O my sacred,
Shower me with your greatness.
Bring it up to my neck,
And drown me in the lake bed.

O how secret, and so delicate,
Fear in trust involved.
It's not a secret anyways,
If nothing's getting solved.

I love, I trust, I need you,
In fear I live all time.
My words in hope to mean them,
So that you'll say "You're mine"

O my sacred,
Take myself and make it yours.
This day is nothing to you,
Your love fills my empty lake bed.

A love, that's secrets tale,
One month, forever it lasted.
The tale of two, of many,
At each other, love was blasted.

No one way to say it right,
Four ways to say I Love You.
Just take me as I am,
And know that I'm thinking of you.

O my sacred,
Unto you I do trust.
No lake bed full of:

doubt, anger, mistrust, jealousy, regret, pain, hurt, love, hate, lust, health, disease, space, time, pity, indulgence, sorrow, mourning, evil, distress, affliction, trouble, breaks, insignificance, remorse, agony, peril, skeptics, insecurities, uncertainty, question, suspicion, difficulty, dilemma, depression, belief, worry, conviction, cruelty, discredit, hesitation, unhappiness, calamity, travesty, grief, hardship, loss, suffering, weeping, sadness, heartache, lament, excruciation, torture, soreness, discomfort, penalty, torment, torture, harm, malicion, malevolence, prejudice ,detriment, disservice, misfortune, abuse, effort, labor, endeavor, strength, power, energy, operation, mistreat, undermining, blemish, flaw, disservance, misery, injury, exertion, struggle, trial, madness, wrath, rampage, harassment, irritation, exasperation, rage, tantrum, infuriation, mischief, inequality, alienation, aggravation, annoyance, contagion, trauma, damage, insults, violation, wrong, flesh, or ****.

...ANYTHING between us,
Vanquished because I must!

I'm talking fast
Breathing slow
Exiled from life
Why you left do not know
Your absence stabs like a knife

Because too much time on my hands
Don't go to church or the bar
Stare at the wall trying to understand
How I have made it this far

It bugs me you are fine on your own
I am only half getting burned
Tell me to hit you up on your phone
My messages go unreturned

My tongue itches with irritation
Sentences I dare not say
Can't blame you for infuriation
I kissed you back that day

I suspected you'd never ring my cell
I'm wrapped around your finger
You put my heart through hell
Lasting loyalty lingers

Supportive of you no matter what
Liberated or in chains
Too deep down in this rut
To evict from my brain

All I know
I am tired
Yearning to rise above
Adoration has expired
Why can't my love?

It's my memories, not yours.
Sweet infuriation back in 1975 when,
Stray's "Stand Up and Be Counted".
A summation of how we sounded
hook-laden.
Your wisps of blonde hair have long blown.
Innocence no longer come hither.
The loneliness of urban areas,
too much surface noise.

I've written a thousand words that have trailed behind me for decades.
If I attempted to turn around and pick them all up as if I'm collecting shells from a beachside, it would be wheelbarrows full.

Write.
Just write Natasha.
Quit attempting to perfect this gift and just let it unravel.
Don't criticize, judge or feel
Guilt over your need to shut away and bleed the thoughts that you're unable to speak onto paper.

Release the fear that captivates you. It's that uneasiness in knowing the pain that spills once I form these words into being readable and they sink into my heart and become truth.
Truth equals pain for me.

It's the fear that this truth might just **** me.
Is it possible to die of a broken heart, I often ask myself.

Battling this fear to write this novel is the one thing holding me back from healing.

Allowing my entire being to sink into it, and rage against the words as if I'm the flat of the ocean being ravished by the never ending waves.

Tossed and turned by the emotions that come with the process that forces you to heal.

It's the still, that resides between each word written, that quiet space that leaves me restless.

Calm the infuriation, unclench your teeth and let the words be written into reality.

My need to burst into a blood pumping release that lightens my heart from this heaviness is enough to shake the floor of the ocean.

If there
is a word
for
complete terror,
utter confusion,
unmistakable infuriation,
and stereotypical sadness...
please teach it to me,
because I'd like to know
how I'm feeling.

Is this how I want to leave my legacy?
But is a legacy worth leaving
Once it’s been tattered and crumbled?
Is that all I am now? A worthless mistake?
Is this even worth writing?
Or am I just further consuming in the terror of “I”?

A fiction novel of a young girl and OD –
All the reasons, hatred, and pain behind it,
The scars they kept tearing open
So she never stopped bleeding,
And the devastation it caused to those who cared –
Would naturally impact the reader.
But when the reaction goes more like,
“I wish I was her,”
It’s not exactly normal.

And then I wonder.
Do any of you actually deserve an explanation?
Is it worth my last moments when you’ve given me few?
When your moments have simply minimized my life
To the putrid carcass it’s become of late?
Manipulation and lies.
That’s all I was worth to any of you.
…When you acknowledged my existence, at least.

Who is the stranger my reflection resembles?
Because I don’t recognize the hatred in those eyes.
She’s dead to herself and most of those around,
So we might as well make it official.
Agreed?

A stranger within and without, so withdraw.
I guess that’s what happens when you spend four years of life
Being lied to, lied about, and lying the pain away.
When you aren’t drinking it away, that is.

It’s when you wake up every day, wishing you hadn’t,
Wondering why you haven’t fixed that yet.
When the people you care for the most in this world
Just lie, manipulate (or try to, at least),
And use your life to no visible end.
When they cheat with you, or try to cheat with you,
While you weren’t enough for them in the first place.
When you know the truth, but you know you’ll never hear it
Because you’re no longer more important than an illusion –
One of power and control that precedes a human life.
When people don’t care,
And when they do, they don’t tell the truth,
And they sure as hell don’t show it.

This is who you become.

And this is all you want.
And you blame no one but yourself.
Because you can’t pinpoint where these desires come from.

No, people don’t want me.
They want to do me.

And to those of you who don’t believe a word of my wants,
I hope you find my lifeless body,
And tears of blood stain your face
Like the knives I’ve dragged across my skin.
But unfortunately, I’m not going to give the satisfaction
Of you fazing me that much.
Because, clearly I’m waiting around for something,
Whatever it may be.

I hope you got what you wanted.
I hope it was worth it.

Can you feel me now?
Do you hear me now?
Will you see me now?
Will you bleed for me now?

I dare you to stop me.

I’m not scared of leaving this world.
But I am scared of leaving before I tell how I actually feel,
When I’m not releasing the infuriation I hold so delicately within.
Is this how I feel?
Or am I lying again?
Do I really plan to do this?
Or am I just reaching out for anyone who cares?
Do I really believe this about those in my life?
Or am I creating a story for an anger-filled poem?
Is this what I really want?
Or is this just easier than telling the truth?
Who knows,
Since no one tells it.
Maybe someone should actually talk to the girl sometime.
Maybe she’ll tell you how she really feels
Beyond this blistering, blunt falsehood.

If you come clean, so will I.
Because somewhere deep down,
That reflection’s not me.
Somewhere deep down
I still believe.

A red, hot mist; a lit match
To a puddle of gasoline.
Anger is a beast, frothing at its mouth
Hungry, hateful and lean.

It is in the husband who beats his wife,
physically, and verbally;
It is in the vitriol we spew
At each other detrimentally.

It is in the xenophobe,
Who cherishes resemblances
And apprehends differences.

It is in the people,
Who segregate into a familiar tribe
Unaware of who tortures us all
Unwilling to unsubscribe
From the delusion -
'I am right, and you are wrong'.

Ire smolders beneath the surface
Until the surface is no more
And all that is left
Is a charred, blackened sore.

It is as corrosive as a vat of acid,
It will burn you to the core;
It will destroy all that is inside you,
And nothing will be left to restore.

Infuriation is a many-headed dragon;
Devalued, unjustly accused,
Hungry, hated or powerless,
Ashamed, anxious or defenceless.
Demeaned, disgruntled, upset;
These are all emotions
That lead to ire and regret.

Yet, it is also self-preservation;
In an unjust world,
It is the burden of a whole nation.
It is the sense than informs you
When you are being cheated;
Like the sensation of burning
Upon touching an object that's heated.

Yet, unknowing and uninformed
We are always at each other's throats;
The establishment is elated,
In the embers of society, it gloats.

For, in this insane, deluded world
Happiness is a rare consignment,
A moment amidst the chaos,
Not a constant incitement.

We must look beyond our petty squabbles
And realise there is more to deal with
Than each other's issues and troubles.

Anger is as addictive as ******,
And just like it, it feeds on vulnerability.
Should we unite against our common enemy
It would mean invincibility.

We should not target each other;
Instead we should aim at those
Who have brought us here.
Those who steal, lie and control;
If they cannot, they will cajole.

It is those who have turned life
Into a rat race which nobody will win.
Divided we are controlled,
Unaware of the power within.

Yet, you ask, what if we were united?
Imagine, a whole world's anger
Aimed at the right mark;
That is what I propose,
Before it is too dark
And humanity swallows itself whole.

___________

Feet don’t fail me now
She sings and sings and sings
Belting in the backyard
Humid and sweet and exciting
Skyborn burns that fill me with orange and blue
Sun-bleached skin in darkened strings
Of deep and burdening things
Mediating the cracks in the sidewalk
Burying the butterfly i once called “Vernus”
Rays of light and every bit of dust
Eyes wide and the noises loud
Small and running
Heated stoves ring me home
Before dark, i am alone
Me and the world
I feel the possibility in my fingertips
I witness myself again and again
I can feel
I am aware
Of what i am not, of who i will be
Infuriation and envy
I hold everything within and I let it release
Leaping across the streets in wedges
Power seeps into my heels
My beating heart shakes me
Into my bedroom window
Into the moon
Into my backyard
I left it there

Hiroshima was destroyed
by the infuriation
of the 'Little Boy'
By extraordinarily intelligent
3 pound brains
and by few well trained
subservient hands

When you were
sitting in your arm chair
and thinking
of
colouring your grey hairs,
each part of a city
a colourful, beautiful city
was burning helplessly
and
what remained was
powder of burnt
innocent eyes, veins, bones
and humanity
in the air

Radiance of morning sun
was no more bright
Nothing was left,
that could be termed as red, pink, blue
or white

Ask
open eyes of the dead bodies.
those were not turned into ash
they might have seen
struggle of sun rays
to cross the air above
them
dark and black

But in that acute darkness,
where even dreams were
not able to
cultivate hope,
each dead body protects
a small bright area
may be a tiny spot
from the radiations
under them

and those were the areas
where
camellias popped up
in that spring
again

Think to thyself, may feel the sadness in ones absence? Find delight in another's sorrow? So let him ask, does thou find him vile? May thee let him know of thoughts of concern? Curiosity is at it's peek. Does such a man seem to be relinquishing from the feelings that thee may love? Ah, he says. Too trapped in menace to ever take a breath. Does thou enjoy what thy see? A red heart that burns and dwells in darkness? Increasing amount of scars every time it ignites? Relentless grief? Much questions does he ask. He may be curious as to what he seems nowadays. Destroyed, unattended, infuriation echoes diligently, no longer fleeting.

Jailed in my own mind,
Scared to walk forth,
Handcuffed by my own thoughts,
Am sentenced to infuriation.

It was this same day I killed my own happiness,
I was cold inside,
I burned with great rage,
Quenching for space but the pace and speed denied me chance.

Now in a death row,
Being sentenced to ****** of my own emotions,
Looking around in my chamber,
Here I am confidentially waiting to be executed,
I already made my wish,
Hope I will conquer this inevitable death

Witnessing The Destruction Of Ego

By Id.

Self looks in the mirror, somewhat
misted by condensation but no need
to worry what could have changed
since yesterday.

Bristle, my man, bristle.

No, no, not infuriation, this is reality
not a thesaurus.

No need to become indignant or even
irritated.

Keep the hackles down.

Don’t take umbrage or become
defensive.

What’s with the prickles there is no
5 O’Clock shadow.

It is designer stubble if you choose
not to wipe the glass and greet The They.



Id. ©
26th Sept 2021.


PS.

Eventually, we all get the faces we deserve.