Nerves

When excitement comes

I think it’s right for me

But my body vibrates

And I’m sensing as I would, if stress were rocking the boat

So, in these differences I can talk myself through

But my body

She knows how the feeling flows

From one side to the other

Reaching the same heights.

Seen

I hope not to be seen

By the knower that’s been

Nor the giver, the taker

The holy thou maker

Don’t ram with I think

When my life’s at the brink

‘It sure worked for them’

This rumouring stem

I hope not to be questioned

No shoulds ever mentioned

No rites to my ‘wrongs’

Fine tuning my songs

Don’t raid me with yours

Those outpouring doors

Fast halting the ripple

Black taping the nipple

Not my world, that’s you

Those rules you hold true

Keep them close, if you may

Your minute, your day

Not mine.

Home

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Many times I’ve doubted the strength I have to carry myself.

‘Am I enough or are broken pieces of me distributing weight unevenly?’

I wasn’t enough, or so I believed.

My knees ached as I dragged conflicting reasoning’s everywhere I travelled, not truly feeling safe anywhere. Mainly blaming environment or circumstance.

I’m claustrophobic because feeling confined within the dark space of my mind dampens my palms and revs up the heat, exhausting vitality. In the company of so many people I feel anonymous, I feel alone and my thoughts are deafeningly loud. Did I feel so unworthy that I never screamed, never vented any of my worries?

‘Fuck you life, Fuck you!’

I never did screamed, ever. I swallowed instead.

And anxiety grew, rooting deeply into my pelvic bone, unsettling every step I took.

The inhospitable me that I’d grown to accept, to misunderstand was the only reality I knew when I slept, when I roamed, when I sat to eat dinner at the kitchen table.

Safety in my shell, was this ever a possibility when attacks from within were so violently satisfying? Sharp blades of self-hatred pierced through my gut lining. I was a walking battlefield.

But not anymore…

I am fed up with fleeting doubts that poison my power.

So my shell is a little dented and scarred tissue decorates my flesh, so what?

I am unravelling restrictive bands from around my lungs, it is safe for me breathe as deeply as when I first arrived into this world.

Breathing life into the only home I’ll ever need to invest in

Investing in me

I am home.

Mission to LOVE

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I’m on a mission to Love. Myself. Completely.

The kind of love that never depletes, love that overspills and never empties, filling density and space.

I’m on a mission to Love because there ain’t no medicine like it and as a woman who’s smashed her toes on the very bottom, Love was the only nectar that tenderly held my bones together for long enough to repair.

I cannot despair at the vicious behaviour of others if I am unable to witness my own destructive actions, the daily whips and slaps and disgraces that riddle my thoughts. What is the difference between my violence and theirs? Attacking internal landscapes only fuels disruption, when I hurt myself I want others to suffer, no soul is exempt from that.

Without Love I’ve dragged my flesh over broken shell and bitten the healing skin only to watch it bleed again. Without loving myself I’ve wanted the love of another to heal what I keep pulling apart, piercing their frailty in the expectation they’ll understand mine.

I don’t want to pick at open wounds anymore, expecting the needle of another to sew me back together. I am no longer a victim begging for another’s arms to save me. I have enough love to know I am already saved. Some days I believe this more than others.

I’m on mission to Love the crap as much as the good, merging the two into a golden thread used to strengthen the bond between pains and perfection.

To embody what’s already within me without fear or trepidation. To Love who I am utterly and completely with every cell of my being, every second of everyday – That is my mission.

 

 

 

Frustrations

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Brewing from frustrations, bulking out minutes, hours, days with thoughts of ‘fuck this!’ You know the kind, we all know.

Ah but what moments of brilliance it brings, to shatter guarded routine and sever truth from damnation.

How much I love the heat of annoyance plaguing morning disappointments, disappointed about nothing in particular but that’s where brilliance dwells.

Vapours coat such disappointments, handed over are medicinal pills to swallow whole.

Breathe in memorable scents of enough is enough.

Trepidation crumbles, ingenious movements possess us, leading us to countless discoveries.

See, where would we be without ‘Fuck this’?

From stillness, those nights when anxieties sweat onto fresh cottons, those days we imprint disaster before the clouds break and dawn freshens the foulness. How invaluable such moments, as what inventions would have pulsed into existence without common frustrations of the everyday?

Stand to attention!

Called to listen when no longer the mundane tickles our tones, the soundtrack to our life is flippin’, side A to B.

If we behave the way we’re told, goodness, what prisoners we’d be. Prisoners to others caged sentences, paragraphs to mould the wounded, slicing flesh with manipulative intentions.

They may have their intentions but my edges ain’t cut to fit their puzzle, I’ll carve my own.

And how brilliant I feel to cross the line, to show impatience and rip the pretty ribbon.

Frustrations burn too hot to stand ridged.

NOW, it’s time and I’ll dance my way. Shoes tapping noisily, marking pavements with excited skips and lightness of swing.

Yes, the time is now so thank you frustrations for your poker fingers, shuffle the cards and deal me what ya got.

Fuck this, I’m ready for new.

 

Imagination

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My imagination runs away, persistently.

She steps outside contained limitations to explore and discover plains of elsewhere and elsewhere is never as far away as you think.

She’s my feeler, sensing her way through clusters of unhindered realms, each one so very real, so very alive and vivid. Although not in my tactile surroundings yet, all comes… this She has proven time and time again.

I use the word She as she’s powerfully receptive but She can fight as fiercely as She cries. ‘She’ is only a distinction, a label to differentiate between her absorbent nature and the active opposite. Yet without one, the other is aimless and even aimless requires our aims acknowledged. So, She is all and in-between. She’s active in her receptivity, and in this unity the perfect circle is formed – Perfect for expansion.

And she expands beyond boundaries, beyond self-inflicted restrictions, to where creative nectar glistens. The very nectar that oozed through our veins before birth, the nectar that eased us into existence. The very nectar we waste on attempts to sweeten others, to glue their needs to our wants.

We’re addicted, all of us. It’s in our blood and bones, our cells suffocate without it. To imagine drives our reasons. Truly, it is imagination that answers our questions. It fills our pockets with scented flower heads, keeping our palms fresh as we rummage through the daily grind.

Imagination is as real as reality is not.

So I let her run, some days I pray she’ll lose herself and not find her way home but she always returns and with a gift. I’ve learnt to take all she offers, no matter the depth of discomfort her gift may bring. To turn your back, to sever the tongue that devours her essence will destroys her hunger and with no fire in her belly, she’ll die, in an instant.