It pulls me closer to the ground. It subtly hides itself from me, even in lucid dreams. It exhibits me in front of the crowd in a listless state, as they jeer and stare with heartless curiosity. The piano is played as the sideshow performs. Normalcy was yesteryear’s dream that turned into a fantasy. The stage lights are too bright and roaring of the crowd too loud. The nothingness of the void beckons me with the promise of long and restful sleep. It says it can make the constant torment of my existence go away. Once, I thought I had been lying in a field of sweet smelling white gardenias, with heavenly angels holding me in peaceful warmth, but I awakened out of my daydream to hear the keys of the piano playing once more. The show must go on, but how long will I have to perform? Perhaps a drink, or two, or three, or four, may grant me reprieve. I am a regular so the bartender knows my name. “The regular?” Yes indeed. “One White Russian please, and keep them coming.” Maybe a few cigarettes a day will help to keep the pain at bay; but what about the Surgeon General’s warning? To hell with the warning; I will deeply inhale the carcinogens to ease the constant tension, palpitations, and useless ER visits. Well, don’t forget to be a good citizen and curb your secondhand smoke. Yes of course, I will smoke in the comfort of my own home; well, maybe on the porch. Eager friends with seemingly good intentions tell me to drown my sorrows in a bottle of whiskey. I tell them I prefer a nice triple distilled potato vodka instead, and that anxiety and sorrow can’t be drowned, only submerged for a time. Perhaps I can grow new neural pathways every three or four days? I find myself listening to Bach these days for the most part, (Violin Concerto No.1 in A minor is a favorite) but who cares. I’m craving an Irish coffee; I mean a well made Irish coffee and a nice cigar. As a child I always admired Franklin Roosevelt’s dapper look at Yalta, sitting in the center being flanked by Churchill and Stalin. His black velvet collared cape, pinky ring, well tailored suit and cigarette in hand. I always thought that’s how a man should look. Honestly, I still like the look now. Inconsequential, I know, but still. By the way, family came over for the holidays and raided my cupboard. All my top quality coffee is gone. Guess who has to take a trip to the store for more? Yeah that would be me. Of course with the way my brain is wired I couldn’t take much of the small talk and had to excuse myself from the table. My brain feels literally fried from the viewing of the 24 hour news cycle. The garbage on the radio isn’t much better, music or news wise. I can stomach NPR, but that’s about it. I’m not making any New Year’s resolutions, to hell with it. I don’t like the holidays anymore either, it’s become an annual chore. Doing this and doing that for what exactly? The traditions of old have been washed away in consumerism and overindulgence. People go on eating binges and stuff themselves to the point of gastrointestinal discomfort, pretend to like you, or somehow identify with your personal issues and small talk you to death. Hoards line up to buy overstocked junk at local big box stores, but that’s another subject entirely. This post was initially supposed to be a poem, but has turned into some sort of rant, excuse me. Perhaps more fiber in my diet for 2019? More fiber a day keeps the IBS away, or maybe adds to it? Who knows. Anyway, Cheers! Happy New Year!
Tag: PTSD
-
In fiercest battles and whirling winds
I pray the Lord forgive my sins.
The scars of my wounds, they tell the tale;
For those who are are blind, read my torment in braille.
My heart is sorrowful, and my boots are worn,
My clothes are tattered and my will is torn.
If nothingness then calls my name,
Will I relent or live on in pain?
In numbing irrelevance the seasons pass;
I care not less how long the winter lasts.
The spring will come, and the summer blooms,
But I will not know in my darkened room;
Many lovers have left after boastful claims
Of staying by my side to subside my pain.
At ungodly hours I may read love letters
Of twenty years past when things seemed better.
The loving nuances, and the promises made;
the plans we had, that in time did fade.
“I will love you forever.” “Sincerely yours.”
“Without you there is no life.” “It is you I adore.”
But to know my name is to know my pain,
And to know my pain is continuous rain. -
Cold winter winds blow tears away from green eyes;
Sobbing reverberates in the frigid night.
Towering trees shed leaves to acknowledge her agony.
Her loving heart is deeply wounded from sorrow;
A bright winter moon highlights a trail of red snow. -
Tortured spirits bellow. The wretched place gives up its cries. Contorted faces stare intently through the soul with wide eyes. Zombie like figures through muffled cries, point with apprehension to where the toxic billows rise. The blue skies turn grey; the smoke overtakes the sunlight and all is covered in darkness. A red ribbon is caught up in the foul wind and swallowed by it. My lamp is heavy and my kerosene is low. Shadowy figures move in and out of the smoke filled darkness to and fro. The unbearable sounds of anguish go up into the clouds and are infused with the toxic smoke. The stench of it reeks; the sounds of sadness and unfulfilled dreams cause me to weep. The darkness inhales the smoke and is euphoric in its exhale. It is intoxicated with the sounds of suffering. The earth is heavy with the saturated tears of the oppressed. The oceans roar in anger and the earth’s core erupts. Measured steps are taken, lest I fall into perpetuity. Crows fly overhead en masse. The realm is turned into black pitch. The treacherous bridge swings and sways as I attempt to walk over the abyss. Save my dimly lit lamp, I am blind in the darkness. Crippling apprehension fills the void. I am consumed in desolation. I recite the works of Dickinson and Poe. With heaviness of heart, I will write works of my own torment and sorrow. I will walk in the dark and horrid place and blend in with the shadows, in hopes that hopelessness won’t know.
-
The billows of peril blow;
The smoke of never ending agony
Is involuntarily inhaled,
And enters the bloodstream;
The torturous moments
Are replayed over and over.
The body tries to rid itself of the invasion,
But once it starts, it cannot be stopped;
It must run its course.
It is difficult to remain calm as panic ensues.
Descent into the abyss seems imminent;
The darkness is frightful and consuming.
Afflicted souls cry out
And reach for a place of light;
Hyper-vigilant eyes scan corners
In the darkness of night.
The pulse rate increases
And the heart palpitates.
The cries of the sorrowful
and the afflicted are seldom heard;
The dividing line between sanity
And insanity is easily blurred.
Windows to the soul are bloodshot
And clouded with tears;
The emaciated appearance
Is the result of the hardship of the years.
Curiosity of passersby cause them to look
Deep into the eyes;
The suffering of the soul is seen;
They quickly look away in horror—
And many cry upon witnessing
The utter desolation and ruin of that dark place.
Tired Souls listlessly huddle together in pitch darkness,
And together await the dawning of the sun;
So that heaven can hear their plea,
In unison they continuously hum.
Intimate Compositions 