I'm up late again.
Can't stop my mind from racing.
Going. Going. Going.
Obsessing.
Ironically, late at night is when your brain is at it's most creative.
Is it any wonder the best artists are insomniacs?
I've been fighting that.
"I need to sleep at a decent hour so I can wake early & be productive."
"I NEED this particular item to write this particular thing."
"I cant sit down & write/draw/create in a filthy house."
"Someone might call or need me, I can't get ****** in to that now."
"I need to clear my head before I can sit down & do this."
"I have my routine, all my daily tasks that must be accomplished, before I have time for myself."
I NEED TO STOP BULLSHITTING MYSELF.
I NEED TO STOP LETTING THIS BE AN EXCUSE.

See, I want to write.
I want to paint.
Draw.
Shoot.
Design.
Cut.
Glue.
Hammer.
Sew.
Create.

I used to do these things to a point of obsession. To a point where they kept me from completing every day tasks.
I remember as a kid, I'd get in trouble for using my school notebooks as a drawing pad.
Or the teachers couldn't keep my on task because I was off in my head scribbling away at some story.
God himself could not pry me from what I NEEDED to let out of me.
Then I grew up.
I think thats what happened.
Suddenly I had so many more things to worry about.
I had to put away childish things.
Life became so much more than the fairy tales I made for myself.
I forgot how to be what I was.
I only knew I had to do things.
Stupid, every day, grown up, necessary things.
That became my new obsession.

I traded one for the other.

Now I stand on a battlefield.
I have chosen the darker evil.
Doesn't make sense?

Remember Peter Pan? His life was full of adventure & freedom & joy.
The grown ups, the ones who forgot how to have those things, became bitter shadows of themselves.
They lost everything for all the wrong reasons.
I don't think I ever felt more closely identified with a fairy tale character (or characters because I find that the many different aspects of my psyche very closely identifies with most every character Peter Pan.)

Anyways.

For several years now, I find that I have been trying to reclaim this lost part of my soul. I don't think anyone, save perhaps 2 or 3 people realize just how important this is to me. These are people that would have known me in my early high school years, before the dreaded piracy of true adulthood took me away.

Why not just pick up the pen & write something? you may ask.
Well, it's not that easy.
Not for an obsessive compulsive thinker.
I'm not using that term lighty either.
I hear brats toss it around like a fashion statement.
Like having OCD is the new trend.
Just because you're a neat person doesn't mean you have a disorder, *******.
I know how many steps it takes to get from each corner & point in every home I am familiar with.
There are patterns in my day that, if broken, send me into emotional Hell.
There are many aspects to this disease.
This illness.
Whatever one may choose to identify it as.
I haven't found something I'm comfortable with yet.
I'm only just beginning to be comfortable with facing this truth in myself.

I let the only reality & peace I knew be burried away & my brain formed this militant prison of order around it.

The good thing is, my heart knows better.

When I'm able to bust those walls down for even a few brief moments in which I can slip past the compulsions & allow complete chaos take my hand & create, I am free.
When I become inspired by something & am able to mentally break away long enough to pursue it, it's like capturing a god ****** unicorn.

Unfortunately, more often than not, I find inspiration fade away. The many excuses I wrote before, just the tip of the iceberg, take hold & beat me back into my weakened submissive routine. I literally have stood still, as though at a play, & watched my head battle in itself to convince me NOT to follow the idea.
I may be *****, but I am no one's slave.
Least of all to myself.
Which begs my fear: control.
Why do I control myself?

Art is not controlled.
Creation is not controlled.
Beauty is not controlled.

These things cannot be tethered to definition or reason or logic or mathematics or laws or routine.
So the war inside me rages.
The problem in my head with its finger in my face is rationalizing ignoring the passion in my heart.
That disorder is sorely mistaken if it believes passion is in any way rational.

So this is what stands:
I am fighting an illness, something I aim to fight & beat & never succumb to again.

Creation is the air I breathe & no matter what worldy or sensory things bring me pleasure, nothing fullfills me like raw thought pouring forth from me.

I cannot stand by envious of the lives & accomplishments of my peers because I was too weak to take hold of the only true thing I hold dear. I am sick of hearing myself say "if only I could" or "maybe some day" or "I used to". I am done crying myself to exhaustion because I physically cannot pick up a pencil.

I don't know where to start.
I guess choking through this & fighting off anxiety attacks as I type is as good a start as any.

My most beloved author, inspiration, & life long hero, Anne Rice said,

"Keep the faith. Writers need faith...Just keep writing & believing in yourself...Just write until the juices start. Don't put up with Writer's Block...eventually you just have to write & write & write."

Write I shall.
Until it gives me anuerysms from fighting these tiny ticks & compulsions.
Until the tears are of success rather than submssion.
One step at a time I will conquer more than I ever thought possible.
I will take back my heart.

A locking click
the clear is hall
a clocking tick
is hear I all
a rocking drop
the near is fall
a blocking chop
I fear the saw

a pampy crapper
I nose my hold
a campy happer
I clothes my fold
a fighty scrapper
that big is bloke
a lighty snapper
I cig my smoke!


©2011 Lyn

Let the night become darker,
So I can see you much better,
My source of light,
The lighty light
✨

Sun shines so brightly.
Head is feeling so lighty.
Blue sky is filled with songs.
They sing and laugh all day long.
Beautiful soft winters day.
Dogs are running on green grass
and see the children play.
Take a deep breath along the way.
Making big steps as I walk today.
Loving nature so pure I wonder.
Life is such a gift.
Don't let it slumber.
Sweet morning kiss.
Taste like sweet coated lips.

I had a star, my own a mark of who I was,
but it wasn't like the ones in the heavens,
                   never shining bright.

It was on my arm a symbol of who,
                        what I was classed as.

They never thought I was anything.
  I'd fell hard from the heavens,
and
                           now I was in hell..

   My Mother & Father were
smiling at me as if nothing was wrong
as if this was a new normal,
            even as we were separated.

They never cried, but smiled.
Taken to this room, there were a few
of them, I heard the screams,
   saw the smoke billowing from
upon high.

But they just smiled, motioning
silently with their mouths.

                       " We Love You,

I never saw them after that,
   young but not naive.
Hearing rumors before I'd
      been taken from my home.

Even as we left, or shall I say relocated.
Intruders moving in, laughing as we were
taken from our ancestral home.

Generations had grown up moved on,
it was a home of a hundred smiles.
    But now we were just shedding tears
as we  were torn from our foundations
our home.

I see the children lying in the snow,
laid bare, bodies like the bare branches...
  contorted silent.
But at least their tears are silent...
        their pain evaporated like their last breath.

Not like the new arrivals, there's not much space,
  Broken down to useful or not...
      I saw a parent lead away screaming,
     some even shot as the **** of their womb
is taken to the smoking house...

You hear tears, then the wails of why's...
then silence, a silence that makes you *****,
even though you haven't eaten in days,
you're sick to your stomach and cry dry tears...



Rest in peace, my friends....

I was exhausted, frail, and malnutrition
   eating away at me.. I was lead away,
  my friends just looked down as they
knew where I was going I was garbage
to abandoned and reduced to dust.

Hearing the wheels turn, I had laid bare
that this was time, others cried screamed
I just sat there.

   Dying with pride, without giving them
the satisfaction of my tears.
   As we started to burn,
explosions words unheard in a long time.

And the door swung open, melting silhouettes
ran then fell. I was lucky I was at the far end,
Lighty burnt I ran out naked and alone into the
arms of a serviceman who covered me with a
blanket.

His words still in my thoughts every day.

                            "Your safe now child,

Tis sad, words to far and distant to be heard
Sentiment of a bygone era, to faint to hear but for the chosen few
Too few now to be counted and I fear too soon gone.

A brushed cheek, a flushed cheek and one heart skips a beat
Hand to cheek means nothing now but to those who capture hearts
and to those whos hearts need capture...

Hair in my face, a perfumes trace to speed the beat of a lonely heart
Touch of a hand, nape of neck and the lobe of an ear to lighty bite
Too subtle for these times but

Desire is a lost art, want is a lost need... to fast we speed
and loose the charm and fervor of lust... for want is the seed of love,
and seeds need time to grow.

Gord Merritt