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linda barrett Dec 2013
A SESTINA FOR BRIAN

How being born on Christmas Day can make
some people think that you have this passion
for being so compassionate and construct
all sorts of things like Christ the Great Carpenter
did for living spaces of all levels
of human dwelling. You have always had to create
things for dwelling spaces and you always change
It’s like you have been going in your innate passion
since you were a baby. I saw you in winter, to make
a snow igloo. You had everything planned and constructed
this igloo right by the side of the house. It had this level
of true sophistication for a boy of your age. You could create
wonderful things: towers and tree forts and then change
to art work to decorate our house.
Brian, I’ve known you to go out of your way to make
breakfast for us. I remember the strange passion
you had and made us peanut butter and banana constructions
of pancakes. You did all sorts of culinary things on the level
of perfection to even make the best chefs just create
something to quench their envy of you. You never change
Now, when you got older, you still possessed this desire to make
you went through Penn State Ogontz and kept up this passion
to create other things and learn enough to construct
buildings but you needed the education to earn a living to create
things with your hard-earned degree and actually change
and re-arrange houses or interior of places on a different level
Why your inner mental and emotional makeup came out in such passion
that all who came into contact with you when you failed to construct
a certain project to your own perfectionistic liking and it made
you very angry and you used such profanity and it just changed
you from this compassionate and soft hearted soul into creating a raving demon out of you.
The way that you used to go out of your way and created
A wonderful family unit from a wife to a pair of children made
you bring out another facet of your personality: the father level
The two children came out of that union as some construct

from your desire to keep on creating through this passion
to keep up on revising and re-building so that you always change

@2006 Linda Barrett
Nicole Jul 18
Can you really know me
If you don't know the darkness I've seen?
If you don't understand
Why it's so hard for me to sleep?
Or how I have to fight back tears
When I hear someone yelling?
Can you ever truly see me
If I don't show you what's behind me?
The childhood trauma boxed up neat
Until it spills across the floor of my insides
I keep the doors locked mostly
But locks don't prevent earthquakes
And sometimes, the ground shakes and
Frees memories to pool and suffocate
I've thought about speaking them but
Something inside says it's not bad enough
That no one will understand or see me
They'll just judge me as weak
"I'll give you something to cry about"
Hurled at a traumatized body

I don't want you to see me
Because you could call it sensitivity
And overlook the senseless violence
That comes with surveillance, intimidation
To share this pain is too risky
Because so much of it is crazy-making
I can take a punch no problem
It's the other stuff that broke me deeply
Expectations perfectionistic and unrealistic
Task repetition into sleep deprivation
Fear flooding my system so entirely
I chose to **** myself over interrupting her
Every week she made me grab the scale
No matter the result, I know I'll fail
If I gain weight then I'm lazy trash
A decrease? muscle weighs more than fat
And when she found out that I hated myself
She had the nerve to act confused
Asking if I know that I'm beautiful
Like I should love this body that could only lose.

She controlled everything
From how I wore my hair
To the clothes on my body.
Forced to speed walk around the park
I was so afraid of her and her rage
I never told her people made fun of me.
She made every decision
Not only what I ate
But how much too.
I'd learn to eat fast like she wanted
Trying to finish what she gave me
It didn't matter that it was too much.
Despite my attempts at compliance
I often threw up before I could finish
And she'd scream about that too.

In the mornings at home I'd wait in dread
To see who would come to get me
Whether my mother or she were driving.
With her, the entire ride home
I had to recite Everything I did at home
Starting over at any detail missed.
From snacks to bathroom breaks
Over and over I repeated and forgot
Never able to remember it all like she could.

Sometimes neighbors were concerned
Picking fights, they'd bring me up
With pride she'd say I'm just like her.
From love to hate she'd shift
Moods vacillating so fast
It'd give anyone whiplash.
Once a neighbor reported her for hitting me
But the police knew of neighborhood feuds
No one ever asked me about it.

I learned to move around silently
Rushing to get outside the house
Before she could wake up and yell at me.
She'd scream so close to my face
I'd be showered in her spit
Trying to stop the tears from betraying me.
I'd watch two grown adults fist fighting
Being threatened not to cry
And failing anyway.

A no phone rule meant forced isolation
When I brought my iPod in my backpack
She stole it and never gave it back.
School was solace in those weeks
And I'd try to lose myself in reading
Anything to escape experiencing reality.
Sometimes she sent me to sleep very early
Other nights she kept me up well into the morning
Redoing tasks until she deemed it done right.
Alone in bed at night
I'd stare into the glowing clock
Counting down my time
Consumed by shame
And the deepest desire to die.

So can you really know me if you never see
That this is the history that haunts me
In the face of insanity there is no winning
So what's the point of it being seen?
Melissa Rose Apr 2018
They painted her a portrait
that reminded them of her
Told her she was an outcast
She believed their every word

There are no explanations
for their blatant cruelty
The portrait of the black sheep
wasn’t a spitting image of me

I spent years trying to convince them
In every perfectionistic way
Always striving for greatness
but there never came a day

I took to beating myself up
Because I couldn’t get it right
The scars left on this body
Reflect a deep internal fight

Anxious and exhausted
I stepped out of the ring
broken and defeated
by the demons I was battling

I lived my life on false hope
believing the day would finally come
When they would love and accept me
for who I had become

Today that day does not exist
their portrait still taints the wall
but I realize I can’t win this battle
by keeping myself small

So I painted a self portrait
Of much more than what they see
Forever on my wall it speaks
“You are good enough for me”
4/1/18
RisingUp Oct 2015
The cold handles of the kitchen cabinets dig into her thinly covered back.  Sobs emerge from her unnaturally cold, tired body.  
Yawns interrupt her cries for understanding, as she is unable to deal with the extreme exhaustion.  
Why her?  
Why has she allowed the drive for perfection to infiltrate her vessel?  Why did she give into society’s insecure perception of beauty, instead of building her own self confidence and decisions about appearance herself?
Her inability to cope with a growing, changing body.  
That’s what drove her to insanity and perfection in food intake.

Now she sits on the kitchen floor, pondering her downfall.  
The veins clearly visible in her hands.  
Her hands creepily thin.  
She can feel it all over her body, the thin layer of protection she has.  She’s horribly ashamed of the way she looks.  
She knows she’s too thin, but struggles to conquer her disordered thinking patterns and perfectionistic thoughts she has carried for so long about food.  
All the hate she harboured for her “fat” body, has transferred to her thin body.  
She’s ashamed beyond belief of the way she looks.  
She doesn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit.  
She still refuses to look into a mirror.  
She let something as simple and insignificant as food take over her life and shrivel her very being.  

She doesn’t even know who she is.
avalon Jul 2019
i’m looking around and realizing slowly that i am boring. for all my pride and perfectionistic tendencies, my life became everything except the things i truly wanted. i have the safety, the reputation, the social circle—but where is my art? i've spent so long becoming someone, i forgot everything i wanted to create. after all, it's only the things outside of ourselves that outlive us.
Broken Arpeggio Jul 2017
They see strength
A rock that's weathered but not broken
They see loyalty
A bond of trust that's always there but never spoken
They see considerate
Arms open wide and ready to give
They see creative
Enough pieces of talent that show where my soul lives

I see weakness
A mere pebble wore down by the constant storm
I see alienation
The meek and solemn path chosen to tread upon
I see estranged
Forever building walls so no one gets close
I see meticulous
Where everything is flawed by a perfectionistic boast

I often wonder what would happen
If both perceptions collide
Would one overshadow the other
Keeping the raging angst inside

Do they see what's real
Do I see only lies
The truth becomes muddled
When playing from both sides

Why am I hiding
And afraid to let go
Lurking in the shadows
Never letting my true-self show

Will I one day be free
From this torment inside
Finally accepting myself
Casting all doubt aside

Imagine an existence
Without the masks and veils
A willingness to be open
Exploring all that entails

I long to find the place
Where both views intertwine
That will be the moment
This life will truly be mine
Perception is everything...
Miranda May 2020
I am from unrequited love
The kind of love that breaks hearts and shatters souls
I am from depression and anxiety
From anxiety attacks and depressive episodes lasting months at a time
To the suffocation of not being able to cry because you’re being told you’re dramatic
I am from self hatred, lack of self confidence and bullying
The aftermath of a divorce, the remnants of past lovers and dust of old memories
I am from the box of photos in the attic you dare not touch of a love you both regret and appreciate
The emotion wrenching violin crescendos you hear in a sad movie to the soft, high tones of a piano
I am from autumn leaves, hot cocoa and corn stalks in a field
From the color blue, which symbolizes both tranquility and sadness
The double standards of siblings and the constant need of perfection
I am from trauma and an array of abuse
From being screamed at for every little thing to feeling neglected
The perfectionistic habits I formed were far out of my control
The one thing I wanted became so far from my thoughts
I am from three brothers and crazy household
From playing in the yard to planting gardens
To playing nurse on everyone’s injuries
From the trumpet vines that weaved their way in and out of the fence in the back so artistically
I am from wearing makeup to hide my insecurities to covering up my body
Wearing loose clothes so no one saw my figure
From staring in my mirror and pointing every single imperfection out for hours on end before a shower
To ignoring the mirror because I knew what was there and I was tired of seeing no change
I am from culture shock
From a small town to a larger one, a practical city
What seemed normal to others was like New York City to me
I am from both daddy issues and mommy issues
From the lack of a mother to the practical absence of a father
From bottle clinks to aluminum cans everywhere
The scent of cheap beer, liquor and cigarettes
I am from being suffocated by society’s standards of women
From picking and choosing what to believe in
To being in constant fear of culturally appropriating when all I wanted to do was appreciate it
I am from being told to lose weight to a compulsive eating habit
Eating like I wouldn’t eat again since I was constantly hungry
Hunger and I became close friends in an eerie manner
I am from “you look good slim” to crying when I saw my weight on the scale
From googling how to fast and drinking nothing but water all day long
To becoming weak and shaky from my inconsistent eating habits
Battling myself for being both a foodie but wanting to lose weight so I could be seen as pretty
Being underappreciated by men since I didn’t receive attention from my father
I am from alcoholism
Borne from trying to salvage an already toxic marriage
Things being thrown, holes in the wall and screaming
Slurring became my second language even though I hated to admit it
From seeing my life flash in front of my eyes to having hands wrapped around my neck
Being hit made me fear hands and affection for many years
I am from fearing the slight change in someone’s tone of voice, tone of a message and someone becoming angry at any second
From volatile environment to lack of stability
Red and blue lights flashing in my windowpane to watching the rain fall down the glass
I am from manipulation and being told everything is my fault
One of the reasons I apologize so much
From wanting to commit suicide but never following through due to the fear of breaking people apart and passing on my sadness to others
The bleak interior of a mental hospital as a fourth grader to clutching a stuffed animal with all my might
From being told I’ll never amount to anything, i’ll become a teen mom and how dumb I am
To graduating high school with a 3.7 GPA and no children on my hip
Childhood curiosities led to a blooming art passion
The one thing that helped me from everything
I am from using art as a coping mechanism
Painting every paint stroke with every emotion
Molding clay, concentrating solely on that
Plasma cutting a heart out of an oil barrel
To sketching my emotions how I envisioned them internally
I am from bad memories fading in the wind like dandelion seeds
The wishes of pain going away to seeking love
I am from many lessons in life
From becoming true to myself to learning that not everyone is a true friends
That friends don’t always stay in your life forever even if you want them to
Promises aren’t meant to be broken
From learning my worth is not in pleasing men sexually
I am from seeking attention in the wrong places
Forming a drug habit to help me feel happy
Not everyone will be your fan to people will hate you when you’re doing good
Drinking my troubles away and sleeping all day long
Hiding in my bed all day and barely eating
I am from heartbreak
From not taking a shower for weeks on end, not taking care of myself and just staring into my phone screen
Hiding my emotions with an “i’m fine” to barely anyone noticing me breaking
Quivering vocal cords as I confess my sadness to someone, breaking down
I witness myself crumpling into a ball on the floor, screaming for the thoughts to stop
I am from college books to fixing cars
From trying my best and realizing it wasn’t for me
I am from seeking the approval of others, no matter how much it broke me
From seeing I was a broken piece of pottery
Thinking I was unfixable and the damage was beyond human fathomability
But what I am from made me into who I am
I am a beautiful Kintsugi ceramic piece
My cracks shine with gold
Making something broken into something beautiful

— The End —