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Not myself
I've never known that
Too many scars
Sifting through
Emotions
Pains
My
Eyes

See the world
But not the world
Seeing what I want
Ignoring what doesn't
For my my reality
That's the reality of
A past that was only
My life
All I knew
Is all I became

I wanted, sweetness
A part of me that I couldn't find
And thought lost

Thought gone forever
Unattainable, all my dreams
Crushed beneath my mother's
Jackbooted high heels

I carried this through my life
Not to use, but be used
Love, not beloved
And everything suffered
Husbands, children, friends
I tortured them all
Whipping them
With a reality
Only my own
Trying to impose it
To make it real for them
Force them to see
Why I was so damaged

And maybe,
I reached to them
How I wanted to be understood
When they saw me for
Who I wanted to be
Rather than just my scars

Pity,
What I wanted was pity,
Unspoken and vehemently denied
Always the victim
Of the world, of others
So unkind, this internal
Screaming, but silent
Defender of mine
Making me the victim
Again and again

Driving forces
An unmet sister of my soul
The mirror, mine
Showing me hope
By bringing up my past
Reliving all the pain
But giving perspective
I had never held before

She is saving herself
Healing, with a husband's
Sometimes less than gentle hands
On her shoulders, around her waist
Holding her high and giving her ground
Becoming an anchor
A port in the storm
And I heal, through her
Patching scars, and
Giving return
Vanishing the lingering doubts
Rebuilding hope against fears

For a moment, just one
I found the world
It's bustle and pace
Less scary
Just knowing
My mirror
Was out there
Looking back at me
And maybe,
I give her hope

Returning
This precarious,
Precious gift
Thank you, My Friend, for helping quiet the demons we share in our souls
Shadowing entities protrude towards your bed from yonder windows hazed light. Crying is no option for fear that this may stir something lurking out there in the darkness. Shrugging beds cover upward to protect your face and hands, well inside lest they be gripped by the night.

Foetal position, curled with hands wrapped around knees, eyes gripped tightly pining for sleep to transport you away to safer ground. Sought after sleep that will never arrive lest you forget to think.

Temples pound a beating drum. slightest sound ekes disaster like a thunderous gun blasting through your brain. finest breeze now a gale, the cold wind causing hair to stand upright stirring tingling pebbled skin. shivering at every inhale of breath, whilst sweat finds its flowing course.

Creaking noises of a living structure ponder audibly throughout the stillness as imaginary movement is conceived, sensed objects move delicately as this flurry of the underworld works its way into an already over worn mind.  

Suddenly the lamenting cries of night torn animal carry up the stair from the darkness below, feline hissing following that same tread to your so sensitive hearing.

Each waft of air an heckling of wandering soul abound to walk freely this hallowed eve, touching the rigidity of young tender body. Mindful of stories told that very night and curses aimed toward the teller of such.

Blasts of light contain certain blindness and panic as you fight to avoid this incarnation that rips away bedding from young skin.


“Wakey Wakey rise and shine.”
2012
Back-stabber count your silver coins,
all thirty pieces do enjoy.
For thou have torn it from the ****
of he whom thou deem to destroy.

Conveyed before said holy male
who fears to take decision home.
Responsibility he doth bale,
forth-giving this to man of Rome.

Upon to Pilate do I see.
Should I relinquish my belief?
Will mine own peoples see me free
instead of murderer or thief?

In my defence nought do I speak
to only God do I ask praise.
Forgive me not for thou art week
and power to thee is but a phase.

Upon mine head a crown of thorns
secured firmly into place
as harassed by unfriendly scorn.
Holy blood, bathes holy face.

Barbs of metal scourge my all,
unlawful hurt do I withstand.
Burdened with weight I make a fall.
Samaritan doth lend a hand.

Rods of steel fix flesh and bone
to that of mans' wooden *****.
In painful agony, though not alone,
with Holy Father I connect.

Hoisted aloft on knoll of high.
Visible means to fear their weight.
Drawn upright, that I may die.
Design to clear of human slate.

Soon this pain will free of me.
My passing so that they may live.
Exalted father thou can see
this son gives all a son can give.
First printed in the 2011 Anthology. Suspended in Ink.
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