Only you can translate
where you are
on your voyage through
this varied farce
called “life”.

No one else can dictate
to you…
or should even dare…
how to phrase
your feelings,
your thoughts,
your personal moments.

Who is anyone to
cause another to feel
inept or inferior
for wording their
experiences as they will?

We are all both
audience and poet,
consumed by the
powerful spell of words
and meaning
we are bonded
in ink.

It takes gumption
and courage
to give voice to
your vision of
the world.

It often requires
resilience and nerve
to open your heart
and peel back the
layers of skin,
and let others take
a long look at the
inner workings of YOU.

Be brave,
take courage,
let your soul speak
in its very own
language.

People will read
your words and
listen to the sweet
whispers
and thunderous shouts
that flow from pens
and keys
to release the
inner demons and angels
and the lyrical
vines that bloom and live
in our individual
landscapes,

fluidly coursing from
our own rabbit holes
with fortitude and grace
and our neverlands,
where we need never
grow up,

to share with those
that need to see
and hear and feel
and wonder.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

Floating from moment
to moment,
the red balloon
travels through and past
every phase of life,
never staying long
in one spot.

It was made for this
purpose;
to fly and soar
in the atmosphere,
wandering, observing
and wildly free.

At times, it longs
for an anchor
to hold onto for a while
and be still.

It knows no other way.
Always alone,
even in the midst of
others of its kind.

The red ballon
endures its long
journey alone,
plagued by its
difference and
uniqueness.

Ever unknowable
and misunderstood;
an enigma for the ages,
full of mystery
and longing.

It floats along,
collecting memories
and stories,
often dreaming of
finding anchor,
of reaching peace
and discovering
its true home.



-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights 22 May 15
Friday

This day never ends,
not for me.
Dressed in the guise of
weeks, months and years,
but to me,
it’s all one
never-ending day.

I am a wildcat in a cage
made of consequences,
vile people
and wrong turns.

I am not a child
nor a woman,
nor a human anymore.

I am an ANIMAL
trapped in a cage
made of flesh and bone,
tied and twisted
with veins and arteries
laced with toxic outrage
and liquid pain.

I am a BEAST
caught in a trap
so invisible,
no one else can see.

I am fangs and claws,
surviving only on the
basest instincts.

I want to rip
through flesh,
tear at my
private thoughts,
claw at the venomous
upsurge of emotion
flowing through
this battered heart
and dying spirit.

This day never ends,
not for me.

The years pass,
the scenery may change,
colors become muted,
life tastes bland,
but the day never ends,
never comes to a close.

It’s all a wicked
nightmare that screams
in your head,
then suddenly stops
and goes silent,
waiting for you to find
your comfortable place
again,
only to reach out
with sadistic pleasure
and grab you
with unremitting vigor.

If there is an end,
my eyes are blind to it.

One day I will
finally explode
and all that I am
and have ever been
will ooze out,
drenching everything
in its wake,
like hard rain.

One day the madness
will cease,
life will come to a
standstill;
till that time comes
my life will continue
on this dark, morbid road,
and the day will
never end…

at least not for me.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

Another Mother’s day upon us,
another deluge to
fill that ocean of tears
from years gone by.

A deep sadness takes hold,
reminding me of what a
dysfunctional circus this
Life has come to be,
trying not to repeat
my own mother’s mistakes.

Hindsight is 20/20,
so they say, but
it doesn’t matter
since you can never, ever
change yesterday.

I dreamed of giving
my sons all the things
I never had, but I look
around and clearly witness
that my efforts have
often been in vain.

A mother’s heart dies
a little more each day
as it travels the path
now chosen,
and for past sins
I and my children
do most definitely pay.

Lightning and thunder
always rumbling’.
The anger and melancholy
makes one want to run
screaming and slam into a
brick wall, so as not to
feel so intensely alone.

One “special day” a year;
an insult and a joke,
meant to placate the
exhaustion and madness
Motherhood can provoke.

I hate the hypocrisy of
it all,
like a band aid on
a deep ****.

Women/Mothers,
Always doing the brunt
Of the ***** work;
We will always cry more,
worry more,
suffer and feel more.

Mocked for our sentiments
and opinions,
for our need to be heard
and taken to heart,
and tending to our
                    quiet rage, warranted anxiety
and fears.

The world doesn’t really care
whether or not we are
truly “happy mothers”,
the evidence tells no lies.

So, forgive my bluntness
(or not, doesn’t really matter),
but for me
Mother’s day doesn’t really
hit the spot.

Too often most forget
That the very days that
mean joy and cheer for some,
for others can bring
nothing but isolation
and pain, not understood
by the festive crowds.

I often wonder,
who creates these
“special days” anyway?



-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

Let the bough break,
Let London’s bridge finally fall.
Go ahead, lock her up
and throw away the key.

The roof,
the roof is on fire;
let that M%#@%F+$@*R burn!

This time, the truth
won’t set you free.

When the folks are good,
they’re very, very good,
but these days, I’m afraid,
they’re simply horrid.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights

Confined and trapped,
Imprisoned within
his own form.
Unable to move,
Unable to walk,
Unable to utter a word..
Paralyzed;
he watches the world
around him.

A spectator who
can only observe
and wonder.

He tries to reach out
with his mind,
hoping somehow
someone will pick up his
psychic frequencies
like radio waves.

Keen and intelligent.
A genius that cannot be
Expressed or easily shared.

Misfortune has kidnapped
his existence and held
it for ransom.

Life goes on each day,
people sleeping,
waking, eating, playing,
working, praying.

All he can do is watch it
through the camera lens
of his inquisitive eyes.

So much to say,
yet no one to hear him.
So much to touch,
yet no one can feel him.

How long will his
prison hold him…
no one can say.

Life will go on each day,
as it always does,
and his debt will be paid
in broken pieces of his heart
and shattered slices of
his sanity.

And he shall ever be, merely…
a watcher.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights