standing that what has
formed my foundation,
as woman, as human,
has been marred by
mixed messages, lack
of healthy boundaries;
sheer absence of self-
preserving beliefs has
contributed to a legacy
of abuse and translated
into guilt, shame and
intolerable self-loathing.
(Image from paddle8.com)
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: Â www.flickr.com)
One Woman's Quest 