Even the oddest
flowers can flourish.
No sowing.
At first, just a seed
blowing when it falls
into a driveway crack,
and dormant instinct
roots foundation through
the black tar and gravel
until the magic of a spring
environment rains
light-food and nutrient-water
to seep deep then
an unlikely flower pushes
with burgeoning strength
through paved black-top.
Resiliency from infancy.
That’s me.
In a battle with my SELF. There’s no blue, no gray: BLACK and white only. Both just as necessary, both needing control;
Trying to figure shit out, both pissing me off! Darkness absorbing light, white fights a push back. Both churning growth.
In a battle with my SELF. I will fight to be red, different than in my head, understanding my misunderstood.
I want to feel the joy of nose nuzzles and clandestine kisses, I want love that swells and sways.
I stay silent, hiding my true theme: I love more than I should say. I want someone who’s not mine.
I think it best if I go away until something changes, otherwise, I’ll be ranting and raving.
(-I need to break out of my cell-)
Wish I knew how 🤔
I wish desire, I wish passion mattered. Any poem, any card, any piece of writing I’ve shared meant less than nothing, in fact, the attempts at romance were annoying.
Surprised? Nearly 20 years. So what?
I’m done.
He doesn’t even realize I’m already gone.
Waiting to bloom, my flower needs the sun’s light, but first, I endure the rain through night.
SCREEEEECH! SLAM! BAM…Bam! I knew it was coming, yet I didn’t expect an actual CRASH. I had finally willed myself to go, to be, to do, listening to pick-me-up songs, windows low to give my thoughts a blow…
But, NO! NO! NO! My curse will always find me and make good go from bad to oh so much worse!
A panic attack, a cop, and at home a toke, off to bed to escape my traumatized mind, PTSD triggered my brain is not kind.
I slept with no dreams, which was what I needed. The new day begun, I find myself cleaning with purpose again. I think to myself, “Obviously, this is where I belong.”
As I stuff my birthday bouquet of flowers into the garbage can, dead petals with a whimsical spin land on the tepid summer floor I had just swept.
I stare comatose at my atrophied feet, my breathing barely noticeable. The huuummm of the fidget, as it’s going to die, sounds like a rocket taking off, getting louder and louder and louder until I finally looked up…
From the far back of my blackhole of a brain muscle, where the sun and the moon and the stars full shine, I hear whispers tickling my neck at the spine:
“To thyself be kind, appreciate the complexity of your mind!”
Blue used to feel black, like a head whack! But, with a smack! back, because of you, blue feels bright almost a teal tropical skyline at dawn, shady clouds hanging out, shaking off the grey dew warmed to twinkle in the sun anew. When my melancholy mind is on the attack and all feels forever daunting and totally MAD, watching you transforms the blue and tickles my soul to make even my eyes smile, reminding me, things aren’t so bad, just find a way to laugh;)
GROUNDED! I am. Hope is like magic to me. In a hopeful magic-mirror, I see a side of me that’s happy, electrified with new prospects of fun, giddy to grind with lust on my mind.
BUT Magic isn’t real. It’s a con.
When my brain gets too excited, it girgles naughty thoughts, and it tricks me into creating a story I want to hear, a fairy tale.
About my days, I go slow, eyes looking up, thinking in pictures of…
what if I found a connection
with a passionate friend, who tickles my fancy, OH yes, a muse for my fantasies…
Every look, every touch elevates your love…that’s how I wish you’d feel about me, addicted like I’m your very favorite thing.
Melancholy madness, knowing my truth. No magic can make me hope something will change. I’m doomed to accept my lustless fate, so I guess I’ll just go back to sleep.
YET
(I tell you true, this is happening right now!!!)
A yellow finch just now called my attention from my red pen bleeding onto my notebook paper.
Wheels turning I had to ponder, What is this bird saying?
He just keeps singing louder and louder, then I spot him high on a flexible limb, a cloud white floating as his backdrop:
“STOP! LOOK UP!”
He sang so lovely, not at all like the other birds, a voice and rhythm all his own.
Then, a sparrow chimes, “Just live…and be…love life…reality!”
As if stung by the sun, my eyes close, the pain in my neck feels like a knife in the muscle just turned, so a frown pulling my chin down, I wheel back into the cold darkness of the garage and close the door with a wrist-flip, twisting the deadbolt locked.
Enveloped by darkness, I see the remnants of that circle of light and I blink a quick-
CLICK!
Like a photograph, within my mind, I snap-shot this moment in real time where the moon eclipses the sun making me feel warm, less alone.
(I hope you never doubt your worth! I long to show you how much I need you in my life, or I swear I wouldn’t have been able to hang in this long:)
Cracked glass clouded by steam,
the reflection skewed reality,
my face distorted, monstrous!
That’s why I cover mirrors.
Sometimes, someone sees me,
wheels making me too obvious,
and I ponder what they think…
“You’re so strong!” One exclaimed.
Muscles atrophied to skin ‘n’ bone
long ago, weakness whittled
from could to should to won’t
with my soul my gut’s blackhole
sucking up good, bad ‘n’ all…
It’s not the wrinkles or dark spots
aging looks back and takes stock:
Who were you? Who’ve you become?
Does your soul just need a hug?
LEARN TO GIVE YOURSELF LOVE ❤️
I am chronic
PAIN painted as pleasure
(inhaling moon rocks,
to clear the chronic smoke).
I dance defiance
INSIRATION my salvation
(eating my paralysis)
in search of chronic peace.
WHACK-SMACK! Reality’s back.
I twist my hair into a stiff bun, pick up my broom, sweeping lines of longing under the rug..
I’ve lived alone on the border of Arizona and Mexico, Phoenix, Flagstaff, Denver and Littleton, Colorado, and many towns in Indiana. I did alone well. I used to go to bars and concerts alone, restaurants and museums. I used to roll my wheelchair up mountains to take pictures, sail and rock climb to get high.
High is my current state of being, struggling to get by, OCD with animals constantly shedding, pain aching, pricking, and stabbing day in day out.
I don’t yell or shout, I never fight (despite the nitpicking comments thrown at me, blaming me for everything that goes wrong).
Silently (except in my head), I just keep cleaning up, dying to feel young, supple again, not an old wrinkly wench.
Dreams save my life, as a distraction from all my strife.
A nips out chill induces a clenched spasm forearms to breasts, slightly wet, as my fingers pay homage in tiny taps upon my mug, and I inhale the steam whiffs, succumbing impulsively, going back to the time my smile finally felt GENUINE.
Hopelessly Inappropriate Thoughts 