My mother called me the devil child
Because I was loud, destructive and wild
I found out years later I was born with ADHD
No one wanted ever to spend time with me
Parents didn’t know of ADHD and why I was different
They didn’t understand and they were very intolerant
Parents told older sister I was bad and she didn’t have to be around or play with me
So much of the time alone was really no fun, however for some help I did make a plea
I heard my mother double dog dare my father to hit me
Mother would refer to me as a turd in front of the family
All my cousins were smart, while I was failing all my classes in school
Got in to many fights with bullies and teachers who were always cruel
My family would all make fun of me, call names bully and tease
I was the loser that anyone could do or say what they pleased
None of my cousins was I ever allowed to play
I was always much of the time was alone all day
I lived in a strange house my dad was very to the T religious
And my mother was always drunk and of course blameless
She’d drink when home from work on the weekends or holidays
And could always hide it from all her friends and the relatives
No one believed me when I told them that she had been drinking
They acted like I was crazy by then I knew what they were thinking
My mother took me out on Friday nights to eat and buy whatever I wanted, after work
Her last stop was always the liquor store for drink and smoke, I was left in car like a jerk
She bought games and toys that took two or more to play, but she nor did dad never have any intension
Of spending anytime with me because I was in there way. I was a bad child that needed intervention
Wasn’t the perfect child I admit; I ran off when I was 16 did things I regret parents put me
Away, they came for counseling I complained about moms drinking and she felt angry
She said that her drinking wasn’t my problem and she’d be back to see me when I could face the truth
Never could mother admit to her or dad doing wrong, everything was always because I was a youth
Came home from school one day mom was passed out on the living room floor dead drunk
Called ambulance for her Dr blamed me and said no visit, and he called me a punk
My dad would come home and find she was throwing up while passed out always in her bed
I’d watch him take bowls and put them near her mouth to catch it, was something I would dread
He’d walk to the bathroom to empty the bowl and go back to get the next one to do the very same
And replace the unfilled one and repeat the process. I was told by her doctor that I was the blame
Sometimes mom would go running down the hall to the toilet bowl to throw up my heart would race
Because I always knew mom would do this and then she’d come to my room to scare rant and pace
Since I was a bad spoiled child who had parents with money, nice house cars and good jobs
And I was not willing to help out or be responsible, was told I made the family look like slobs
My sister let her boyfriend talk her into letting him take me to the dentist, instead he molested me
But no one believed me because in the past I had lied about things, and the truth no one would see
Since I was different all the cousins, my aunts and uncle could blame me for when things went missing
Or went wrong I was then and still am now the perfect scapegoat and yes about it I’m still babbling
My father ran out the back door, when he heard me wake up and come out of my room
So he didn’t have to bother with me, I wanted to spend time with him he’d assume
Somehow I managed to graduate from high school and I then would move
To a different city I felt I might have better luck and my life would improve
Married two very bad guys both who beat, threatened me and verbally abused
Divorced them both and had one child and how I’d raise this child alone I was confused
Tried to work and go to school never was competent enough to follow through
Each time I would start either I did not have the ability of completing anything new
Am not proud of this but I had 30 jobs that I lost in 10 years and even tried going to college
Unable to remember how and when to do things, my head from years of abuse was in a fog
Filed for SSI and Social Security, got on section 8, food stamps WIC and other government aid
I needed a home for myself and my daughter so I had to depend on things like this to get paid
My daughter grew up, became ill with a repeating debilitating disease
I dedicated myself to getting her well, and nothing about it was a breeze
Had to take her in pain weekly for Doctor visits many times she’d cry and wished she were dead
This broke my heart with no family help, just her and I to face things in the days and years ahead
Unable to attend school for years, the Doctor signed permission to stay home
School system assigned a teacher who was mean nothing about her was tome
School Social workers interfered
And my name they smeared
She finally one day went into remission
And now the nephrotic kidney condition
Seems for now to have forever gone for good away
For years it’s been don’t want others to downplay
For a while I homeschooled her and the first semester back in the public school
She was on the honor roll things seemed to be looking up and I felt like I was the rule
Then one day she lost interest in classes, homework and attending
And the principal of the high school was calling and threatening
Pulled her out and put her in to get her GED
Soon she was out within month of three
A year before she was supposed to graduate
I knew by then that I was doing things right
Enrolled me and her in community college we made the Dean’s list and acquired no student loan debt
Last may she and I graduated have started a new life and now I don’t feel things in my life are a threat
But alone I’ve raised a good child, self-published a book and kept things together
I’ve published some poetry and stories in magazines that will be on web pages forever
Even though my parents have helped me out once in a while financially
I feel lack of respect since they helped family who treated me crummy
I’m still feeling and have most of the hopeless thoughts when I was young
But I still try to steer my daughter to be different from me and hold my tongue
Those cousins with the high degree
Don’t seem to have too much on me
Both lost their jobs within a year out of college from being snobs and dishonest
But the parents just think that it was because others were being so glibbest
Both stuck alone in life working in their old age
That just mostly pays a low minimum wage
My sister divorced her husband for molesting her children still won't speak to me, told her kids I was bad
She lives in my town and over 20 years she’s never visited so by her I've been for life had
Most of all I think it's because my parents never would face reality or admit
To any wrong doing of years of abuse and neglect, something I couldn't forget
Why am I talking about this after all these years still?
Because I think that it may just possibly help me to heal
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A great place to come gather your thoughts and write
Made so many friends quickly every day and night
Took me in like I was one of their own
This place makes me feel like I'm home
They are sincere and caring
And they don’t mind sharing
Hello Poetry accepted me for who I am
I don't have to prove myself this is my fam
And I’m glad that they all seem to like me
I feel like part of the Hello Poetry Family
In just a few short weeks, I’m glad to say
This is my home poetry place to stay
All Rights Reserved
Some say sleep is overrated.
I don’t. It’s a precious time
to dream about you,
a time for respite,
a time for me to be alone
with my racy-thoughts
Certainly, I can do
without the nightmares,
who needs them anyways?
They make sleeping a bitch.
But for the record Darling Lady,
the great dreams about you
makes my slumbering all worthwhile.
Waking up in a steamy-sweat,
emptied (but blazing hard)
with my sheets in a huge heap
makes me feel,
feel so alive again.
O Doll Baby,
do you feel me, do you dream about me,
do you feel alive being in my arms,
under the stars above?
O you Dream Girl,
I can’t wait to fall asleep tonight!
The only thing worse than being bored
Because there's a world of things I can do
There is a backyard for me
And a field behind it
And a perfectly good road to walk down.
I have a dog
And a pen and paper
And papers that someone scrawled on
So I can immerse myself in fictitious problems
And imagine mine don't exist
But I have the audacity to say I have some.
There is a universe to study
Languages to learn
Math to ignore (because I hate it)
Religions to think about
And a ceiling that is in desperate need of staring at
Because it's been a few days since I've done that
I'm being compelled to tap little squares
On a fancy opening book
With signals being sent and people waiting to read it.
Even though there's all these amazing things happening
People meeting people
Crying, laughing, hugging
Exploring, calculating, and doing what they love
I am sitting here
And I am typing
And that's just what I want to be doing.
This fear... I grew up with It,
It isn't a newcomer, I'm sure of it.
Have you ever encountered It?
Forced to play dress up & smile with It?
Take it by the hand & walk with It?
Making sure no one ever saw it was really It?
All in my head, there was It,
Giving me night terrors, happy was It.
Desperation & anxiety were the cousins of It,
They came in the package along with other Its.
People loved It, manipulative was It,
No one ever suspected, proud was It.
Put on your facade, It wants to play;
It is going to be with you, night & day,
You can't get rid of It, you have no say.
Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation, a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; a powerful sleeping pill
pulling the masses into slumber,
away from the obvious truth
that such supposed salvation
is a ticket far too easy to obtain,
a discriminatory damnation of souls
so blindingly righteous,
even the most vengeful, maniacal deity
would draw the line there.
So many people hand-out the easy tickets,
cut and light the tree --
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into mortar for temples designated as sacred,
but the elements are desecrated by swirling sewers,
by shears amputating roots from the sky.
Too many people preach, judicate, proclamate,
hold signs pointing towards a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path,
live the sacrifice because it feels right.
Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy,
we must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.
27 years, a branch in the road, 46664 etched into its bark.
The forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
"M will fix it, M will do this, M will do that,
M will save us, just wait and see."
But M is finally free, yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us,
always surviving as spirit-seeds.
We must no longer lean upon crutches,
instead purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our souls,
before the vision withers completely,
and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans
held in hands too weak to lift the weight....
held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.
December 7th/8th, 2013
A million words cannot describe
The way I looked at her
A thousand times I've tried to say
The kinds of feelings that occur.
And a hundred wishes I have said
Wishing I just said no
But other things she wished to chase,
"If you love her, let her go."
Walking lands I wish I knew
Seeing people may have changed
Was I really gone for that long?
She's made me feel estranged!
Learn to walk and live again
Like a toddler in the snow
Finding new and wondrous things
"If you love her, let her go."
I loved her, lost her
Found her again
She asked to leave, I should've said no
I'm thinking about it too much now
I loved her, but I let her go.
This is not my tradition,
The words I speak no longer mean,
The things I say,
I feel the fire of the engines,
The sudden force upward and downward all at once,
This feeling could tear a man apart,
The atmosphere lies before me one second,
Yet behind me another,
My body is on it's way to find my mind,
But something stronger stops it,
A brilliant light,
The universal heart pulls me towards,
As I find myself gravitating towards,
The heart takes over,
My mind echoes through space,
I hear the cries,
But it is to late,
I am a habitual insomniac by instinct,
I lose myself,
Lost a drift,
The poetic comatose has taken my life and soul,
To see not a second has passed,
To see the end,
To see the crash,
The final good-bye,
The doom of a habitual Insomniac
Everytime a blade enters my bloodstream,
I feel closer to you.
Not because of anything else, more than the fact that
You hurt me.
The cold blade, like your cold words, cuts into me;
Blood pouring out.
And in the same way as before, I bleed and ache;
I am hurt.
My blood, warm as my love was for you,
And you don't care.
I can only imagine our happiness now,
I can no longer feel it.
Same too with my image of you, it is going, fading
Behind my cloudy eyes.
Its okay though dear, because I am now weak,
I am cold like your heart.
And no matter what you said or will say,
You can't tear us apart.
Because I will always love you.
Sister Scholastica left the refectory after lunch; made her way to the grounds for the twice-daily recreation period. She had been one of the twelve nuns to be chosen to have their feet washed by the abbess later that day. Some were too old, some too young, she imagined, looking for a quiet spot to wander; take in the scenery; meditate on her day and the following days to come of Easter. A chaffinch flew near by; a blackbird alighted on the ground and then flew off again. She paused. Maundy Thursday. Her sister Margaret had died on a Thursday. She remembered the day her sister was found in her cot by her mother; heard the screams; the rushing of both about her; her father’s harsh words; both shouting; her being pushed aside; wondering what had happened; no one saying until the small coffin was taken out of the house for the funeral and off to the church which she was not allowed to attend. Mother was never the same afterwards. The days of lucidity grew less and less; madness crept over her like a dark spider spinning its web tightly. She sighed. Walked on through the grounds passed the stature of Our Lady green with moss and neglect. The sun warmed. Say your prayers, mother had said, always say your prayers. Mother’s dark eyes lined with bags through lack of sleep, peered at her especially when the madness held her like a bewitched lover. Poor Margaret, poor sister, only said baby sounds, off into the night. One of the nuns passed her with a gentle nod and a smile. Sister Mary. She saw her once holding the hand of another sister, late evening after Compline, along the cloister in the shadows. Father fumed at the creeping madness; Mother’s spewing words; the language foul. She stopped; looked at the apple orchard. Le repas saint: le corps et le sang de Christ, Sister Catherine said to her that morning after mass, the holy meal, the body and blood of Christ, Sister Scholastica translated in her mind as she paused by the old summerhouse. Francis, who once claimed to have loved her, wanted only to copulate; left her for some other a year later. A bell rang from the church. Sighed, Time not hers. She fingered her rosary, a thousand prayers on each bead, each bead through her finger and thumb. Her father beat her when her mother’s rosary broke in her hands; the room was cold and dark. Pray often, Mother said, in moments of lucidity. Time to return. The voice of God in the bells. She turned; walked back towards the convent, her rosary swinging gently in her hand, her eyes taking in the church tower high above the trees; a soft cool breeze kissing her cheek like Francis did once, long long ago before Christ called and made her a bride; clothed her in black as if in mourning for the sinful world she’d left behind.