When it Rains

When it rains, I’ll cry too.
When it’s torrential and the wind blows, I will weep, and sob and shudder.
When it storms and the wind drives the trees from their roots, I will fall on my knees and join them.
I will wail and moan like a Banshee, I will pound the ground with my fists, I will claw at the earth and break my nails in the mud.
When mother nature sends her best I will spread my arms and look to the skies and scream.
Many questions that deserve answers.
But to one there is none.
Why.
I will not wait for answers. Could not hear them anyway.
I will collapse on the ground.
I will dig myself in. Plant myself.
I will be still. I will be a rock.
I will fall quiet.
The water will wash over me.
The waters can drench me. Tear my clothes from me. My hair will cloak me and my soul would never abandon me.
The water will wash over me and I will stay. The water will pool around my knees and still I will stay. The water will creep up around my neck and still I will stay. The water will nip the tip of my nose and I will raise my head and catch a glimpse of myself on the shore.
I will stand up.
I am scared and alone and I will make my way over to her. The water will rush at me begging me to stay. I will reach out to her in desperation, with trepidation.
The water will wash over me. I am lost. Will she help me? Can she?
When it floods the rivers will swell and the banks will come
up to greet me and take it all away.
The filth. The black. The empty.
The water will wash me.
I will be clean.
When the clouds shift and the moon and stars spy me in their glow, I will feel vulnerable.
I will wonder at my smallness and gasp at the vastness of space and time.
I will feel humble.
When the sun shines I will see the glory of life all around.
I will marvel at its colours, and delight in its sounds. I will fall in love with its magic and its mystery.
I will stay until the warmth penetrates me and sets my soul on fire.
I will feel new.
And when the wind kisses a gentle breeze that caresses my cheek, I will feel loved. And when she gusts and plays with my hair I will feel embraced, and I will spread my arms and look to the skies and gesture THANK YOU!
I am reminded I am alive.
And when I catch a glimpse of myself, I will smile.
I am free.

A Poem – Spilt*(sp) Milk and Dirty Hair

Life will be disorganized and chaosed. I will sleep and not sleep. I will eat and eat, and lose my appetite and my interest.

I will forget. And I will remember.

I will cry over spilt milk.  And I will misspell spilt.

I will wear the same clothes for days in a row.

I will skip brushing my teeth and my hair out of despair and habit.

I will leave my bed unmade and my house unkempt and have too many pets.

I will leave the phone, mail and door unanswered.

I will get angry, and I will swear. IN YOUR OFFICE.

I will not apologize.

I will be ME.

I will show up with dirty hair.

I will dare to look you in the eyes and expect, no demand respect.

For all the years of un-shed tears over past wrongs and all the unspoken traumas.

For being cloaked in shame, over and over and over again.

For endlessly saying sorry for things that were not even mine to apologize for, and the crippling burden of guilt.

For the endless torture of perfectionism and living up to other peoples expectations, wants, needs, and sacrificing my own.

For the hump in my spine developed from years of walking with my eyes trolling the ground.

For having tasted the freedom to express my self, to have a voice, to speak, to be heard. To feel heard.

To hear.

For ME.

Because it is my choice.

Because it is my life. My body. My right. My entitlement. My everything.

Because I went mad trying and not trying is making me better.

Because I care about myself, no I love my damn self, and I have an immense amount of power inside me.

Because I believe other people have that power too.

Because I want to make this world better. Better for me, and better for you.

I will show up with dirty hair. And buy shampoo.

We all have to start somewhere.

Mentally Me – C/P

Of Depression

Dear Reader – This poem does not reflect how I am feeling today but rather another time when I was feeling so depressed I was suicidal. If you or someone you know is feeling suicidal please call 911 without hesitation. You can come back from black!

Of Depression

I had believed myself victorious. But at night a tap on the window of my mind. Distracting at first and then demanding. The days at first glorious now grow tirelessly long. The sun too bright.

I tried, feign, oh how I tried. To be a part of your world. To belong to it. I laughed, I cried. I made jokes. I took buses to your pretty buildings and looked up. I walked barefoot in your green grass. I sampled your food and smiled at your people.

I did rise up but only so that I could fall. The world assaulted my senses. Too intense, too loud, too fast, too harsh.

I had taken up the sword time and time again, but now it lay rusting by the door. Even if useable I had no will to pick it up, my muscles having grown slack.

Alas I felt lost and at odds. I didn’t understand my reactions, and wondered if I was unwell. Happiness was an ill fitting shirt, always awkward, always askew, always needing adjustment. Something I couldn’t wait to take off. It was foreign.

Withdrawal is easy. I am already hidden. Having constructed my world so that nobody knows where I am or what I am doing but they all think I am somewhere, doing something. Important.

I don’t believe I ever fully lost sight of her, my black Goddess. Once I thought her lost but soon realized she had never left my side, and it was only because I had turned my head. She had merely lain in tempered silence awaiting my return, her teeth and eyes gleaming when I looked upon her. Her ability to predict me unmatched by any other I had encountered. It is strange to be known so well by such a creature, since her continued presence surely means my demise, yet I imagine it is akin to love.

Rising up from the darkness she beckons me come to her side, to nestle in her bosom, to suckle her pale teat and swallow the poison. Drink it down, and fill me into my boots. She whispers to me, a familiar lull. Not aloud, yet somewhere in the depths of my mind, and I hear her. And when I pay her mind it becomes a deafening roar.

Her embrace is suffocating, consuming, intoxicating. I lie on a slab and use her frock as a blanket, her hair as a pillow. I am so very weary. Perhaps she grows tired of this torturous dance also. Maybe this time she will put the dagger in me, and finish us off.

Only time holds answers. But for now I am compelled to close my eyes and dream of dark things in a funerary world and hope to awake to silence.

I am not afraid of this dark abyss in which she dwells because I have been here before. I have lived here with her for decades.

You see she is me, and I am home.

Mentally Me – C/P