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.

 

Belong

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I’m no accident

No hand of luck

Or result of consequence

Led me here

I’m claiming one half and the other

I’m claiming everything

I AM more powerful than I believed

I learn

And I love

Learning to love painlessly

And when I don’t

I claim understanding

Because I can only know

To know what I know

And so to understand ourselves

Is as important as breath drunk deeply

As without

We slice and dice our life

Disconnecting from the totality of our brilliance

The phenomenal powers of the universe

The incomparable beauty

Lives within us

Generating electricity

And un-orchestrated rhythms

Intricate happenings

And microscopic life

Happening not to us

But in us

All wonders we observe above

To understand why and where and how

Has evolved so precisely within

So I’m claiming my own excellence

I’m no accident

And neither are you

We’re evolving perfectly

As life does

And we belong.

Objects

Some days I just don’t have the words

And I’ve nothing of importance to say

No mammoth revelations or shifting beliefs that could permanently change my foundations yet mean jack-shit to anyone else

Some days the poetry flows

Others, the inanimate object holds my absolute attention

For minutes, sometimes hours, I stare

No output

Some days I’ve got nothing to give

So I take

And the object becomes no longer an object I know by name

It becomes shapeless and unfamiliar for my projections

Sepia toned filters

1988, I’m 6

Ex-lovers revisit with distasteful words

Damn them

Focused stares raise questions

That I’ll probably never answer

I wonder upon many wonders

Knotted desires unravel

And clarity arouses me

Until they ravel back

We get lost, the object and I

Suddenly there’s an understanding about not ever understanding what I’m supposed to have understood all along

Until my understandings pass

And I’m so fixed; I’m detached from the world around me

Then I begin to understand again

Until I don’t

Some days I just don’t have the words

And I’ve nothing of importance to say

But held within my stare lives a whole world of importance

The object knows

Until the objects name is resumed and we merge back into the realms of reality

But it’s not really reality at all, is it?

The object knows

Sorry

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I’ve fucked you over

So many times

Denting you

I’ve pierced deeply with hateful remarks

Unrealistic comparisons

I’ve dissected you, leaving scraps to feed the wolves

I’ve abused you

Carrying out acts

To leave you weary of life

And love

As I’ve shown you non

You’ve supported me

Asking for little in return other than acknowledgement

I couldn’t even give you that

I’ve spent hours polishing you

Parading you around

Yet behind closed doors

I’ve beat you

For not being enough

Not being the trophy I held so vividly in my imaginings

I’ve cursed you for being you

For being mine

My body

I’m sorry

You took my shit for so long

And when you spoke out

I numbed you with chemicals

I forced your silence with frustrated fists

Starved you completely from the nourishment you deserve

And now my heart bleeds

As I feel you break

How I can fix you?

Please, let me know.