Oops, I Did it Again!

I stopped writing, that is.
I wrote two poems last week.
Effortless.
Joy, I felt.
Headaches returned, tho.
Making and creating new relationships
     while fucking up others.
Yo-yo, anyone?

Long Ambients 2 by Moby semi-ease the mind.
Vibrations reverberate through my brain matter. 
Really, that's how Moby works his magic.

In the air, randomness floats.
I light candles to ward off whatever is out there.
I'm dreaming again in vivid and detailed images.
Nightmares?
Oh, there comin'!

It's all in the cards, you now.
Ask the right question.
Get what's coming to you.


-- (c)deyanira.

http://scannerdot.com/tag/alan-dunn/

Unearthed

Can't be afraid of who you are
Who sees
Who knows
You'll suffocate in the despair
Tucked away in a jar
Impossible to please
Easiest to grow
Steady
And, ready
Away from Him
Almost gone, the weeds are
Seeds planted, and life emerges
Breaking through
Breathing air
Clean and quiet

Can't be afraid of who I am
You see
You know
I no longer suffocate with despair
Almost, empty the jar

#unedited #writingsprint #unpolished

-- (c)deyanira.

Read All About It, Part III - Emeli Sande

You've got the words to change a nation
But you're biting your tongue
You've spent a life time stuck in silence
Afraid you'll say something wrong
If no one ever hears it how we gonna learn your song?

So come on, come on
Come on, come on
You've got a heart as loud as lightning
So why let your voice be tamed?
Maybe we're a little different
There's no need to be ashamed
You've got the light to fight the shadows
So stop hiding it away
Come on, come on

I wanna sing, I wanna shout
I wanna scream 'til the words dry out
So put it in all of the papers,
I'm not afraid
They can read all about it
Read all about it, oh
Oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
Oh oh oh

At night we're waking up the neighbors
While we sing away the blues
Making sure that we're remembered, yeah
'Cause we all matter too
If the truth has been forbidden
Then we're breaking all the rules

So come on, come on
Come on, come on,
Let's get the TV and the radio
To play our tune again
It's 'bout time we got some airplay of our version of events
There's no need to be afraid
I will sing with you my friend
Come on, come on

Yeah, we're all wonderful, wonderful people

So when did we all get so fearful?
Now we're finally finding our voices
So take a chance, come help me sing this
Yeah, we're all wonderful, wonderful people
So when did we all get so fearful?
And now we're finally finding our voices
Just take a chance, come help me sing this

Silence (an unfinished poem)

This one isn't quite finished; but I like it. What do you think? Do you see or hear anything in these words? This one isn't meant to rhyme, but I hear a certain cadence I can't get to flow all the way through. I describe what silence sounds like to me. 

Silence is the loudest.

It trickles and chimes.

Collides and explodes.

At night.

And the day.

While watching a show.

Enjoy the Silence

Silence increases.

Then decreases.

Having a mind of its own.

Headphones and music do nothing to quell.

Frenzied crickets.

Crashing glass.

Imagine the atoms splitting and screaming.

And air making music all while it falls.

~~

Untitled Cross-Over

My favorite poem of all time has just eight lines. It is filled with expectation, grief, and anxiety. I memorized it immediately and connected to the illustration. I thought about it again. Recited the lines--well, four of them and it made me think.

We don't get what we want. EVER. We get the result of what we do. ALWAYS.

Sometimes, we want a thing so badly we do whatever we think it takes to get it. The cost is irrelevant because all we see and experience is the void we desperately work to fill. It is a kind of downfall, I think now. To try so hard to be someone we aren't. To try so hard to attract the people with think we are supposed to be surrounded by. To [work] so hard not to see ourselves for who we are: hurt, broken, healing, healed, unsure, able, confident, scared...

We are our worst enemy.We are our worst critic.We are the only ones that can really hurt us.

I am struggling to understand how he is more damaged than me. How his pain runs deeper than mine. How, despite the similarities in circumstances, he is struggling to find peace within himself. I refuse to accept he is beyond growth and healing.

Do you hear that? Compassion. Still.

-- (c)deyanira.

"What a Day" written by Shel Silverstein // image found on Pinterest

--

// "Oh, What a Day" originally posted, here. 

--

Dear Reader, 

I meant to tell you about today. I can't articulate; it's all just a bunch of confusing emotions. I hope you found this cross-post thought-provoking. It's from the other blog, the one that is all about Him. Anyway, these words are fitting today. 

-dv-

Night Writer (pronounced Knight Rider)

The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh 1889

Sleepless nights are nothing new. They've plagued me since childhood. At slumber parties, I typically was the last one to fall asleep. How did I know, you ask? Because the conversations would slowly come to an end amid snores and heavy breathing from a bunch of kids. At home, I'd lay awake in darkness. Not allowed to read or write into the early morning hours, I'd entertain myself by imagining all sorts of things, places, people, books I'd read, and movies I'd seen. As you can believe, and possibly even experience yourself - mornings were challenging to welcome.

Usually.

As an adult, mornings are not rough to greet, even on a few hours of sleep. There comes the point in the quite and still night when the mind awakens (in a state of delirium - I'm sure of it). There is no way anything productive could come out of that state. Yet, it was during those early hours in the cool of the night, under stars, and a bright moon did I write through salty tears. I used to keep a collection of everything I wrote in a box. All colors, and scraps of paper, cursive, print, pen, pencil, or crayon. 

The Scream
Edvard Munch, 1893 

I remember, the need to be surrounded by them - the words. Once Father brought a computer into the house I'd print them. Add clip art. Center the lines of text. Tape the pages on the walls of my bedroom. Before that, once I was sure what the poem is, or phrases or lines were, I'd rewrite them on a clean page and draw around them. 

If it wasn't the words - it was the nightmares keeping me awake. Well, the resistance to be in the position in which they'd happen - asleep, that is.

Dark dreams are the otherside of my tumultuous relationship with the night. Not able to recall with certainty my age, but I'm sure as a teenager and mid to late 20's sleep was disturbed regularly. That is, I'd fall asleep and wake up periodically (every hour) throughout the night with memories of broken images and strange feelings. 

At half past 4:00 in the morning. Not sure how to end this post. I'll describe the moment. A foster kitten rests on the bed.  Downton Abby plays in the background. Curtains drawn closed. Chickens sleeping in their coop. 

Insignificant, Chest Wounds

An open gaping wound,

throbs at my chest.

If you could only see it,

darkness in the cavity,

the illuminated torn edges of flesh.

If you can feel it,

despite the biting cold surrounding it,

warm red drips from my fingertips. 

The wound is insignificance. 

Self Destruct by NekroXIII
(modified image found on Pinterest)