tidal waves

starting from the bottom,
    a life time
                     ago, inside backstabbers feeling the aftermath.
raising in anger

                  the sky above, gone so long.
lifted to

a journey of endless time, skies as dark as,
a blackened out knight.

a thief, not realising the fight,
                                                  that you daily gave flight.

academia loses me, swamping my left side,
my brain is crawling.

a right sided force to be reckoned with,
a release from the monotony of one
                                                           two
                                                             ­    three, safety in numbers.

war of the world ensues, it's a game of thrones.

red versus blue, black versus white,
knowing I always saw,
the creativity in,
                            me.

© Sia Jane

I don't even know what to write, or say.
And for a person who has written so many poems,
on this site,
it is kind of unbelievable.

My first poetry anthology, "Wanderlust" - Sia Jane Lloyd
is now available via Amazon.

This place (Hello Poetry) has given me something I could never return or give words to.
Such acceptance, courage, love, belief, determination, inspiration...

Thank you for making me realise my dreams.
I couldn't have done it without you.

I love you all so so so much xoxo

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wanderlust-she-travels-her-mind/dp/1492952346/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid;=1392582925&sr;=8-1&keywords;=sia+jane+lloyd

xoxoxoxoxoxo

I get home, to a hand crafted
note, one you wrote, with
the old calligraphy pen, that
sits at grandfathers writing desk.

You even used the envelope,
sealed by candle wax, stamped
a red wax, my initial, touching,
folded paper, a kiss of brass.

The art of, manliness, unforgotten
left on the pillow, of this grandiose
four poster bed, mahogany homemade,
the resting place, for weekend affairs.

You refuse to kiss, ruby covered lips,
as I remember the calling card, you
used as a formal introduction, perfectly
groomed, you entered my life, unregrettably.

You, a man learned from his, grandfather
his own father passing away, whilst
away at sea, that cold and distant war,
my tears fell as you pursued his path.

You looked so debonair, a
tuxedo, measured to fit, all alignments
and as I stare at you, eyes connecting
all I wish for, are sweet kisses.

I want your arms around me,
softly whispering, of how you
will gently caress, each
and every curve, kissing my thigh.

The letter, quite simply,
hand typed, reads;
Florence Rose, will you do me the honor of marrying me?

I flush my arms around your neck,
tears fall, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

He embraces me, kisses those lips,
lifts me to the bed,
******* me for minutes
moments and hours,
he makes love to me,
and I know, I know he,
is the only man I will ever need,
or even know.

© Sia Jane

I met him that Tuesday,
tearing myself from the sheets,
that encased the wounded,
tired, old and heavy body.

I stepped onto the,
cold ice like bathroom floor,
shivering, as if awoken,
from the deepest of slumbers.

Tracing the marks on my face,
the mirror told the tale,
of a loss of sleep through,
the evening night, to a new dawn.

As I dressed, I remembered that,
even his smile, embrace, shine in,
those amazing brown eyes, is
enough motivation to break the wave.

The darkest of clouds, haunting
me, from such a tender age,
always emerging when I, truly
needed to carry on with a smile.

The heavens opened, journey into
the lands of hills, nature, country
pubs, the ones you find in the midst
of unknown lands, a pub every mile.

I see his eyes glisten, in the brightness
of the light sun, and he smiles, he
moves from the car, and holds me
so tight I flinch, I force a longer embrace.

Lunch passes by, too quickly,
there is never enough, light, hours,
time in the day, as his tales told with,
words, run with such fluidity.

He can tell a thousand tales, to which
I will never tire, this man is one
of those greats, idiolising him,
I gain strength, reserve, courage.

Grandad, I love you more than,
I ever believed I could, someone,
so special, he barely knows himself.

Today, I want to thank you,
for without knowing, always,
and forever, supporting me.

The day you brought the sun flowers,
after that suicide attempt.
We never spoke of that fateful day.

I was drug induced when you came,
but I remember your smile,
embrace,
eyes,
and of course,
those delightful and all meaningful,
sunflowers.

They took such pride of place,
in that empty hospital room.

© Sia Jane

Under my bed, hid
a tendered angel,
who had
broken wings,
and she was,
terrified to move
for all she knew
was to
fly.

She sat,
knees wrapped,
to her
chest, crystal tears,
dropping to
her pastel pink
woven
and embroidery
dress.

She looked,
glancing at me
saying she
swam,
in the pools
of her own
tears,
and that she
lost strength.

Her endeavours to
swim further,
were stinted,
she was forced
to be,
parsimonious
and so,
she closed her eyes
letting go.

When she woke,
she found herself,
in darkness, only
the moon lit,
her darkened
space,
phrenic activity
haunting her
mind.

As delicately as,
my body
allowed,
I lay flat down,
so not to scare, her
reaching out,
I collect broken glass,
shattered wings,
bleeding from her.

(The angel was called Rebelle Fleur, she allowed me to ever so carefully, take her from under the bed, and to hold her, with grace and elegance, she lifted her tiny frame, and stood, without her wings, and ever so softly whispered her name, asking me to help fix her wings, so she could once again fly and be free)

© Sia Jane

She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.

© Sia Jane
--

“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir

Diagnosis: Anorexia Nervosa
Status: Recovered.

So my point in writing... am I doing this for myself? Maybe... or to inspire others? Maybe...
Or to simply just show and say, that I am through this. Through what? Through all that growth that you encounter when you truly engage yourself in recovery.
This does not mean I will not grow further, learn more. Develop and engage. It doesn’t mean I have been able to shut the door once and for all on my mental health struggles (I was trying to be as politically correct towards myself using that term).
It means, I trust, I believe, and not naively, that I have done the hard work.
I have stepped outside of the mirror.
I no longer believe I can only live half way, a half life, between sickness and wellness.
It means, I know, I will never, get sick again.
Many may laugh, or shake their heads at that. And yet, what I am writing here is filled with so much faith and trust, that I can be sure of myself. Even if no one else in the world believes it, I do. And I know it, because I have made a choice.
There were some backwards and forwards, to relapses and re-growths, but each and every fall, I chose to learn. I chose to take to therapy. I chose.
I choose life.  And so that means, the commitment to life, to myself, that I will always take the route that leads to more life, or to more hope...

And so getting well. What happened there? Well, after years of self abuse, of anger turned inwards, after trying to destroy myself in every single way possible... I wondered, inquisitively, what would happen if I used all I had learnt in hospital, all the positive energy directed at me, the words my therapist would say to me... I wondered, what if?
That if, turned out to be the most amazing curiosity. It is why I am safe, well, “recovered.” I don’t use the term recovered lightly. I recognise that my whole life will mean being mindful, it will mean self awareness, it will mean vulnerability. But what I am certain of, is that each year that passes, I grow and gain strength in ways I never realised I could.
I use “recovered” because I don’t believe I am “in recovery.” I have done the recovery. I have done the putting food in my mouth, consulting a nutritionist, the ridiculous amount of weight gain that allowed me to be healthy. I am done with the depression, the endless anxiety, the self harm.
I say “recovered” because as Marya Hornbacher writes: “I mean flat-out eat-normally stay-healthy get-comfortable-with-your-body-and-actually-like-it recovery.”
Few believe it exists. In fact, I was told my numerous doctors I would never recover. I would always be chronic. Sick. In need of hospital.
It exists. I know that. Because it exists for me.
Recovering has meant finding a voice, and using it. It means putting food in my mouth, it means seeing friends, engaging in life, seeking out healthy ways of coping when I feel overwhelmed, scared, anxious...

I live.

© Sia Jane

"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

Shall I compare thee...

...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.

or

...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.

or

…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.

or

…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the *jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.

or

…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.

or

… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.

© Sia Jane

I think perhaps as a writer, we seek the adventure, the unknown, the destructive, not only to know we are alive but to know what it is to live. We live fast, we love without restraint, with impulsive desire. Are we the tortured, the wounded, the broken, abused. We have lived a thousand lives, loved a million times. We dream, we idealise, we fall in love unintentionally, we make mistakes, we endure deep suffering and we fall to the hands of lust within a heartbeat. We choose to show our *******, our *****, our hearts or our souls. We refuse to sell our mind, to which we must always remain held to. Our body is a vessel, one of productivity made victim to abuse. It's such neglect, despair, that leaves us enveloped in patterns of trauma and deeply embedded psyache. Once touched, our bodies remember as an elephants mind always will. We are tainted, scarred, stained by another's love, lust, cheating, lying, crying, kissing, losing, dreaming. We are the risk takers, the ones who dare step into the unknown and often don't adhere to rules and regulations of societal ideals. We crave love. We crave endless excitement. We crave the adrenalin rush of a new lover. We don't settle. Wanderlust writes us. Each journey shapes us, choosing a new direction, experimenting with style, fiction, autobiographical tones. Landscapes colour our pages, pollute the rooms with a myriad of paints, smoking out those who don't endure, slaves to the written word, a pledge to keep reading pages of paper, dusty from step ladder high book shelves. Finding joy in limited first editions, autographed and locked behind glass doors.  Fairy tales whispered by Hans Christian Andersen - The Snow Queen in a pop up book laced with glitter and scintillation. Falling into stories, Alice's rabbit hole, lost to liquor saying drink me. The young ingénue, naïve and shy, her first role acting, embodying the spoken word through the masters written script.

© Sia Jane

can't you see I am d
                                  r
                           ­         o
                                      w
              ­                           ning
in the depth of love
you used to offer me

throw me a saviour
anything to even just
keep me afloat

because I am sinking
in the sorrow you left
me with, tears f
                           a
                              l
                                 l
                                    ing

opening my heart
my soul and more
left me an open target

shot down I am
dying a slow death
bleeding out

call me an *******
an attention *****
a selfish *****

for missing what I
at one time held
so tightly to this chest.

© Sia Jane

Fourteen years ago, I was entering a new Millennium.
I was a broken girl.
A mere nineteen years of age.
I was celebrating with friends.
There was drink and music and a fancy dress.
I don't recall much, only two photos of that night, sparked from a disposable Kodak camera.
I scribbled out his face, using a black pen.
I did the same with the Polaroid picture I had of us all.
The "crew," those who claimed to be loyal and best friends.
We were all in the image, and I took his face and made it go away.
At the same time I scribbled out her head.
She was the best friend that turned full circle on me.
She made life hell.
She made me never want to be anywhere near any of them.
Both their faces were removed.
Like in the show Revenge, where as she revenges those who did her father wrong, she writes them out.
And I did the same.
Little by little, only my face remained.
No one believed how he was with me.
I never even told them the full story.
Just minor details, and I used to be laughed at, the crazy one telling lies running from the truth.
But what went on behind those doors, will only even be known by us.
And of course the therapist who recalled the details with me, to reform and rejuvenate my tempered mind.
Secrets I shared with her.
In the room, which had a white noise switch, so only us and the walls knew the verses sang.
I'll spare the reader the details of the nights ***** and beaten, another poor girls cries through the night.
And as dusk turned til dawn, on this treacherous love affair, I ran.
And the running took me home, and although safe, he was a presence there for almost a year.
Outside he was waiting, the door bell ringing, the phone blowing up.
I would cry and rip the cards and love letters he so wrote.
I would be on bended knees pleading for release.
I wanted to take it all back, all the screaming, the shouting, being muted and used and abused.
It was so prevalent in my head that I eventually lost all conscience.
So detached during such attacks, no memory really remained.
It was scattered and fallen, and my body mirrored the deterioration of my mind.
Thinner and thinner, I escaped all womanhood.
I shrank, to the point I shopped in the children's section.
It pleased me because I felt safe, it pleased me because he could no longer hurt me.
But that night he did. And I purged in the bathroom for the first time, after he forced me to my knees.
He even had the audacity to come into the bedroom after, and express his concern for the waif I now was.
I told him I was fine.
Decades later, that "fine" response remains.
I dealt with his force and pain, the pain he pushed and locked on me.
And yet every new year, I am reminded of what went so terribly wrong.
Three months down the line, celebrations into 2000, he is thrown out by security.
I actually can't even remember what he did.
I guess he did enough for others to see that he was wronging me.
Yet I always questioned, how could something that felt so right, be so wrong.
I asked my mum earlier; "do you think he is married with kids?"
"Yes!"
"Do you think he hurts her?"
"Yes!"
All my answers cleared.
Here I am, 2013, alone.
Single since the start, and single at the end.
I hurt.
I am tired.
In many ways, I am thinking that a little pain, for a life time of sleep, could be worth it.
Goodnight.

© Sia Jane

you want me to write poetry that doesn't twist a heart
to write poems of love and the beauty that exists within it
you want me to write like I used to and explore the depth of love I feel
to write poems about how beautiful it is to fall in love and to lose oneself
you want me to write and write and never stop writing because it is my savior
to write the poems you so love to read and the ones that made you feel so special
you want me to keep smiling and loving and being happy
to write poems of my joy and happiness and the life that makes me feel so alive
you want me to be a person I no longer feel I can be and who is sad more than happy
to write poems that are joyful and graced and not laced with deceit and rejection
you want me to not feel sorry for the awful guilt I bestow on you for not feeling this way
to write poems of only the amazing bliss that true love graces us with
you want me to be me and yet being me means I love you and to love you is pain
to write poems which don't contain the pain my heart feels and will never heal
you want me to carry on regardless not holding back moving forward loved
to write poems of a new love of one I may have met or may not have met
you want me to let go when all I do is cry
to write poems that are cathartic
you want me to not hurt
but can you not see
all this does
is hurt me

and what hurts me more is that you want me to write poems
that don't contain hurt and pain because
love is beautiful
and I agree
it truly is

but this is pain
and it hurts me more
knowing you don't
ever
want me to hurt
not ever.

I am simply
stuck
         in
             love
with you.


© Sia Jane

Through a vision in my dream, I see her there standing
a smile, unpainted, authentic and real, hopeful
opening the door, I feel a smile emerge, and the butterflies
oh they kick within me, like a life is growing there
a baby in sight, with no bump or pulse, just a gathering
of fluttering wings, that should I rip my chest open
out they would fly, a mélange of colours and shapes
purple swallowtails, adonis blues, lacewings, painted ladies
and finally, my favourite, the Menelaus Blue Morpho
escorted by the Duke of Burgundy, my springtime hero
each flutter, each movement, a collection from the continents
my self, my soul, my body has travelled, wanderlust
keepsakes of beauty and bliss, bordering on extinction safe within me
in a heartbeat they cover my whole self, they move around my body
my legs tremble, barely able to hold, this grown woman upright
a gulp, a gasp, a stare in wonder,
speechless, tongue tied, dazed, dumb, silent
my head empties, no thought passes, the parietal lobe vanishes
adrenaline is racing through my body faster than the light hitting my eyes
moments later I find vocal sound waves breezing past my ears
they are in slow motion, her voice mumbled, incoherent
she touches me and I jump in fright,
my eyes adjust, my heartbeat slows down, my legs steady
"Rachel!"
"Rachel!"

I wake up alone.

© Sia Jane

---

"In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks,
"Is he sleeping— Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"

Eugene Field

My heads this mess
that only craves your caress
a year has passed
since I sang you a lullaby
to send you softly
off to sleep
wrapped safely around me
no mistake

I focus on the good
forgetting the bad
watching a movie about
Elizabeth and Richard
that tells me maybe all love
is as turbulent as theirs was
one that ultimately
killed them both

And maybe that's love
maybe it is a volcano
and a tornado
crossing paths
setting fire to coals
we walk on
just to be able
to make that embrace

The shouting and screaming
the passion and pain
the long nights spent
curled up in ***** crying
in separate rooms only
wanting to be with
one another and yet
too stubborn to let go

Telling me silent lies
whispering to me tales
that it would all be fine
that the words you spoke
were empty and null
in the moment
not real or meant
to make me burn

The burning was always
so slow, like a fire fading
the heat calming
and as time passed
it never burnt as deep
no antibiotic needed
to heal the depth of
wound you scarred me with

Part of me loved
the passion and screaming
the cussing and smashing
of glasses
that fell in slow motion
to the slate on the floor
as it shattered
like my heart

We stabbed each other
more than once
it was endless
it was insane and crazy
it was nonsensical
and yet, after all this time
perhaps
perhaps
it was just
how true love is meant to be.

Maybe we were meant to be.

© Sia Jane

I write because
you
inspire my voice
inspire my words

Sitting with legs curled
under cushions covering chairs
the sound of crickets

The goddess statues
turning and smiling
waving and moving
hallucinate

Glancing to the side
lights flicker through
burning candle light
fire

I never wanted for the
hopeless romantic in me
to fall in love so easily
seduced

Daily I would wonder
about
her holding me tight
her embrace
release

Maybe it was the words said
or days I would spend
my time wondering of
her

Maybe a place from home
inspired my spirit
enlightened my heart
beating

Happiness was no longer
a temporary state but
induced by every thought
I would have of
her

It's always about
her
she has become everything
nothing less

I sip my wine
I remember I'm in
love
Nothing can fight this
nothing will lose this
rapture

Her.

© Sia Jane

---

COME, BE WITH ME. SIT WITH ME AT MY TABLE; JOIN ME IN RAPTURE. AND BRING YOUR CUTE FRIEND TOO.”
― Daniel Keidl

I want to be the Ginger Rogers
to your Fred Astaire
the rocks of ice
in your Jameson glass,
I want to be the girl
you sing about
or the lit cigarette
your lipstick marks
Chanel rouge noir,
I want each embrace
you encounter
to touch me too
through the spaces,
I'd even be the words
in the book
you lift to read at night,
I just simply want to be
every single
missing piece
you've ever felt
or ever needed,
I want to be Cupid
stealing your heart
selfishly for
my own pleasure,
oh what toil and trouble
a girl unhinged
her unbalanced mind
bursting bubbles of blood
through her boiling passion
deep within the skin.

© Sia Jane

This feels just like
Another cliché  because
You're the girl
I wanna sit under
The stars with
On a dark cold night
On the roof of my car
Cashmere blankets covering
Naked bodies
Wrapped inside one another
Conceiving constellations
Fingers pointing as
Patterns are shaped within
The sky above us

You're the girl I wanna hold
So tight that I'll always believe
I'll never lose you
That the vastness of your beauty
Of your warmth and persuasion
Never absconds
Leaving me searching through
Oceans and land
Just to taste the water of
Your love
The purity
How tranquil it leaves me
Like a baby lulled to sleep

I call you Mary Jane
You leave me high and I begin
To believe I am at one with
Those stars we are naming above
Because if I am a star above
And you are named as one too
We will never lose one another
That is why I want to sit
With you
On the roof top of my car
Out in the abyss of my surroundings
And stare above and sing a lullaby
Of my love
And count those stars until
Calmed and soothed we fall
Into the slumber of love
Only a cloud can carry
And awake anew to the rising
Of the sun
The intensity of the passion
Imploding within our bodies
A fiery sky of red and yellows
Until all that is visible is blue
Lighting a blank canvas of fields
Where we begin to sketch out
Our love
Yet again.

© Sia Jane
---

"I think that I could be fine
If I could be Mary Jane Holland tonight
I think we'd have a good time
If you'd meet me and Mary Jane in Holland tonight."

Lady Gaga

Twisted lullabies
believable truths
open wounds
cleansed to revive
a concave heart
convex in the mirrors
of a child's clown
playground of distortion
whisper my name
keep me in the frame
there's no way out
of this fixed full game
question her love
her guilt feeds my pain
never one to lose
why'd I ever enter
the labyrinth of lovers
hearts beating and folding
her on one end
me over the over
each step I smell her
her scent my guide
walls so high a secret
garden enclosed my soul.

© Sia Jane

---

"There was someone that I knew before
A heart from the past that I cannot forget
I let him take all my gold, and hurt me so bad
But now for you, I have nothing left of all my gold."
Bat For Lashes - All Your Gold