So after feeling a decent amount of relief, sanity, maturity, at the decision to stop trying – and failing, miserably - to have kids, I find myself teary and sad today. Again. Not so much for the loss of children I’ll never get to meet and love and know but for the absence of hope. Every time we tried, even though we tried to be as realistic, and pessimistic as possible – because sometimes is a horrible, heart-breaking monster, we still had hope. You just can’t help it. Brief – often clamped down on quickly - discussions about our possible future, possible names, possible gender, possible gene combo’s running around. And in deciding not to try again, we have made a deliberate choice to give up on hope. And giving up on hope is really fucking hard. As humans we seem to be programmed to continually hope and hope when all is burning to shit around us. That is our natural state. We’ve seen this, this resilience in people that means you can’t just give up, lie down and blissfully let it all be too much. We saw it in Thailand after the Tsunami, laughing telling their stories of running for their lives and the demolishment of everything they knew. It seemed crazy to us that they could survive and laugh about it, move on. But we do. So this choosing to move on from hope feels unnatural and has made the decision all the harder, hard enough to take 6 and 1/2 years, 9 miscarriages, thousands of dollars, 6 or so specialists, hundreds of tests, to make.
And not just the giving up on hope, but I realized today I actually have to figure out what to hope for next. And probably something more than enough money for a room with a few cats while senility takes my own name and everything about my life. Therefore, the plans for what next. Where next. How next. And the realization that comes with it: this what, where, how is not the same path we have had in mind for the past 8 years. It may not be the same path for us. It is very likely to be a totally different cross country experience for us. We’ve had the same goals – ish and the future of children and never ending debt and sacrifice has kept us moving forward together – ish. As much as you can be when you’re two very different people of the opposite gender. Now however, now it is a little different. Now our paths are about to divide significantly and we are both in agreeance that we are committed to each other and in pursuing our own next hopes. Mine O.S and his completing his PHD. It is a significant juncture. It is a difficult juncture. Which is why, when I thought things might be getting a little easier, requiring a little less “courage”, it seems it’s still time for tears.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Searching for mojo.
So here’s the thing. I have just turned 38 and things have not quite worked out to plan. Not that I had really planned things up to this stage, but as women, we have a fair idea of what we’ll be up to at this point in our lives. We will be mums.
During yr 12 I had to plan my future. That was hard. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, what I didn’t want to do, I had no idea of what I was good at (Don’t we love the shitty of self esteem as a 17year old) or really, what I was even bad at - other than picking decent boyfriends and saying no to crappy sex. Not much to work with. But I did know I had to go to university. My cousin and I were the first generation of women to do this. It was up to us to set the feminist trails blazing, at the age of 17 and 18 we were to rock the academic world with our brilliance. We were to be career women. Then I was going to be a mum. That was the plan.
I had an image of myself as an independent, working woman who travelled the world and potentially managed to look pretty funky while living out of a pack. I had an image of myself as someone who worked and travelled, then at some point had children. I didn’t even really imagine myself as wife, but definitely as a mother. I think that for most women, at least my age, it was the same. But that hasn’t happened and although I’ve made an excellent, if occasionally erratic effort at being a wife, I’m not likely to be a mum. So now the question is;
What’s the fucking plan? I have to adjust the image I had of myself, the energetic woman walking the pram down to the clifftops to walk her bab/ies along the beach. The woman who sleeps little but is happy having a break from work to be at home with beautiful, demanding bubs. The woman who could talk to other women her age about breastfeeding, teething and sleep patterns. Who hung around with other women in mother’s groups and occasional coffee catch ups, living and breathing in a nice, nurturing, sleep-deprived world of women and babies. The woman with a bond to other women and her friends that their partners can’t totally share. The woman who has a priority in her life other than work and who has something to devote herself to other than work.
Because ultimately, work isn’t enough. I love it, I appreciate it, I enjoy it most of the time. But it’s not enough. It’s like biologically I’m programmed to need something else, and now that I can’t have it, I’m a bit at a loss. I have to re-design the image I have of myself and I’m not sure how to do that.. What to replace the slightly dishevelled, yawning woman reading stories to her kids, with.
And it annoys me a bit, surely as a woman who grew up in post-feminist times I should be able to think of something else I would like to do other than have kids. Surely, in 2010 I can have an identity that does not tie me to nappies and breast pumps. Surely I can find meaning and worth in something other than in reproducing some slightly dodgy genes. Except, so far, I can’t. I don’t know if this is the same for other women who have found their lives have turned out differently to what they expected. But I am surprised to find that fundamentally, my hopes and dreams haven’t been that much different from those of my grandmother, or the great grannies who came over from Ireland, making the lace for the baptism gowns that would be handed down through generations. Is it always that many women go through the motions a bit, just biding some pretty interesting time until they become, as predestined, mothers?
We were told we “could have it all”, but as many women have discovered, we don’t want it all. It is a recurring concern in our society at the moment that women don’t hold as many high powered-positions in the workforce as men, that we aren’t paid the same, we aren’t in corporate control. But that would seem to be, because for the most part – making some generalisations I know, but that is my world at the moment, women don’t want those positions as much as men. Their wants are the same, biological, emotional wants that they have always been for women. They were my wants.
During yr 12 I had to plan my future. That was hard. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, what I didn’t want to do, I had no idea of what I was good at (Don’t we love the shitty of self esteem as a 17year old) or really, what I was even bad at - other than picking decent boyfriends and saying no to crappy sex. Not much to work with. But I did know I had to go to university. My cousin and I were the first generation of women to do this. It was up to us to set the feminist trails blazing, at the age of 17 and 18 we were to rock the academic world with our brilliance. We were to be career women. Then I was going to be a mum. That was the plan.
I had an image of myself as an independent, working woman who travelled the world and potentially managed to look pretty funky while living out of a pack. I had an image of myself as someone who worked and travelled, then at some point had children. I didn’t even really imagine myself as wife, but definitely as a mother. I think that for most women, at least my age, it was the same. But that hasn’t happened and although I’ve made an excellent, if occasionally erratic effort at being a wife, I’m not likely to be a mum. So now the question is;
What’s the fucking plan? I have to adjust the image I had of myself, the energetic woman walking the pram down to the clifftops to walk her bab/ies along the beach. The woman who sleeps little but is happy having a break from work to be at home with beautiful, demanding bubs. The woman who could talk to other women her age about breastfeeding, teething and sleep patterns. Who hung around with other women in mother’s groups and occasional coffee catch ups, living and breathing in a nice, nurturing, sleep-deprived world of women and babies. The woman with a bond to other women and her friends that their partners can’t totally share. The woman who has a priority in her life other than work and who has something to devote herself to other than work.
Because ultimately, work isn’t enough. I love it, I appreciate it, I enjoy it most of the time. But it’s not enough. It’s like biologically I’m programmed to need something else, and now that I can’t have it, I’m a bit at a loss. I have to re-design the image I have of myself and I’m not sure how to do that.. What to replace the slightly dishevelled, yawning woman reading stories to her kids, with.
And it annoys me a bit, surely as a woman who grew up in post-feminist times I should be able to think of something else I would like to do other than have kids. Surely, in 2010 I can have an identity that does not tie me to nappies and breast pumps. Surely I can find meaning and worth in something other than in reproducing some slightly dodgy genes. Except, so far, I can’t. I don’t know if this is the same for other women who have found their lives have turned out differently to what they expected. But I am surprised to find that fundamentally, my hopes and dreams haven’t been that much different from those of my grandmother, or the great grannies who came over from Ireland, making the lace for the baptism gowns that would be handed down through generations. Is it always that many women go through the motions a bit, just biding some pretty interesting time until they become, as predestined, mothers?
We were told we “could have it all”, but as many women have discovered, we don’t want it all. It is a recurring concern in our society at the moment that women don’t hold as many high powered-positions in the workforce as men, that we aren’t paid the same, we aren’t in corporate control. But that would seem to be, because for the most part – making some generalisations I know, but that is my world at the moment, women don’t want those positions as much as men. Their wants are the same, biological, emotional wants that they have always been for women. They were my wants.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Reminders
When she was around five years old her mother had made her wear red woolen tights to church with her black velvet dress and black patent leather Mary-Janes. She hated those tights, the itchy scratchiness of them, the way they bagged between her thighs, pulling them together, needing constant hitching. All her life since, she had avoided wearing anything that itched her, had avoided tights. Now she just wished someone cared enough to want her legs to be warm. And a tough pair of ill-fitting tights keeping her thighs together wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
This place is pretty busy, do you mind if I sit here? I think I’m the only Aussie in this whole place, full of poms and Micks – makes for a good bit of fun though, huh? Oh, you’re Aussie too? Must be fate! I’m Richard, don’t call me Dick, I fucken hate it. So what are you doing here, traveling too? Oh, a local? I’m stopping for a few days before I head further north. Got me van all kitted out, bit of a surfing safari gone wrong. Took a wrong turn - nah thought I’d see a bit more than the usual west or east coasts. You been here long? This weather’s a fuken pearla, I’m from Vic, fuken freezing down there this time of year. Wanna beer?
She had good friends – great friends - but now they had partners and kids. Once they laughed over Cleo’s “10 best sexual positions” and compared hangover cures – coffee Big M versus Gatorade, pies versus Vegemite on toast. Now conversations were punctuated with vocabulary out of her reach: fixed or variable loans? Colic and croup (was there a difference?), baby slings vs backpacks, nipple chap, stitches in places too unbearable to think about. She wanted that, and didn’t, see-sawing between love of her freedom and loneliness. She found it difficult to drum up enthusiasm over stories of toilet training success. Smelling like her friend’s breast milk when their babies threw up on her shoulder did not feel like bonding. But it did feel like something, it did tug at her breasts and heart, made her abdomen tighten.
She justified it easily – they were tied by mortgages and toddlers, extensions and in one case, a nasty separation, while she was tied to nothing and no one. They envied her life, she knew that. A couple were somewhere overseas, raking in big cash, but her skills were not that sought after O.S and she felt too old for backpacking now. She had done it years ago but would be the equivalent of a geriatric in any hostel. So there wasn’t much keeping in touch, nothing in common but their youth and all its silliness. It was like looking back on an old, dated movie.
I like girls with short hair, I read once that it means they’re more confident. I like a girl who knows what she’s about. My last girlfriend had long hair, spent more time fucken washing and doing shit to it than she did on anything else – what a waste of time! Lucky I’ve got two sisters so I’ve got more patience than most guys I reckon, I grew up waitin fucken hours for the bathroom. Not a metro sexual, never developed the habit of usin mirrors much, cause Kate and Sally would always be hoverin around them. But you don’t seem so high maintenance, you look more sporty – what do ya do? Surfin for me, but I don’t mind the odd run if I can’t get out in the water.
She had a good family life growing up – she was loved, accepted, spoilt. Had she been loved too much? Is that why these men she’d loved could never love her enough? Why she pushed them away because they couldn’t/wouldn’t continue to prove their dedication to her? Why she moved on when the passion waned, before they forgot to remind her that she was special?
And now where was her family? For twenty years she’d been trying to prove how independent she was, emphasizing her need for freedom, to not be tied down. So now she wasn’t. She was loved from afar, her life – sent in emails and brief phone calls – provided anecdotes for family gatherings she was always too busy, too distant, too scared to attend. Her life was much more interesting when re-told by her father – a renowned storyteller. If she turned up she’d ruin her own reputation. They’d all notice how tired, lost, cynical she was. She didn’t have the energy or inclination to be the life of the party any more. She couldn’t be fucked holding a smile.
So what do ya do here? That’s pretty cool, are you from here? Oh, a southerner too, what made you decide on this place? Yeah, I love movin around, although I usually only make short trips, but I’ve been a few places O.S – Bali, Thailand, New Zealand. I tell ya though, all that shit that’s been going on in Indonesia has put me off a bit, that’s why I’m up here for this hol. I like these traveler bars, ‘cause you can meet up with a few people for a drink pretty easy.
She hadn’t had a bad life – travel, jobs she loved, friends she trusted, lovers who had made her sad and happy. She had boxes of photos to prove all of this, to remind her when she couldn’t remember; where she was, what she was doing, who she was. She’d had a great life, but at 36 she was totally fed up with it. What had been important to her? She’d done everything she’d wanted, had everyone she’d wanted, even if just for a while. But what was left to want? To burn for? As she moved and moved and moved she’d dropped pebbles of passion along the way, now there was little left but fleeting flashes, easily snuffed out. She used to get so excited about the smallest things, a photo, her job, a new pair of shoes – the joy of shopping! The possibility of a trip somewhere, a new movie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to see a movie, bought new shoes.
So what do you do in your spare time? There doesn’t seem a lot to do up here other than get on it. I used to play in a band, just covers, but it was a bit of fun. It was a great chick magnet of course. Have you ever played an instrument? What sort of music do you like? I love that the old Aussie classics are back in fashion – you can’t beat a good bit of Chisel or Acka Dacka. Shows your age though, huh? How old are you? Bit hard to tell in this light – late 20’s? I’m a young 33, but they say guys never really grow up..
The promise, the potential that came to nothing – drawing, guitar, swimming, good looks…What do you do when you’re too old to get better at something? When the possibility of being in a band, an artist, a something, is so thin it can’t be stretched any further? She’d grown up in the post burning bra era. She had been the first female in her family to go to university. Apparently this meant you could do anything you wanted, they’d told her this growing up. She had all the opportunities her mother and grandmother hadn’t, she wouldn’t be tied to a house or family, she would have a career, be a strong, independent woman. And hadn’t that worked out just peachy.
So, ya wanna check out me van? It’s pretty cool, pretty tidy too? Sure, I’m easy, yeah, it’d be nice to get out of the van for a night. Wanna last drink?
Yes, she’ll go with this guy – Dale? Phil? Whatever. The sex, the hangover will remind her that she is alive, make her feel something other than hopelessness. Clinging to her chance that a spark of passion will be enough to remind her to keep breathing.
This place is pretty busy, do you mind if I sit here? I think I’m the only Aussie in this whole place, full of poms and Micks – makes for a good bit of fun though, huh? Oh, you’re Aussie too? Must be fate! I’m Richard, don’t call me Dick, I fucken hate it. So what are you doing here, traveling too? Oh, a local? I’m stopping for a few days before I head further north. Got me van all kitted out, bit of a surfing safari gone wrong. Took a wrong turn - nah thought I’d see a bit more than the usual west or east coasts. You been here long? This weather’s a fuken pearla, I’m from Vic, fuken freezing down there this time of year. Wanna beer?
She had good friends – great friends - but now they had partners and kids. Once they laughed over Cleo’s “10 best sexual positions” and compared hangover cures – coffee Big M versus Gatorade, pies versus Vegemite on toast. Now conversations were punctuated with vocabulary out of her reach: fixed or variable loans? Colic and croup (was there a difference?), baby slings vs backpacks, nipple chap, stitches in places too unbearable to think about. She wanted that, and didn’t, see-sawing between love of her freedom and loneliness. She found it difficult to drum up enthusiasm over stories of toilet training success. Smelling like her friend’s breast milk when their babies threw up on her shoulder did not feel like bonding. But it did feel like something, it did tug at her breasts and heart, made her abdomen tighten.
She justified it easily – they were tied by mortgages and toddlers, extensions and in one case, a nasty separation, while she was tied to nothing and no one. They envied her life, she knew that. A couple were somewhere overseas, raking in big cash, but her skills were not that sought after O.S and she felt too old for backpacking now. She had done it years ago but would be the equivalent of a geriatric in any hostel. So there wasn’t much keeping in touch, nothing in common but their youth and all its silliness. It was like looking back on an old, dated movie.
I like girls with short hair, I read once that it means they’re more confident. I like a girl who knows what she’s about. My last girlfriend had long hair, spent more time fucken washing and doing shit to it than she did on anything else – what a waste of time! Lucky I’ve got two sisters so I’ve got more patience than most guys I reckon, I grew up waitin fucken hours for the bathroom. Not a metro sexual, never developed the habit of usin mirrors much, cause Kate and Sally would always be hoverin around them. But you don’t seem so high maintenance, you look more sporty – what do ya do? Surfin for me, but I don’t mind the odd run if I can’t get out in the water.
She had a good family life growing up – she was loved, accepted, spoilt. Had she been loved too much? Is that why these men she’d loved could never love her enough? Why she pushed them away because they couldn’t/wouldn’t continue to prove their dedication to her? Why she moved on when the passion waned, before they forgot to remind her that she was special?
And now where was her family? For twenty years she’d been trying to prove how independent she was, emphasizing her need for freedom, to not be tied down. So now she wasn’t. She was loved from afar, her life – sent in emails and brief phone calls – provided anecdotes for family gatherings she was always too busy, too distant, too scared to attend. Her life was much more interesting when re-told by her father – a renowned storyteller. If she turned up she’d ruin her own reputation. They’d all notice how tired, lost, cynical she was. She didn’t have the energy or inclination to be the life of the party any more. She couldn’t be fucked holding a smile.
So what do ya do here? That’s pretty cool, are you from here? Oh, a southerner too, what made you decide on this place? Yeah, I love movin around, although I usually only make short trips, but I’ve been a few places O.S – Bali, Thailand, New Zealand. I tell ya though, all that shit that’s been going on in Indonesia has put me off a bit, that’s why I’m up here for this hol. I like these traveler bars, ‘cause you can meet up with a few people for a drink pretty easy.
She hadn’t had a bad life – travel, jobs she loved, friends she trusted, lovers who had made her sad and happy. She had boxes of photos to prove all of this, to remind her when she couldn’t remember; where she was, what she was doing, who she was. She’d had a great life, but at 36 she was totally fed up with it. What had been important to her? She’d done everything she’d wanted, had everyone she’d wanted, even if just for a while. But what was left to want? To burn for? As she moved and moved and moved she’d dropped pebbles of passion along the way, now there was little left but fleeting flashes, easily snuffed out. She used to get so excited about the smallest things, a photo, her job, a new pair of shoes – the joy of shopping! The possibility of a trip somewhere, a new movie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to see a movie, bought new shoes.
So what do you do in your spare time? There doesn’t seem a lot to do up here other than get on it. I used to play in a band, just covers, but it was a bit of fun. It was a great chick magnet of course. Have you ever played an instrument? What sort of music do you like? I love that the old Aussie classics are back in fashion – you can’t beat a good bit of Chisel or Acka Dacka. Shows your age though, huh? How old are you? Bit hard to tell in this light – late 20’s? I’m a young 33, but they say guys never really grow up..
The promise, the potential that came to nothing – drawing, guitar, swimming, good looks…What do you do when you’re too old to get better at something? When the possibility of being in a band, an artist, a something, is so thin it can’t be stretched any further? She’d grown up in the post burning bra era. She had been the first female in her family to go to university. Apparently this meant you could do anything you wanted, they’d told her this growing up. She had all the opportunities her mother and grandmother hadn’t, she wouldn’t be tied to a house or family, she would have a career, be a strong, independent woman. And hadn’t that worked out just peachy.
So, ya wanna check out me van? It’s pretty cool, pretty tidy too? Sure, I’m easy, yeah, it’d be nice to get out of the van for a night. Wanna last drink?
Yes, she’ll go with this guy – Dale? Phil? Whatever. The sex, the hangover will remind her that she is alive, make her feel something other than hopelessness. Clinging to her chance that a spark of passion will be enough to remind her to keep breathing.
carrion/scavenger
I sneak looks at you.
You are round and rosy
laughter peals through your stories
your eyes shine,
We are pulled towards your centre.
You are ripe
luscious
You are woman.
I am sharp
angled edges
I am empty-
the crow tearing strips
from your garbage.
I teeter
at the edge of your
possibility.
I don’t have it
I am not it
I am the cold shade
in your shine.
You are round and rosy
laughter peals through your stories
your eyes shine,
We are pulled towards your centre.
You are ripe
luscious
You are woman.
I am sharp
angled edges
I am empty-
the crow tearing strips
from your garbage.
I teeter
at the edge of your
possibility.
I don’t have it
I am not it
I am the cold shade
in your shine.
an itch.
Here I am
wanting 4 walls
and locks
and bars
and restriction.
Because
here I am
wild inside
the bubbling
troubling
rage and hate
The need to run
and roar
and hurt
and bleed
that needs
to be contained.
4 walls
and locks
and bars
to stifle
and save
what I am.
wanting 4 walls
and locks
and bars
and restriction.
Because
here I am
wild inside
the bubbling
troubling
rage and hate
The need to run
and roar
and hurt
and bleed
that needs
to be contained.
4 walls
and locks
and bars
to stifle
and save
what I am.
mistaken
I turned around before,
looked up into your face
and didn’t know who
the fuk you were.
So this is it
I look around
and there I am-
living someone else’s
life.
And no- one
not even me
missed me.
looked up into your face
and didn’t know who
the fuk you were.
So this is it
I look around
and there I am-
living someone else’s
life.
And no- one
not even me
missed me.
chance
I missed
my dark-eyed hope –
For meaning
For the desperate desire
to cling to youth
to hope
to joy
The possibility of
something
The possibility of life
is you
Dark-eyed something
More than love
More than possibility
the chance of more
my dark-eyed hope –
For meaning
For the desperate desire
to cling to youth
to hope
to joy
The possibility of
something
The possibility of life
is you
Dark-eyed something
More than love
More than possibility
the chance of more
crone
I stand outraged.
The three girls shine in their
youth
they are blond, smooth and tan
and full of possibility.
I stand awkward
I stand in self pity
I stand bloodied and dried
I stand disappointed.
They glow.
The three girls shine in their
youth
they are blond, smooth and tan
and full of possibility.
I stand awkward
I stand in self pity
I stand bloodied and dried
I stand disappointed.
They glow.
Warning
I glimpse her
as I turn my head
to dry my hair –
in the mirror
In a moment
in a second
she fleets,
A tease
I glimpse the girl
at 20
at 25
30
and wonder.
What would I warn?
What would I tell?
Keep going.
You will not have to pause
You will not have to stop
You won’t be a provider
trapped by obligation,
by family –
You’ll just be trapped.
Keep going
Keep travelling
Don’t stop.
as I turn my head
to dry my hair –
in the mirror
In a moment
in a second
she fleets,
A tease
I glimpse the girl
at 20
at 25
30
and wonder.
What would I warn?
What would I tell?
Keep going.
You will not have to pause
You will not have to stop
You won’t be a provider
trapped by obligation,
by family –
You’ll just be trapped.
Keep going
Keep travelling
Don’t stop.
sharp.
I am
fragmenting glass
sharp, smooth
subtle pain.
I cut you
slowly –
you don’t realize
at first
how deep ‘till
your blood flows
deep, thick,
full
and I kill you with
my shards
piece by piece
cold, heartless
torture
without sound
without care.
fragmenting glass
sharp, smooth
subtle pain.
I cut you
slowly –
you don’t realize
at first
how deep ‘till
your blood flows
deep, thick,
full
and I kill you with
my shards
piece by piece
cold, heartless
torture
without sound
without care.
Loss. 3
My little girl
my little boy
run ‘round my legs
laughing
gurgling
fat dimples
fat limbs
faces full of light
of love
of me and you.
My little girl
my little boy
run ‘round me
but their voices
are just echos
that haunt
and taunt
and tear
and are gone.
my little boy
run ‘round my legs
laughing
gurgling
fat dimples
fat limbs
faces full of light
of love
of me and you.
My little girl
my little boy
run ‘round me
but their voices
are just echos
that haunt
and taunt
and tear
and are gone.
Loss. 2
I let you go.
You ran
down my legs
I felt your
heart beat flow
my boy
my joy.
I let you go
because
I’m not strong enough
to hold you
keep your
heart beating
but I love you
I miss you
I hear you
always.
You ran
down my legs
I felt your
heart beat flow
my boy
my joy.
I let you go
because
I’m not strong enough
to hold you
keep your
heart beating
but I love you
I miss you
I hear you
always.
Loss.1
I wanted to
hold you, hear you
but you were dying
to see you
be with you
but you were dying
know you
watch you grow
watch me in you
find out who you were
but you’ve gone
before you were ever here
before I could say
hello,
I love you.
hold you, hear you
but you were dying
to see you
be with you
but you were dying
know you
watch you grow
watch me in you
find out who you were
but you’ve gone
before you were ever here
before I could say
hello,
I love you.
chuckles
I laugh at the joke.
Inside I scream.
I scream
I rage I cry I yell
I moan I tear I rip I roar.
Inside I rent and crack and rage
I rage
I rage
With a smile
And a linking sentence.
I hide behind chat
I sip
And seethe.
My sorrowful schizophrenia
Keeps me mute, serene, passive
But in my world
I cry
I loathe
I hate and I rage
I hate
Inside I scream.
I scream
I rage I cry I yell
I moan I tear I rip I roar.
Inside I rent and crack and rage
I rage
I rage
With a smile
And a linking sentence.
I hide behind chat
I sip
And seethe.
My sorrowful schizophrenia
Keeps me mute, serene, passive
But in my world
I cry
I loathe
I hate and I rage
I hate
fivesies
I don’t know how
To be still
Without pouring
the blindness down
my throat.
How do I keep from
Twitching?
How can I keep the
visions away
without that
beautiful, numbing
liquid sanity?
It makes me quiet,
immobile,
plausible.
To be still
Without pouring
the blindness down
my throat.
How do I keep from
Twitching?
How can I keep the
visions away
without that
beautiful, numbing
liquid sanity?
It makes me quiet,
immobile,
plausible.
drought
I want to cry
but I’ll dissolve in
my self pity
self loathing
self loss.
I want to cry
but I know I will
never stop.
It will consume
suffocate
destroy any will,
any chance
any hope.
Then how will I fight
Will I speak?
Will I move?
How will I be what
you expect? Need?
I stay dry
hard
empty
for this life.
but I’ll dissolve in
my self pity
self loathing
self loss.
I want to cry
but I know I will
never stop.
It will consume
suffocate
destroy any will,
any chance
any hope.
Then how will I fight
Will I speak?
Will I move?
How will I be what
you expect? Need?
I stay dry
hard
empty
for this life.
reflections
I glimpse
in my rear view mirror,
the storm clouds
and in them is my past.
I am filled with longing
not for the youth
but the desperate desire,
the want,
need
that filled and fuelled me.
The lack of it
makes me sterile
empty.
I miss it.
Tears for me seep
through my pores,
blurring the rear view world
behind me.
I miss me.
in my rear view mirror,
the storm clouds
and in them is my past.
I am filled with longing
not for the youth
but the desperate desire,
the want,
need
that filled and fuelled me.
The lack of it
makes me sterile
empty.
I miss it.
Tears for me seep
through my pores,
blurring the rear view world
behind me.
I miss me.
psychiatry
Fuk him-
the guy who
patronises,
says it’s OK
to be this fuked up
but holds my head down.
And pushes
to keep me steady
Fuk him
to think he knows me;
knows nothing
will never
I won’t suk for you
anymore.
Fuk you
the guy who
patronises,
says it’s OK
to be this fuked up
but holds my head down.
And pushes
to keep me steady
Fuk him
to think he knows me;
knows nothing
will never
I won’t suk for you
anymore.
Fuk you
bittersweet
I ate my heart today
shaped like a
strawberry chocolate.
It tasted sharp and full,
strawberryish
but not ripe.
Interesting
but not delicious.
I’m hoping now for peace,
the end to restlessness
the end to my life
being dictated by
emotion.
I’m waiting for anguish
to disappear
with the aftertaste.
I hope I’ve eaten my fury.
Eating my heart
wasn’t great
even as a strawberry chocolate
but I think I’ve done
myself
a flavour favour.
shaped like a
strawberry chocolate.
It tasted sharp and full,
strawberryish
but not ripe.
Interesting
but not delicious.
I’m hoping now for peace,
the end to restlessness
the end to my life
being dictated by
emotion.
I’m waiting for anguish
to disappear
with the aftertaste.
I hope I’ve eaten my fury.
Eating my heart
wasn’t great
even as a strawberry chocolate
but I think I’ve done
myself
a flavour favour.
Rationality
My head and my heart have
had a falling out.
My head won,
which is good
and bad
it’s unfair and right.
But never think
I don’t want you
or care
or love
or miss.
And you have a place
which,
when I’m old and reflective,
remembering my special,
ridiculous life,
will mean more
than fleeting touch.
So all’s not lost.
had a falling out.
My head won,
which is good
and bad
it’s unfair and right.
But never think
I don’t want you
or care
or love
or miss.
And you have a place
which,
when I’m old and reflective,
remembering my special,
ridiculous life,
will mean more
than fleeting touch.
So all’s not lost.
Illiterate.
I’m staring at you
daring you to see
eyes the colour of
ferocity and lust,
a mouth outlined
in anger and a love of
the absurd.
Eyebrows that draw
cynicism, nostrils
twitch to show a lie.
But you smile with
no meaning,
a flicker of confusion.
You have not read
me.
I am no more special
than any other face-page.
daring you to see
eyes the colour of
ferocity and lust,
a mouth outlined
in anger and a love of
the absurd.
Eyebrows that draw
cynicism, nostrils
twitch to show a lie.
But you smile with
no meaning,
a flicker of confusion.
You have not read
me.
I am no more special
than any other face-page.
Nostalgia
With certain vulnerability
the virus can spread;
blood buzzing
nerves alert
to the point reached
where one word
a smile
an old song
a town passed through
are sign points
to who you once were
where life once was
and with whom.
The present gets lost
overcome by
once-upon-a-times,
mistakes not learnt from.
A non-productive
disease
tearing holes in the soul.
the virus can spread;
blood buzzing
nerves alert
to the point reached
where one word
a smile
an old song
a town passed through
are sign points
to who you once were
where life once was
and with whom.
The present gets lost
overcome by
once-upon-a-times,
mistakes not learnt from.
A non-productive
disease
tearing holes in the soul.
Ghost
When I go to bed
and close my eyes
I hear my footsteps
in the hall
and my sighs
from outside.
There’s my laughter
on the phone
and crying
in the mirror.
I smell sweat
from running
and feel the pain
in my head.
Hope whispers
through the house.
A restless spirit
haunts
an empty body.
and close my eyes
I hear my footsteps
in the hall
and my sighs
from outside.
There’s my laughter
on the phone
and crying
in the mirror.
I smell sweat
from running
and feel the pain
in my head.
Hope whispers
through the house.
A restless spirit
haunts
an empty body.
Newborn
Your innocence
is dazzling beauty,
you grip my hand and
I love you.
Completely, shamelessly,
without knowing you.
You hold the truth
and my immortality,
I’ll give you
everything
and you’ll help me.
With mystery
in every movement,
Never-ending joy
in your smiles.
You
are magnificent.
is dazzling beauty,
you grip my hand and
I love you.
Completely, shamelessly,
without knowing you.
You hold the truth
and my immortality,
I’ll give you
everything
and you’ll help me.
With mystery
in every movement,
Never-ending joy
in your smiles.
You
are magnificent.
Losing
Anger at petties,
frustrating nothings
consume me.
Cells change and
I’m the hag in my heart
Trying to smile up positives but lacking confidence.
Metamorphosis –
voices now so irritating
the forced grin becomes
an enraged, deadly
scream.
It shreds my world
cuts through goodness
becoming the cry voiced only
through other’s pain.
frustrating nothings
consume me.
Cells change and
I’m the hag in my heart
Trying to smile up positives but lacking confidence.
Metamorphosis –
voices now so irritating
the forced grin becomes
an enraged, deadly
scream.
It shreds my world
cuts through goodness
becoming the cry voiced only
through other’s pain.
Loser
Cowardice
is pausing,
holding back giggles
and behaving
as you should.
Stupidity
is thinking you know
not trying
to understand.
Cruelty
Is choking others
and yourself
with wavering expectations.
It makes me sad
when you forget
your dreams.
It makes me angry
when you forget
who I am.
is pausing,
holding back giggles
and behaving
as you should.
Stupidity
is thinking you know
not trying
to understand.
Cruelty
Is choking others
and yourself
with wavering expectations.
It makes me sad
when you forget
your dreams.
It makes me angry
when you forget
who I am.
The moments.
Sometimes
stars talk to me
whispering wonders,
sometimes I breathe
fragments of hidden
desires.
I’ve known magic.
Sometimes
music makes me
someone else.
Sometimes I wake
from reality
and live in dreams.
I’ve known insanity.
Sometimes
I’ve got confused
and found myself.
Sometimes I’ve been
happy.
stars talk to me
whispering wonders,
sometimes I breathe
fragments of hidden
desires.
I’ve known magic.
Sometimes
music makes me
someone else.
Sometimes I wake
from reality
and live in dreams.
I’ve known insanity.
Sometimes
I’ve got confused
and found myself.
Sometimes I’ve been
happy.
Out 4 lunch
It’d be better if you didn’t
talk to me right now,
I’m not myself.
I’m currently walking
on deserted beaches
in unknown countries.
Naked.
Eating chocolate fudge ice-cream,
drinking tequila,
I’m singing in tune
and feeling horny.
I’m floating in warm waters
and chatting with elephants.
I’m completely out of control-
writing madwoman poetry,
listening to all my favorite songs
at once.
I’m perfect,
I’m laughing.
Come back later.
talk to me right now,
I’m not myself.
I’m currently walking
on deserted beaches
in unknown countries.
Naked.
Eating chocolate fudge ice-cream,
drinking tequila,
I’m singing in tune
and feeling horny.
I’m floating in warm waters
and chatting with elephants.
I’m completely out of control-
writing madwoman poetry,
listening to all my favorite songs
at once.
I’m perfect,
I’m laughing.
Come back later.
tell me
Always there
always loved
always wanted.
Then,
you’re beauty
trembling
my longing
scared,
huge.
Yes.
Make it real-
equal affection.
Finally.
But I didn’t know
how much, how little
I would have
held you tighter.
always loved
always wanted.
Then,
you’re beauty
trembling
my longing
scared,
huge.
Yes.
Make it real-
equal affection.
Finally.
But I didn’t know
how much, how little
I would have
held you tighter.
unemployed
Mother
The elder
The responsible
The carer.
Became lover
Became wanted
Became needer
For a moment
For a reason
That never stays
That never gives.
Now over
Now walked away from
Now separate
No longer purpose
No longer desire
With lust out of tune
With lips dry
With what
The alone now
The loser, lost
None.
The elder
The responsible
The carer.
Became lover
Became wanted
Became needer
For a moment
For a reason
That never stays
That never gives.
Now over
Now walked away from
Now separate
No longer purpose
No longer desire
With lust out of tune
With lips dry
With what
The alone now
The loser, lost
None.
Headache
I’m screaming your name
in my head
because I chose not to have you
because you were never mine
to have.
But when I close my eyes
I can see all of your face
I can look into your eyes
and feel your shoulders
and chest
and tongue
and
I’m screaming your name
in my head
because I chose to never
scream it aloud.
But when I close my eyes
I miss you.
in my head
because I chose not to have you
because you were never mine
to have.
But when I close my eyes
I can see all of your face
I can look into your eyes
and feel your shoulders
and chest
and tongue
and
I’m screaming your name
in my head
because I chose to never
scream it aloud.
But when I close my eyes
I miss you.
soul stunting
in never letting
a soul experience
all, all
it remains
'till death
a slice of
possibilities;
underdeveloped
weak
easily corrupted
dislexic
a soul experience
all, all
it remains
'till death
a slice of
possibilities;
underdeveloped
weak
easily corrupted
dislexic
out of focus
‘Over and over’
my heart screams.
‘When the fuk
will you stop.
Look at what you are.
It’s not
what you wanted
it’s not
that hot.’
Fear is stronger
it drowns
my truths
so I am
a lie.
my heart screams.
‘When the fuk
will you stop.
Look at what you are.
It’s not
what you wanted
it’s not
that hot.’
Fear is stronger
it drowns
my truths
so I am
a lie.
halt!
What if I just stopped
looking into the faces
of frustration
I Stopped
writing
explaining
‘shush’ing
battling
coping
blinking
breathing
giving a shit
just stopped
who
would I be?
looking into the faces
of frustration
I Stopped
writing
explaining
‘shush’ing
battling
coping
blinking
breathing
giving a shit
just stopped
who
would I be?
ionesco
Can't apologise
for laughing.
Absurdities tickle,
worm into the brain
cells.
And in wonder,
shock, disgust
at the farce
surrounding us
that we breathe,
accept, fuk,
I roar a cheap laugh.
And enjoy.
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