See me in misery. See me in ecstasy. See me in naked vulnerability. See me in debilitating anxiety. See the progression of trauma that scarred my psyche. See me see the divinity in intimacy. See me ending communication with certain family abruptly. See me screaming loudly under dark skies holding a crucifix tightly in death’s valley. See and hear me attempt to explain my mind’s complexities. See the discovery of my Precognitive Empath abilities. See my passion for deep transcendent sensuality. See me weep as I read notes on the back of sentimental photographs silently. See the evolution of my appreciation for women and femininity. I am hopeful yet disconsolate; see my duality. Hear me angrily tell my mind’s distressing ruminations to shut the fuck up repeatedly as if I’m disconnected from my own body. Close your eyes tearfully, and briefly be the embodiment of my agony.
Tag: Personal
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Beautiful mother, daughter of Constancia, hear the words that I whisper: you are in my heart, and I will love you forever. There will be no reconciliation with the person who is supposedly my father. His memory is washed away from me like drops of water in a raging flood. He is unworthy and cowardly; I renounce the lineage of his blood.
Search my soul, and read the letters of my heart detailing the trauma within me that is untold. I am a flower alone in a dark and desolate place that withers in the cold. My petals fall and are taken in the wind. Here, it is unforgiving. There is no compassion or understanding. I am at war with demons; I slay with sword and shield unrelenting.
Amaryliss, let me feel the warmth of your presence. Comfort your descendant with a kiss. Embrace me in celestial sunshine. Sing to me the songs of your mother and her mother and all those before her. Bestow upon me preternatural power. Be with me, especially in my most despondent hours. Let me float on peaceful waters in my slumber. Strip away from me all hindrances that threaten my ascension. My blood is your blood — I am eternally your faithful son.
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Still, there are words left unspoken years after I thought I had completely purged you from my system. Fucking other women was supposed to be my exorcism. My feelings for you were supposed to end. With every intense release of passion there should have been more distance. I made love passionately and intensely in the rapture of deep intimacy to women who told me that they loved me, but your memory is my prison. In the company of friends and associates I feigned indifference to stave off the outward signs of emotional ruin. Fuck her they would tell me, and I would pretend to agree with them. I’ve never been a man to be consumed by any particular obsession. As a fatherless child, I was raised by stern uncles who taught me to control my emotions in the company of men, and be exceptionally stoic in the company of women. Perhaps they would think that I have strayed from their discipline if they ever heard any of my intimate whisperings. Confessions have been told and tears have flowed before love making at 3:00 A.M. Naked and drenched in sweat saying barely coherent words through heavy whispery breaths, an attempted exorcism is in progress yet again.
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Before your inception you were a beautiful destiny, meant to be a radiant light and comfort to many. You may be berated unjustly by some publicly, but in secrecy you are their adoration and their envy. The calmness of your heart is infectious, taming the ferocity of the beast of anxiety. You have suffered cruelty, and you have shed tears endlessly. You have held painful secrets for years tearfully, reluctant to tell anybody. Your cross is extremely heavy, and you carry it, sometimes having to drag it on bloodied and scarred knees. You give of yourself selflessly and generously, yet no one seems to see your needs; no one offers a kiss or a gift or a gesture of preciousness. They constantly take from you without even a turn of the head to say thank you. You were violated and abused, yet they still don’t believe you.
I see you my angel; I offer all the love that I have in my heart, and I send you gifts of gratitude. I see you on the train, tired from work and in pain. I see you walking home with sorrowful eyes under dark skies and heavy rain. I see you nodding off from exhaustion before you board your plane. I see the disappointment on your face after speaking to the man you thought that loved you, only to realize he forgot your name. I see the wounding of your soul when you are tearful and words escape you, but you don’t have to explain. My beautiful and precious angel, you never have to explain. My soul is also wounded — I understand your pain. I understand the depth of your silent cries, because I cry the same.
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Two Valiums then deep sleep comes, interrupting the intensity of unending devastation. Racing thoughts slow to a crawl then the heart rate falls. The face of beauty who gave birth to me is immortalized in a dark walnut wooden picture frame aligned adjacent to a wooden rosary perfectly against a lamp lit wall. Diazepam 20 mg fully absorbed into the bloodstream may be enough for the half-life of an angelic dream. Sleep is a welcomed substitute for tears that endlessly stream. I stare lovingly at my mother, swearing on everything that I hear her whisper, Victor, the terror won’t last forever. Avoidance of despondency forces me to fight viciously against whatever and whoever. Heavy blackout curtains block the light so I can sleep longer. On my nightstand there is an antique lamp, a prescription vial, natural lavender and one third of a cup of water next to a glass vase filled with burgundy Amaryllis flowers. I reflect on the state of my life in a candlelit bathroom beneath hot soapy water. After about an hour somnolence totally takes over.
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We weep, yet we are not weak.
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Again, I take the inventory of me with brutal honesty weighing in the balance what the measure of a man should be, and with sound reasoning I have found that there has been progression, but in terms of significance it has been insufficient. Therefore, I must cast off the weight that pulls me down if I am to make my glorious ascension. I do not sleep because there is darkness, neither do I rise because there is light. There are no adherences to normality, for the eyes of the sorrowful are always heavy. Perhaps I have become vampiric in nature, awakening only because I need to feed — and because my heart is shattered, scattered among the harshness of weed infested infertile soil yet somehow I breathe. Ritualistically, Coltrane’s; A Love Supreme is my steadfast prayer; just before coffee with sugar and heavy cream, I silently shed heavy tears.
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I am of the divinity of the womb that delivered me.
I am the living heir of anguish and beauty.
I walk the path of a transcendent destiny.
I have beheld and marveled at the eyes of mystery.
In the marrow of me there is unwavering loyalty.
My soul holds on painfully to my own, and the secrets others have tearfully told me.
Loving someone from a distance can render one lonely.
I have found that there is a profound and indescribable beauty in intimacy.
I have cast off the associates I once held in my heart as friends and family.
Those who resonate with my pain I love dearly.
When I give love, I give it totally and sincerely.
I dreamt of ascension, and when I awoke I wept joyfully. -
She gives in to pleasure,
Taken by the passion of his kisses
And the depth of his measure.
She knows that he wants her,
Driving the instincts of his primal stamina
With every provocative word that she whispers.
She closes her eyes, releasing all of her;
Wildly, reverberating sounds of rapture,
In euphoric erotic surrender.
Intimate Compositions 