We're hardwired to remember fear the easiest.
Our brains are trained to fear from everyone's pain and suffering.
We're to fear fear itself.
We're hardwired.
Humans are just machines.
Hardwired.

Without it, the earth is no earth,
I (the primeval feminine)
have no doubt, the prophet
circle is my witness I touched
the bottom of her water!

Zeroed into her zero neigh
and circled it with my hair,
laid down for it the foundation
hardwired with my circle.

If it smells dead, it probably is
Rot makes no mistakes
I sit and spin my wheels and it takes
Everything inside of me

To rid myself of her stink
Seventeen years of parental nurture
Two weeks of preying in search for;
Only six minutes of squeezing to be

Left only to be filth again
Passed over and forgotten
Are my words too heavy for your song?
Sing loudly so I can hear you

Again, my pale skinned love
As I hover above and sweat into your mouth
Quiet swan song sung, splash of **** all too loud
Calm I grow as from you, I take my cue

Does my breath not fog glass as much as yours?
If I crawl away now, I won't appear to move.
Silently shaking and praying in search for
Something less living, something less grand

Bedside stories told to you once at night
A lone little light plugged in low by your closet
You feared the wrong monsters, and I felt that fright
It clung to the air; you were my first as by my hand.

But my hand pulls away now--
My fingers hardwired, pulling, reaching
For something warm to touch
And you were warm once, too

There’s a brilliant world of words and wine
Hidden behind the curtain:
A barrier of stares and smiles
Shyly given, modestly strained.
Each subtle push
Met with an even gaze.

Tell me more about yourself -
Your secrets
Your lies
Your favorite memories
Your darkest times.

There’s much more here
Than society allows we breach
On a first date meeting
In the middle of the week.

Sure, you swiped right
And that means you think I’m cute
But do we have a connection
Deeper than this Champagne flute?
I don’t want to talk about the weather
Or what your roommates do.
This isn’t an ad on craigslist,
You have nothing to prove.

Now you’re checking your phone
At every silence
*** we’re hardwired to our handheld
Asylum.
And if we aren’t leaving together
The night's been a bust.

No gain, no loss, no truths to wrestle -
No point finding a soul
In a hollow vessel.

Down by the river
Fog dances and swirls
To mists in thought

Down by the river
Swims the desires
we keep hidden deep

Down within the river
Flows the hardwired
reality that speaks

Dance fleet shadows
of souls heavenly
they seek

Down by the river
ache and heartbreak
forms swirling clouds

Down by the river
rising from the tears
we weep loud

Let us dance
our lives radiant , free . . .
Down by the river

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the pull of a stare
a flicker of sparks
eyes meet so sweet
caught in the stare
cheek to lips a gentle brush
desire delivers in the click of a lock
hands clutch tight on your neck
a gripping strength, a slow squeeze
the mind dazed, a hunt to breathe
hardwired impulse, to a raw surging force
reaching, touching, the rise stricken
claws at hands in a grip
the steadfast capture
enforce of an iron reap
the heat and hiss of a monster
sounds a sharp slice in your ear
tears fall for God’s wretched care
the kiss dry's upon your cheek  

final is so clear
a silent suffocation
an impression sincere
pain defends the will to suffer
wounds heal and fade
separates the mind free to fear
a look of your outline is everywhere
turning quick to catch the heavy stare
caught off guard bows down to despair
the power deprived is no longer mine
broken twisted places it deep inside
drowning beneath a shallow surface
paralyzed by the danger of your kiss
stopped by a red light remembrance
fingers still search and retrace
the dignity ravaged in a waste
incapable of trust
I live buried alive
I look for you everywhere
I sleep on the furthest edge of a cliff
I wake trespassing the abyss



   Terry D'Arcy-Ryan

We're not hardwired to mean it every time we say
I'm sorry.

We save most of our sympathy for ourselves
and give the leftovers to those who have earned it.

We're hardwired to say
Fine.
Or some variation of it, every time someone asks
How are you?

We all know the apologies aren't sincere enough.
We're well aware that if we truly cared about someone's well being
they would tell us that they're
Scared.
Because they don't know how they're going to pay the rent.
Because their mother has cancer.
Because
I
made
myself
vulnerable.

I'm sorry.
I'm fine.
I'm a
l
i
a
r
.

everything was so mundane,
no sound,
no name.

the silence watched over us like a hawk,
resting it’s talons on the trees above.

there was no thud,
no beat,
no reverb.

the machines did not whir,
or click,
or crackle.

the strings never hummed,
the girl never sang,
and the child never played.

neurons following a set circuit,
run,
stop,
go.

the sun always set,
yet it had never risen.

hardwired to the equipment,
but the machine never worked,

because the processor was coated in a mundane molasses.

moving through gray honey,
black and white retinas perceive gray things
for our slow-moving hands to paint.

the words were the same,
the day never changed,


it was, and always will be
the same.

Sitting at a bar
In a palace built by
Nineteenth-century slaves,
And the back of my shirt
Is soaked from the
Hundred degree weather.
I rub my neck,
Wipe the hot perspiration
From it with my hand,
Only to pick up
My glass of beer
And get it's cold sweat
All over my palm.
I ask the bartender
About the nets
Obstructing my view
Of the gold-flaked,
Hundred foot ceilings,
But he doesn't know
Why they're there,
Or just doesn't care
Enough to humor me.
Happy hour prices
Segregate me and my soul
From the charcoal
Suits shuffling past
As they head to
The trains that will
Deliver them to
Their BMWs
So they can drive to
Their wine cellars
And plastic wives.
The history of this place
Is suffocating me,
It's thick in the air,
As are the dialects
Of dozens of states,
Shouting to each other
Or to themselves
Or to god.
I pay our tab
And dive into
A red line train
Like a CVS syringe
Into a ******'s arm,
And rush away from
the city's heart
With the other cells,
Through tunnels buried
Beneath the birth and death
Of the American scream.
If I fall asleep,
I'll never wake up,
The dream will replace
The reality I've created.
The steady thrum of
The train croons to me,
But the acidic stench
Of July humanity
Keeps me locked
In this scenario.
The darkness flees
As we breach the
Border of daylight.
Jetskis on the Potomac
Remind me of what
I don't know.
Dreaded beards
On weathered sacks
Of human decay
Perched on plastic seats
Remind me of what
I've painted as real
In my underexposed brain.
I'm exhausted,
All my water has
Evaporated, risen,
And I'm a Little drunk.
My eyelids are heavy,
And move like
Hurricane barriers.
Open:
Same scene,
Different passengers.
Closed:
Spiral staircases
Of neon fibres,
A religious maven
Spitting his canon,
Fleeting images of
Hardwired memories
I've grown old
Trying to erase.
Open:
He's staring right at us.
The man in the
Periwinkle shirt
And the bronze
Kmart tie.
His sweat shines
Like young paint
On an Oldsmobile,
His double chin
Is tanned to
The color of his tie,
And he knows too much.
He knows more than I do,
More than I can take.
His eyes shine
With the knowledge,
The stupid grin
Plastered on his
Greasy face
Knocks me out.
Closed:
The sky is vast,
And unscathed by jealous clouds.
The crystal clear water holds me up,
Its pressure on my back
Is as refreshing as it is comforting.
Max and Andy splash and laugh to my left.
The pond water in my ears
Distorts their sounds,
But the mushrooms in my blood
Explain them.
Jesse is coming,
Doing well at keeping his cigarette dry,
Swimming with one arm.
I feel something unlock inside me,
Forget it's June,
That I'm floating
In this lake
For the first
And last time,
That I'm still
In Rhode Island,
That the love
Of my life
Is in Virginia,
I forget my limbs,
My hair,
My skin,
My ****,
My heartbeat,
The stellar iron in my blood,
And as the water fills my lungs,
As the shouts commence
And sight fades,
I am reborn,
I am the microbes I am swallowing,
I am the glow of the nearest star
Glinting off the rippling surface,
I am the sand beneath me,
I am the air pushing the pine needles,
I am alive,
I am open:
I am still on a train
In Washington DC
And this ******* guy
Knows too much.
His lips are wet with it.
It's written in the part
Of his thinning hair,
In the way he's thumbing
the pages
Of the book he isn't reading.
I can't contain the shout,
The burst of wasted pride,
The "*******!"
The "What do you see that's so ******* interesting?!"
I can feel Ali's hand
And the eyes of
All the passengers in the car
Fall upon me,
And the pressure
Caves in my skull.
From my sunken face:
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."

My little blue dress hangs in my closet now, and my black ribbon is around my wrist and not my hair. I've cut my long blonde hair shorter, and my childhood fantasies are a mere haunting that reach to me at night, reminding me of who I am.

I once dreamt of you as a wonderland, a place of fear and magic and horror that I would suffer a thousand lives to feel a moment of.

Then I grew older, and recognized that this wasn't a wonderland; or perhaps, it was, but not quite the wonderland I was thinking of. This wonderland had a name, a name that came with frightening connotations.

Bipolar.

Those fantastical moments in which I was flying, in which nothing but the flowers could sing with me as I danced in a purple field of wonder. Where the bluebells kissed my hands and the crochet was with hedgehogs and the pond behind my house was much more than it seemed.

Bipolar.

Each corner I turned in which a shadow hid behind, shadows I could only see and that chased me through the darkness unto the stairs and into my bed, holding me tight and strangling me until I woke up and realized everything was ok.

Bipolar.

Each friend I made as a child at night that wasn't tangible, though we shook hands and danced and read books together as if we were real. As if anything was real.

Bipolar.

It was a game I was playing that I didn't know was hardwired into my brain, that this wasn't just Grace and her wonderland, it was something darker, deeper. But alas, that's how it is as you age, isn't it?


Wonderland gets darker with each visit, and with each day it grows closer to me. Its terrifying how it may begin to affect others, others i love, but there's not much I can do, is there?

My one wish is that there will not be another blonde little girl, with my green eyes and my blue dress, finding herself stumbling into a wonderland that she cannot handle.

If it means I can never have the one thing I want more than anything, then I am willing to sacrifice everything to protect that little girl.

I will never lead another little girl into wonderland.

Never.

3D print me into
something real, impulsive
and distinguished.

successive layers
built around a
pulse and backbone.

fused electrons hardwired
to my brain like therapy.

we are broken and
the sum of our spare parts.

©Ben Ditmars 2014

I cultivated something under the snow
Sewed it deep to watch it grow
I felt the roots take and the warmth on my face
Resonating from the hearts I had froze

I shuddered against the intense heat
Battling my soul within a heartbeat
The seconds pass but the moments last
As the past slowly puts me to sleep

And of what should I dream but the bloodless seeds
And their chilled heartbeat from underneath
The silence sweeps as I wake and weep
And reflect, I respect that I cut too deep
And your demons escaped
But in my defense, recompense was achieved,
You did bleed, but never believed in Band-Aid
And every hand laid against you was desired
You're hardwired for self-defeat

I crush myself amidst my own callous hate
Bringing to light a dreadful new fate
With scars that burn and the images they create
Collapsing, falling under the massive weight
And suddenly you surround me
Making it difficult to breathe
But all the lies you never did believe
A layer of doubt hidden beneath
Typically speaking, you never say what you mean

Sunday newspapers continue to gather fragile New England snow on the curbside,
a stomping ground for purgatory, the home for these roller-coaster thoughts.

i'm not much for small talk.
my clothes are always inside out and i'm raging losing battles with my steel-toed tear ducts-

steel, as
grunting is a masculine expression,
and so i'll lift weights,
but gain no strength, just aches of all of the intimacy that I've never allowed myself to emit or absorb.

a soggy sponge,
a rotten oak stump,
fallen leaves-
a childhood meal coming back up over the fists and the heaves.

counter-intuition,
the alcohol binds the seams;
tear ducts are dams
and everyone needs a method of additional reinforcement.

numbness and empty-mindedness aside, I'm
still a make-shift dumpster lover,
hardwired, disassociated hinge-sucker.

too sensitive to open the window blinds or morning newspaper,
there is still no muscle definition, only
liver damage.

I want to be someone different.

I've always been quiet
Only talk if I'm comfortable around you.
Very small, I never stand straight
That requires confidence,
I've never had much of that.

But that's not who I wanna be.
I want to be outgoing, participate more
I want to have confidence,
Be able to stand tall and proud
Talk louder, and be sure of myself.

But I can't.
I have hardwired my brain
Into being this way.
Acting the same as I have since
the very first grade.

It's not as easy as it looks,
To stand tall, be outgoing.
To know who you are
And be comfortable in your own skin
When you've trained yourself to be this way.

Like I have.

I don't know another way
to talk, act, or walk.
I'm small, shy, and I do try
To slouch away from things I don't know.
From people who might criticize.

Maybe one day,
When I'm older, and I know more
About who I am
And about who I do and don't want to be,
Maybe then I'll be the person I truly feel that I could be.

Like an insect is drawn to the light,
That's how I'm drawn to your scars.
I see them, I feel them, I think I can fix them
With warm hugs, with kind words, with being there,
With being me.
But after some time, no matter how much I want it
It's not enough.
You'll be there, crying in my lap, asking, begging
For me to make it go away,
To take away your pain, to help you,
To tell you what to do, how to go forward.
And that's when we'll both realise...
I can't do ****.
All I am is a pretty smile and a hug.
I'll feel your pain and it will hurt me more
Because I couldn't do anything
Because I don't know anything.

I'm an empty shell with the dream of who I could be.
All those dreams, since when I was little:
Thinking that I can make a change,
That I can make a difference.
Thinking that I actually matter...
But after all these years wasted,
Focused on how others think I should be
It feels like it's too late now,
Like I am hardwired a certain way.

I fell your pain, because it's mine also.
It's simply who we are.
Our scars, the pain of our wounds
Is what shaped us, created us.
Do you still remember your innocent days?
I still remember mine.
Imagining to find love at first sight,
Being happy, getting married,
And living happy for the rest of my life.
I would be an honest and good person,
A loving wife, a kind mother.
Yes, I had those dreams
But then, well, life happened.

So, as my scars started piling up
The more I could see them in others
And I just wanted to make it go away,
I wanted to help them.
Maybe in a twisted way, deep down
I even thought that maybe, just maybe
This will make mine fade too.
Because my scars, they felt like
Having a mark on my forehead.
No, not the Harry Potter like,
"I defeated evil, I'm special" kind of mark.
The "something is wrong with her"
Kind of mark.
I tried to hide it, oh I tried so hard
But I only made it more visible.
If only I knew that nobody cared
To look for it anyway.

With every day that passed,
It felt like it was spreading
So I tried to scratch it away.
Some days only to fell something
Because everything else felt numb.
Some days it was an unconscious act
Just trying to claw those marks off my skin.
But they never disappeared,
Not even when there was no pain just
Blood under my fingernails.
And after my dad hung himself
I wished I could scratch my way to my brain.
I realised that's where all is coming from.
It was the same for him.

He was a good man, he loved me, I know that.
I know that he loved me so much
And it makes me unable to comprehend
The mountains of pain he had to feel
To leave me here.
Not a day goes by that I don't think about him
And his pain.
His scars.
I could see them,
I could see the invisible marks on his skin,
I knew that there were monsters lurking,
reaching for him.
But i couldn't do anything.
I didn't do anything.
This is my biggest scar.

And I tried to ignore it, I tried to hide it
But nothing worked.
Now I know I shouldn't have tried to hide them.
I should never hide them.
I'll wear my scars and invisible marks
On my skin, anyone can find them
If they care to look.
My scars give me something
In return for me enduring the pain.
It's like the oddest symbiosis.
They teach me, they guide me.
They formed me.
This is me.
Me and my scars.

~
Optimize
Arborize
Centralize
Personalize
Give recognition its own library
Its own USB port

An evening of multiple connections
Hardwired and soothingly modem
Transmits my thoughts into you

I know your voice
I know your body
And how they work together
To leave a clear network to my heart
~

creeping fingers,
crawling hands,
innocent at first--
innocent? not likely--
malicious more like.
the purity of your
polystyrene soul,
the unremitting cleanse,
the repent(the chase),
it's your lifeline. the
shocked look, saccharine power
held over tiny fawn--
****** clarity as they might,
oh dear incubus.
the power to end all
held in tiny fists.
this births not demon babes,
but a century of fear
and inadequacy.
downy kittens hardwired with
an inevitable self-destruct.
bring the world to it's knees,
incessant, indefatigable pathogen,
taking grasp of neurons, synapses.
good intentions yearned for the green light
while yours-- red as the blood rose
manifests in lovely lips
for eternity stained with **** wine--
the wine you brewed, you fermented
in the cellar of ******* and hatred.
the father, the son, and the holy spirit,
and the things that lie between.
blessed fingers, blessed breath
freezes as the stiff arms of your diocese.
hushed catholic whisper, angels to never
nearly achieve their wholly holy grail--
your kryptonite. secret looks, hasty deliverance,
catharsis.

hop skip and away
i'm flying today
feather in the air
i'm lighter, spark, fire
dare me to stay
but i just can't wait
i want to take to the skies
and see what i can find

hold on tight if you're in for the ride
want to see the whole world
see every fountain, river, mountain
lets explore open doors
step through find something new
no fear, any scrape or bruise
is an opportunity to grow
so
what do you say?
the only thing that could make this better
is if we're in this together
but i won't wait its now or never
you shouldn't have to think
so in a blink adios, te recordare!

so i take to the skies floating breeze
i want to be surprised at the colors
of the fish in the sea, and take a second
to see if there really is that many
or do i need to go fishing right now?
don't think i could stop if i tried
cause a fishy in the sea can
hook line and sinker this heart
if and when they're ready to sprout wings and
take to the skies floating breeze
sail overdrafts with me
jungles of Brazil to the city of Pair-ee

i've a heart meant for dancing,
beaches, culture, romancing
try anything once, most things twice
food, trees, and drinks are my vices
music is my ******* but it keeps me sane
so we just won't consider that a con
cause i'm pro-grammed hardwired
to move my feet to the beat of life
it may skip and shuffle sometimes
but thats the spice to the sugar
cause everything nice gave Jane a dull life

taking to the skies floating breeze
stop for a game of futbol no referees
play til sundown lay on the ground
catch my breath take a rest
open my eyes to watch the stars
turn the sky into my own lightshow
no cover charge
i want to see if they're in reach
so i take to the skies floating breeze
every different tree a different melody

now you're ready to explore with me?
consider yourself lucky i can recognize harmony
lets come together and find our rhythm
we make a beautiful song

The frail nature of the soul
makes for confused company,
especially in
a world of moving fingertips
clicking precious-time away.

Passions run deep &
our minds travel
in nanoseconds,
we grasp glimpses
of each others worlds
on the dark side of the moon.

Yet, we still remain
a million miles away,
trapped in cyberspace,
endlessly flowing.

We forget
the contact,
the touch of our lips,
those loving-arms
embraced around our hearts,
human reactions,
only to remember
genuine frustration,
continual loneliness
& isolation.

Seems forever we look
for super nova,
remaining hardwired,
inspired.

And hopefully,
we never lose
faith,
hope or love
traveling like this,
missing kisses.

Today, I woke up to a flesh fair.
Dresses are getting shorter, sometimes there just not there.
More cleavage than ideas, more muscles than compassion.
More media coverage of 'age appropriate' than how to feed the world!

Our bodies are beautiful and nature has hardwired us to know this.
But, know that our bodies preceeded our existence, your ***** bone is not taboo!
You strip your clothes and strip yourself bare whilst you hide under a 1000 layers.
Let's shift focuss from what was always there!

Nakedness can save us, if only we were willing to face the cold.
Pull on your Wolly jumpers, open your mouth to bare your soul.
Weaver a fabric of intimacy, a patchwork connection of trust and honesty.
Shed all the ugliness of media gorged, superficial controversy.

I think it’s hardwired into us
To wonder what our purpose is,
To search for meaning and for comfort,
To feel
Lost.
I’ve wandered a lot in my life.
More than my share, perhaps,
For the years I’ve spent on earth.
This feeling
Takes hold of me
And pulls me after it.
Like a string around my heart
Thin but insistent
It has led me
So many places.
I’ve boarded planes
With little plan
And crossed oceans following it.
I’ve emerged from sleep
Onto shadowy country lanes
Chasing the silver the moon left on the ground.
I’ve walked out in rain
On dull, slick cobblestones and watched
Unafraid
The underworld of London
Surge topside
In the dead of night
And swirl around me like the mist that clung to my heels.
I have walked and walked
Through fields shrouded in early morning dew
Met the eyes of animals in the dark
And held them in a moment of
Understanding:
We both of us are lost
Both hunted
Both free, but uncertain.
I have followed this feeling wherever it has led me
And it has always led me somewhere I could love
But never somewhere I could rest
Until now.
My heart pulled me to you
And I thought I would be out at night again
Scouring the streets
Searching for meaning,
Searching for
Sustenance.
I was ready to live that again,
Ready to embrace that odd agony of feeling,
The secrecy, the doubt,
Ready to leave a trail of blood behind me
As I staggered through the night and into dawn.
But you
Surprised me.
You saw me.
You
Loved me.
These nights, I find peace in my heart
And for once I do not wander.
I savor the warmth of my own skin
Content that soon your hands will bless it,
Will travel it like a map of the world,
Will bring
Light.

I don’t know what my purpose is
But I can guess.
When I look at you
I suspect my purpose is to be right here,
To love and love until I run dry
And simply fall to dust.
And maybe that scares you
But it doesn’t
Scare me:
Sitting here,
Curled up with tea
Writing poetry for you
Dreaming of your smile
I think of all the other callings I could have had-
A call to arms
A call for blood
A call to action or revenge or martyrdom.
I could have been called
To serve
To teach
To sacrifice,
To survive or to
Destroy-
And I look at this love,
This love that I would gladly let
Fade me
Like a step worn down by the shoes of someone familiar and welcome
Like a favorite shirt gone pale with washes
Like an old newspaper clipping in a frame in sunlight
Cherished but worn
Crumbling with time
Known as the back of your hand
Known as your fragile heartbeat,

And I think
To love is not such a bad purpose
After all.

Since I have poetic license
and don't get out much at all.
I sometimes think of words as people
- it beats talking to the wall.

So I had a chat with "Friend" today
after one or several Brews
Thanks to social sites like Facebook
"Friend" is often in the news.

"Friend" you're looking tired,
Exhausted, overused.
People have abused you
like they'd treat a rented mule.

Folks who'd be acquaintances
back in the days of yore,
are now best friends forever
and we have them by the score.

Our brains are not hardwired
to handle friendships by the score
Our mundane lives no longer private
either "liked" or, worse, ignored.

"Friend" has  suffered from inflation
like the dollar now and then
Both seemed once to have value
comparing now to way back when.

Being sad for me is an experience.
I don't know if it's different from how everyone else's
But I if it's just like your sadness then I'm so ******* sorry

Because sadness for me isn't feeling down or being weighed down by this feeling
It's like being on fire
But on the inside

It's like being stabbed by something that doesn't hurt
Then feeling this cold fire spread through my body
Like a wild fire being winded out by my thoughts
Or frostbites all over my body being thawed and frozen again

Being sad feels so heavy and prominent that I'm not even sure if my happiness is real
If it's really there
Or if it's just the a sense of sadness

I feel disgusted by myself whenever I fake a smile or a laugh or even saying "I'm ok"
I wanna cover my mouth with my hands every time someone ask me if I'm ok because I'm hard wired to say that I am

Being sad is already so ******* painful that I've grown up being used to keeping it in instead of telling people about it
Because I don't want to let anyone in
I don't want anyone to see the wildfire through my soul
I don't want them to see me frozen up

Because I'll hate myself either way
If they burn themselves up to thaw me out
I'll hate myself
If I drown them out when I douse this down
I'll hate myself
And if I saw them carry any part of my sadness to help me
I'll hate myself

I'm so hardwired to not let anyone in that I can't let anything out without destroying everything an everyone around me

Being sad for me is an experience.
I don't know if it's different from how everyone else's
But if you feel the same thing as me
What would you do?
What should I do?