How am I meant to sleep hearing my own heart beat and unsure of what any of this means;
are these tears from whats in front of me, or am I broken from some distant memory?

My brain is so cluttered I can’t think
all I see is darkness
all I feel is agony
thoughts swimming in the roaring seas of my mind
pain
loss
suffering
where is joy and peace?
have those parts ceased, or merely been creased?
either way I can’t seem to flatten out the pages to see what lies between.

So I chose to lie with no sleep,
because lying is my means.
That's my drug of choice no sleep and a lethal dose of caffeine.
Maybe if I cloud my mind enough, I won’t disrupt the already torn seams.

I know to be broken is to begin to be made whole,
but I can’t go down that road.
No not alone.
I can’t take someone with me, they don’t deserve this toll.
Maybe I merely feel comfort in the pains of old.
The simple love of my difficult place.

Still, I feel stuck-
I am in the woods with no way of knowing what direction to travel:
I have no feet to walk,
no hands to touch,
no brain to wonder,
no heart to feel.
I’m surrounded by emotions but I feel none.
So much pain and loss, so much joy to be sung,
but I just sit. Unable to stand up from this mud.
This slick trap I have fallen for too many times now!
The things I once had I now dream about.
But I am still afraid of these dreams,
because I wake up with the pain knowing that they were just that.
Just a blip.
An escape from reality but only for a moment,
maybe if I had a clip I could make them permeant.
Just a squeeze of a trigger, or a ledge slip

We had moved from the suburbs out into the country.  To walk through the woods, cuckoo woods, for the village for groceries was the way.  By that lane a field of cabbage plants rotting, passed by holding breath, or holding nose.

I forever remember the smell, imagined the slime, the slugs.

If dusk was falling, and fear involved, I ran quickly singing hymns loud for safety. Sadly it was not the lane that hurt me, it was someone else. Hymns don’t work in my case.



One time we swung the shopping basket between us. Lost most of the potatoes, and were sent back to find them.

Nothing was packaged, left loose in the basket weighed by the pound.



Kale was curly and cheap; we shredded it from the stump for boiling.



By now it is more acceptable, even fashionable, already chopped, stump bits intact and probably good for us. Yet I miss the whole leaf, where the memory formed.



No more do we boil it, softly warmed and stirred with butter and scattering of pink salt.

Slightly addicted these days, is it the taste of the memory that holds me?



Each day the good feeling is slightly spoiled on throwing the unnecessary packaging away, damp cellophane bag. I miss Mum’s basket, yet I do not miss the cabbage field.



sbm.

I haven't given up on love.
It's not that.
But...
there's something in the way the night hollows out the heart,
it's like being sculpted.
It holds less sway over my thoughts than it did when I was younger.
I wait for love.
Yes, yes that's it.

there are worse things
than being alone.
Of course
there are worse things
than being alone.
but right now
it feels like
the only thing
that hurts.
it feels like
the lone rain cloud
pouring only over
me.
i don't have anybody
to hold an umbrella
for me.
i don't have anybody
to seek shelter in
from the storm outside.
it is so hard
to walk around life
with many people
who call themselves my friend
but aren't truly.
they would never
stand in the storm with me.
they would fend only for themselves.
i can't do this
alone anymore.
and i know
there are worse things
than being alone.