Grinds, binds, finds
The truth and digs it up.
It pulverizes the roots and pushes,
Pushes, pushes their life
To the surface where they can be
Seen, naked and alive,
Stark and unyielding. Nothing
Can escape the writhing, shifting,
Dreaming tendrils of its power.
Humans know this.
The only knowing worth noting
Is forgetting and going.
Forget the reasons the fear
May cast away, lose
The wraith-like façade
Entangled, get OUT.
Out of the mind,
Into this body of water,
This collection of phobias,
The collaboration of the night
And day made manifest.
I am the…
Anger spins through the system at lightning speed. It grasps and reaches in every direction, attempting forcefully to pull the cleverest blade out of the darknesses and hurl it mercilessly at the nearest external mirror. This world, how cruel it is, says the mind, the pained and claimed generator of thoughts. Take me deeper into the dark places. Let me curl up and weep not tears of anguish but those of rage. And let me spill it all onto those who are at fault, those who deserve it.
To heal is to come to wholeness. But to do that one must take one’s pieces, shattered as they are; and all of them. Mending the fractures will not be the challenge but acknowledging that there is no wrongness in feeling so broken. The real medicine comes flowing forth in waves, the tears cascading in color and vividly raw power. …
Today I want to run away.
So I will.
I’ll hide in the farthest mountains, beneath the deepest swells in the ocean. I will trace my own trajectory into the fields of the unknown until I no longer recognize the patterns. My old life will fall away along with the shades of shadowed fear and, like my mind, will evolve, shifting into the surroundings I have immersed myself in. Inside of me the wild will become my wilderness. I will race the winds and find the souls of the forgotten lands. I will retrieve and mend them, and make them whole again. My journey will end only when the tide turns its head and whispers my succeeding venture into my depths. …
To ride the waves of the sun
Cascading down onto my unmoving soul
To be moved:
To move that which is immovable.
Let the clouds talk me
Out of singing and sighing away the day.
This day is for me,
I say, not you
Or the world that calls me
This day is mine.
Take it, try, I dare you.
And you will try.
In vain, the ego pulls
But scream all you want.
The sun can push me and the rain
Can still me but
What will I do in the end?
The wish is my own.
Follow The Flow (A Semi-Conscious Dream)
Torn but not bloodied from my lips, these words. Not a vicious doing, merely with blinding deliberation. Lead me astray, will you? No, just watch and wait.
Slowly. Slowly… Let the letters slip, drip — melting, melting — meet the pavement without a sound, that car careening off a bridge and just before it hits the water —
And just like that my kaleidoscopic dream comes to a close. Images, images; so many — not enough words to describe them with! Hunger. A shark in my belly to feed nothing. Empty with desire that craves not to be met. Listen carefully, and you may hear the whistle of a hurricane coming off the ocean, my heartbeat matching its pace in a race to end something dry. And to cool the world with that which I may have deceived myself as wet. Oh… To sleep in eternal pain without gain, only those like me. …
“Put on that face. Every morning. You say it’s yours. You think it is, even. Mask the features of the subconscious with that mahogany, ice, stone, glass, fire, dew, sun, cloud, or what have you. Let it tell the story. More fluid it will be to abandon that which you have yet to discover within not by relinquishing the reins of control but throttling them as though the tighter you grip the looser they become in your hands. Forget with every tweak of the lips, twitch of the eye, raise of the brow your tongue, being crushed slowly under those pearls of yours; your jaw, as though space was never meant to exist between your upper and lower molars.
“Look beyond that face, even. Talk all your talk and walk the other way, right? And stride with grace, for to trip would mean to fall and those who fall never get up without learning a thing or two. We all fall in our endeavors, but please, continue to hide the wears of your whims beneath a swathe of nylon and lace. No one can see what is underneath, no way, you say. You can fool them, alright, simply by fooling yourself. And if they do catch a glimpse what is to become of you? Torn to pieces, no doubt, ridiculed, shamed, rejected. So cover it all up. Not just the snowflake but that which creates the winds to carry it forth.
“You, yes, I am talking to you, because I know what it is like, how it feels to, first, swim, deeper and deeper into the depths; so, so far…. Nearly grazing the bottom, just away enough from the surface. And then you are pulled. Autopilot, fly me down without my thinking of such. Conscious at first this seemingly eternal effort to not only find a place to dig but bury yourself over and over and… and then it just stops coming. Is it… gone? Hard to tell, isn’t it, with all those tangled threads between the part of you who wonders anymore and that which is possibly unfound: Self. So many threads… But now you are reeling from the pain of the needles — your needles — used to sew and seal that treasure into a pocket without a mouth. To open yours would be to dare greatly, for can you hear what is to be said before it falls from your lips? And what have you learned of falling? But how long can you keep catching those words with those hands of yours, bleeding and chaffed as they are from gripping so tightly?
“Who are you?
“Breaking… over and over and —
“No, that is how you feel. Who are you?
“I… I don’t know.
“Ah, yes. Perhaps this question will better serve to uncover that which is covering to be covered and rediscovered again and again: Where are you? …