&rea

this is my art. this is my heart

I was trapped in some cube...
a matchbox house, a room.
Prisoner with a pseudo-lover...
and he's burning my arms on the stove,
Telling me he loves me so.
The wounds and scars tended by some intermittent nurse.
I'm mute,  so he tells her that they're self inflicted...
"strange way's of getting attention".
We've been time traveling...
Falling through wormholes, and black holes,
and ending up god knows where.
Another universe.
But each time the door closes,
and we're left alone,
he pulls me back to the stove.
The burners are off,
having been set high, to heat the iron,
heating the room,
and again my arms, pulled through.
Seared on all sides...
like Ahi, I'm still pink inside, I'm still pure,
(I try to convince myself.)
We're floating in a dark space where no one knows.
The occasional open and close...
of the door, the visitor.
She's brought an extra bed this time.
Saying I need my own...
To rest, to heal, not to remove the bandages.
I can not speak to this, just see... and feel.

It's not all so lovely in streaming thought mode. I'm a broken record perpetually skipping at the climax. These hiccups nearly breaking me in two at the diaphragm. But in all honesty I think they like me better this way. Polar, torn. What I mean to say is it's never quite coming near its intent. It all sounds so pretty strung up in theory. Gifted, talented... a waste of time.

But these are g*d's words not mine. Not in the slightest. And not in the conceptualized grandfather angel mode that which so many wish to blanket themselves. It gives & it takes, and it takes into consideration the gravity of each situation. Lean this way & that way with me please, for a moment at least. You know it's easy enough to get sucked into blackholes when you don't look where you're stepping, blinded, just as plainly simple to create & attract light. The spectrum is selfish like that you know.

28 years shy 5 days, and my mother gushed over my adulthood at establishing credit... put forth the effort to lean into the car to kiss me goodbye after having watched the boy so that I could have a night out. A scene right out of next years made for TV teen drama coming to its end.

There are new sheets on my bed, and new pillows - deep burgundy red in the finest 400 threadcount. I have splurged on my sleep and still need to find a bunk for the child. He's taken to the couch, with his Pirate booty. I've added a carved buddha face and an orange pillow along with the gold... and now I have a place to blanket my fears in securing comfort despite so many years living at wits end with worry... the constant stress of minding my own business while minding not to mind so many outward inputs.

I've had enough of that damage. Yet I keep falling back to lonesome. I'm perfectly fine "alone"... but to have someone to share the quiet moments of clarity, to honor with dignity all the hard work, the tears and the periods of adjustment left tormenting. To love again. To really really love again...

but those are just strings of thought.

It is just IT
that which takes more than IT gives.

too many things in life have these dynamics, and require a catalyst to change

congrats on the publication.:)

RIP RAW.

there has been a shift in the earth's resonance... it causes disturbances that only the very sensitive will notice
robert anton wilson is dead, but there are those of us to live in his sstead, to carry forth our daily bread, there are those of us.
to see or not to see be what we ought to be live in thought and theory through out this mysterious galaxy.