The words she whispered linger in the place she wept. Clutching a picture of her parents, she contemplated for several minutes, drained, with nothing left. Her tears fell on the glass picture frame that she held in silent lament. In her last agony, she spoke softly, in faint breaths. Lying down in a white nightgown, she closed her tearful eyes, and slept.
Tag: Mental Health
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We were but striplings, some without mothers, some without fathers, running wild in the night unafraid of pitch darkness with hearts of lions. Our aura glowed beautifully in the souls of us; we laughed and we wept in fierce countenance. We were young, yet many were the trials for us; our bodies skinny and undeveloped, so in the company of monsters we fought with tears and dreamt of vengeance. To keep the pain from sorrowful and depressed grandmothers, some held in their agony and kept the devastating silence. Go back in time, and look into the eyes of us. Move past the innocent smiles, and see the hurt in us. The unresolved pain of our past is the illness of us. We cry on the graves of our mothers and curse the abandonment of our fathers. If I could, I would take away the trauma from all of us. We seek heaven’s light to take away the darkness. They are scarred, and they are beautiful. They are my brothers. They are my sisters. Still, now, with the blood of hope, and with the blood of vengeance, we survive tormented summers and bitterly cold winters.
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Sitting on a twin sized bed in a dimly lit motel room, she lights a cigarette and opens up a bible; she inhales the nicotine, then a slow exhale. After reading a few verses, she closes her eyes and takes another pull; she has worked all night and she is tired, with a little redness of the eyes, but she is beautiful. The intricacies of her contemplation could never be properly conveyed through any written literature or narration. She makes money anyway she can, to feed herself and provide for her son, but she seldom sees him. She prays money’s accumulation will be her salvation; she wants to be a much better mother and live again. The tobacco in her cigarette nears its end — she takes a drink, leaving the condensation on the night stand. She lies down with the television on, the volume low. The comfort of a comforter underneath her, she meant to cover herself, but she was too exhausted. Her eyes close with the hopes of beautiful dreams. She slips her left arm under the coolness of a soft pillow, falling asleep in her heels.
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Lascivious intent stalk the city blocks were women in short skirts and six inch heels walk. Naked ladies dance seductively in front of eager men for money; they dart in and out of dark 25 cent peep show booths, secretly. The scent of perfume and cigarette smoke lingers heavily; women of the night approach cars with dimmed lights. X rated movie theaters run films all night. The inebriated lean on glass windows under neon lights. Men and women use cocaine to stem the somnolence and numb the pain. Heroin users lie zombified in cheap dingy hotel rooms with dirty needles still in the vain. A prostitute walks down 42nd street in torn stockings, holding her broken heels, feeling the warmth of summer night concrete beneath her feet; she has worked for twelve hours straight with no sleep, under the sprawling glare of Times Square.
People eat in diners at 4 AM, and after two cups of coffee, through large windows listlessly stare. The scent and feel of New York City permeates the night’s air. The underbelly of the city are the fulfillment of licentious desires, addicts getting high, violence, tiredness, the pursuit of money, and sordid transactions. The drunk and homeless urinate on themselves, slumped over on subway platform benches. People wait on the train, with eyes bloodshot and lifeless. Another young lady heads to 42nd street, seeking quick money and excitement. The city blocks swallow you subtly in a matter of minutes, hours, or days. It traps you in its bright colorful lights. Out of towners languish for weeks, missing long forgotten flights. Uninhibited wildness leads to the exploration of long suppressed vices. Euphoria takes over.
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He dances with the beast under a dim street lamp in perfect synchrony, but only one can be seen. Cold rain commences; the tears start to stream. He dances wildly to expel the darkness and temper the misery. The beast continues to dance, but in agony, loudly he wails, painfully.
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The gauntness of flesh is the cruelty of illness.
Stillness of tormented bodies at 4 AM
is not sleep, but unceasing listlessness.
The wounded heart is known through
many tears and sincere utterances.
Unsightly scars denote the attempted escape
from unbearable agony;
Under dim lighting in a small room with heavy curtains,
a trembling insomniac moves slowly.
In pitch darkness, the sorrowful hold onto
banisters in cold temperatures, wailing uninhibitedly;
The chief torment of the anxious mind is life’s uncertainty.
From birth to death—in-between,
the afflicted struggle for breath.
Even in their mother’s wombs
babies become stressed;
Stillborn babies are kissed,
given names, and mourned.
In late cold December winters,
distressed hearts are torn.
Unsettling letters are received before they grieve
starting with, We regret to inform …
In the pregnancy of the void
some wither away, and some are reborn.
The soul’s balm is the healing of love;
But from its inception it must be pure—
and unadulterated in the properties of its medicine.
A winter baby is delivered from her dying mother’s womb,
and through blood and pain, life begins again.
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Death whispers in cold breaths promising solace in the throes of agony;
I will take away the pain if you just let me.
Hair drapes over a chair in a dimly lit room at 2:30.
Faces in picture frames stare unemotionally.
Her makeup is perfect;
Her lipstick and lashes, immaculate.
Through a child’s eyes she would be a beautiful doll.
Her final act is the unabridged revelation of her torment.
In her unmasking there are no subtleties;
There are no whispers;
There are no mysteries to the state of her reality.
Lifelessness is displayed crudely;
Its finality is its cruelty.
Outside, early morning rain falls in darkness.
Inside, there is a preternatural stillness.
She is gone forever, leaving behind possessions,
And the blood of her essence.
She wept in her last moments, listlessly whispering
Words that no one could witness.
Tears that fell from her eyes,
Carried the agony of her remnants.
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You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this,
and you will find strength.
—Marcus Aurelius -
Wailing is heard in darkness behind heavy black curtains;
The sorrowful long for the light,
But the darkness constantly whispers—
Cradling in its womb like a perpetually pregnant mother.
An umbilical cord of despondency feeds its blind baby;
The child is gaunt and withered within four walls;
Its amniotic sac of agony is the purgatory of dark halls.
The melancholic stumble listlessly,
Holding on to wooden bannisters lest they fall.
The precious tears of the tormented are cried in unbridled lamentation;
The flesh is weary, but still sleep is not found.
In the hell of insomnia the afflicted are bound.
The dark mother tries to sooth her kicking child
With the singing of perfidious lullabies;
It is calculating and vicious in its lies.
There must be a delivery for the baby to survive.
Dark pupils must see the sunshine;
The mother’s milk must not be ingested—
It is the milk of unceasing agony and poison;
Her whispers of love and safety are not genuine.
She causes the once strong to fall to their knees and crawl.
The tears of her children are scattered between anguished calls;
Witness the final moments of her torment
On blood soaked sheets and blood spattered walls.
See the transfixed open eyes of those that long cried.
No reprieve was found; there was no sunshine.
There was no light to illuminate desolate nights;
Still, the darkness whispers, trying to sell her wares.
The light must be found lest they all disappear;
At 4 AM, in darkness, gaunt hands rub against walls feeling for stairs;
In front of unlit fireplaces, in worn chairs,
The despondent sit listlessly;
In darkness, they stare. -
Incognito – Positivity
Released: 1993
Intimate Compositions 