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

Fading, Not Fast Enough

He called. I didn't answer. He needs something from me. Looking out the window, an uneasy chill swells throughout my body reminding me I'm alive.

He's dissolving into the past, like this winter's melting snow. Except, he's still around like the iced over melt, every morning. I spent a few days looking over my shoulder. 

• Was he in town?
• Is he watching?

I forget my fear until reminded; and, I tremble. I'm the first one to ask, "Why did you stay?" At the time, it wasn't that I forgot he stole my breath one night. He insisted I not linger on the memory. The act. The betrayal and danger he's made of. Instead, he used a steady stream of wine and cheese, perfectly seared steaks, and episodes of 'Vikings' to convince me it didn't happen. His survival method is insidiously quiet and devastating. 

Writing helps as you know. I filter through the noise made up of emotions. I cleanse and purge the tar the memories of him are (and there are many). The words will pour out until the cauldron is empty. Sorry, friends. Who the hell is this for, anyway? Certainly, not for you. 

// Trainwreck by Banks

Hey
I heard it from the state
They told me you were never gonna let me get away
And if you tell me fiction, you will never get me back
I had to get away, I had to get away, ay, ay
Hey
You try to compensate
You thinking with your one brain, watch you decapitate
You show me all your letters and I should've confiscated
Put my eyes away, and I had to get away

Talking to ears that have been deaf for as long as I can remember
A self-medicated handicap so I speak to myself
And I try so hard to get his stupid deaf ears to hear
That have become illiterate, I've become dumb
Hey, hey, hey

When I'd come through
You were dark blue
And I saved you
From your darker days
Born to
Take care of you
Oh, I thought so
Baby, it was just a phase

Hey
I heard it from the state
They told me you were never gonna let me get away
And if you tell me fiction, you will never get me backI had to get away, I had to get away, I had to get away
Hey
You try to compensate
You thinking with your one brain, watch you decapitate
You show me all your letters and I should've confiscated
Put my eyes away, and I had to get away

Shut down by a guy I never wanted to kiss
Not gonna hear this singing of this ringing triumph thing
And I'm chugging along in a train
And I'm heading the wrong way, and I'm a trainwreck
And my heart goes beat, beat, beat to the music of this sad same song
It's quite depressing, there's no fixing to the problem
When you're talking to an idiot

When I'd come through
You were dark blue
And I saved you
From your darker days
Born to
Take care of you
Oh, I thought so
Baby, it was just a phase
Saving
Only made me
Just a dreamer
But I soon found out
That the traintracks
Were behind me
Tried to warn me
Oh, but my ears went out

When I'd come through
You were dark blue
And I saved you
From your darker days
Born to
Take care of you
Oh, I thought so
Baby, it was just a phase

Hey
I heard it from the state
They told me you were never gonna let me get away
And if you tell me fiction, you will never get me back
I had to get away, I had to get away, I had to get away
Hey
You try to compensate
You thinking with your one brain, watch you decapitate
You show me all your letters and I should've confiscated
Put my eyes away, and I had to get away

Songwriters: Dacoury Natche / Jesse Rogg / Aron Forbes / Jillian Banks / Tim Anderson

Trainwreck lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc

When Good Things Happen, Bad Things Follow

To write through it is to face it.
I'm not so sure I'm doing that.
In fact, I don't look at it at all.
I won't acknowledge the view through the looking glass.

All my words are tainted with his violence and disregard.

No poem without sadness and shame exists.
No story without anger and fury can I write.

All I know is when good things happen, bad things follow. -- (c)deyanira.

Dark Lights

A large truck with double headlights followed me home tonight.

Two or three years ago my Ex, replaced my headlights with brighter ones. No complaint on my part as I could see more road and appreciated the gesture. However, driving after sundown is a hit or miss situation of which drivers my bright lights will offend. The flickering of their headlights as they approach and pass me is a clear indication.

"There is nothing I can do," I say to them with my mind. I'm sure all consider me a rude driver, and this embarrasses me. Tonight is the first time a driver turned around and followed me with high beams deliberately. For several residential blocks along Broadway, we traveled the same direction. At last the driver turned off the road just before the capital building. But, I saw the hesitation at the stop sign.

Headlights in the Dark

Thinking to myself, "Well, I guess they finally decided I've learned my lesson, they've gone their merry way." I did look back to get a better look - it appeared white or gray in color. This was when I began thinking of all the ways human interactions go wrong. Of all the encounters I've had with strangers that could have ended badly.  Typical fears crossed my mind: rape, murder, injury... I was reminded of the dangers of the world. I'm a woman, and all sorts of things go along with that. I shrug it off and continue towards my neighborhood. 

Turning on the main road towards home, guess who is driving up the way. *sigh* At the sight of my beautiful bright lights, the large truck with double headlights slows down and almost comes to a complete stop. Then hastily makes a turn - onto my street. Great.

I suppose I could have (should have) driven to the gas station and create distance, but instead turned and was now following it. The truck slowed down, then picked up speed, and slowed down again and quickly parked in an open space along my block just a few houses away from mine.

Safety protocols indicate NOT to drive home. Safety protocols also suggest making eye contact with your potential threat. So I did. I drove past and parked at home (I have a healing kitten to look after). I got out of my truck and made sure the large truck with the double high beam headlights saw me seeing it.

It's not the first time I've had to do that. Strangely the first time it happened, while walking Mick, on a snowy night - it too, was a white or gray truck. I'll admit to hiding behind a tree until I gathered my courage to cross the street, make eye contact and quickly walk back to my apartment.  

Not everything is dangerous to all. 

Yet, some dangers are unique to some.

Stay safe my friends. 

What if, I know

I no longer think, “What if?”

- I am not good enough

- I fail

- I can’t

- ______

I think, “I know.”

- I am good enough

- I won’t fail

- I can

- ______

Significant, this shift is.

Imagine, if you will. The window shades are open, and the light flows in. Early morning rain freshens the air. Hair untied. Relaxed. Full breaths. These are my days now. Don’t be jealous. It’s a little eerie. 

"A Little Brain Twist" via Imgur

Growth presented unexpectedly.

Streaming Water

This year, like this time last, words were not typed on the daily, as the participating group expects. I’ve learned a few things about my writing habits. Typically, I produce work when it is unexpected - my best work. The excitement around NaNoWriMo in November is infectious, and I’m happy to join others around the world. But, I wonder why I just don’t write to write it down.

Perhaps I write because I forget memories. Maybe, this is not meant to be read by others. When I think of writers, the classical ones, their lives are rich with thought and expression. They experience turmoil and deep connection (or, disconnect) with life and living. They draw from it and keep on until all sides of their stories burning within are exposed.

I’ve done the thing. Thought upon thoughts emersed by scattered ideas. Only to make known a small percentage of what burns within. It’s water through my fingers. I see water, I feel the water, but I cannot hold the water. I cannot reshape it. I lose sight and am confused by the rapid, fragmented string of words.

         

I regret all that I did for love. Things never done before and likely will never do again. He hindered, caused me to doubt my uniqueness and power, needed me small at his side. He is a tornado. Exciting and destructive. In the middle of his roar and thunder, there is a single pocket of bright, beautiful calm. He’s the loneliest person I’ve ever known. He’ll break you so that he isn’t alone.

I’m torn between him leaving and disappearing across state lines, deep into international waters never to be heard or seen from again, or seek justice and impose the punishment he’s earned. I don’t know which is better or worse to know or not know where he is all of the time. I’m in danger of his explosive and quiet violence, either way.

A lesson I learned long before he crossed my path is that love, pain, anger, and everything else is felt until it is not. No timetable exists. No end in sight until you reach it. And, there is no escaping. There is only living through it. Embracing the scars as evidence of life.

**

A performance against domestic violence. 

        

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-

Beat Your Own Drum

I can't get the words out of my head. They've been rattling around all day it seems. This song appears in the movie The Greatest Showman. I haven't seen it yet (to the dismay of friends). When Kesha stopped making music, it was because she was caught in an abusive relationship. She made an attempt to leave, and he held her career hostage.  She was mishandled and mistreated by a man she once trusted. 

Her music now speaks of growth, transformation, survival, acceptance, and new inner joy and peace. Coming forward to the public and placing herself on center stage is more than just brave. It's a love and respect for herself and what she's endured. The best lessons we learn are from witnessing vulnerability of others.

At the center of that vulnerability, we find our greatest strength.  

Don't shy away, dear reader. Don't hide. 

"I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me
Look out 'cause here I come
And I'm marching on the beat I drum
I'm not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me"

// "This is Me" by Kesha

Jelly Fish

Surrounded by two dogs, four chickens, one cat, three horses, and a hidden mouse, I sit in silence. Well, almost. My "thumbs up" curated playlist with a variety of musicians and sounds lulls the animals to sleep.

The dark cloud overhead is moving away despite the nested nightmares. Of us arguing, of me seeing the real you, of you in the kitchen cooking. She lays on the couch in stockings clicking away on an iPhone watching us. Faced with my knowledge of the truth you continue to fry bacon. Why are you in the kitchen? Why the hell am I there? And, can she please put on some pants. Does she even know all those you hide? You'll hurt her too. You know that better than I. Your cruelty has no limit, in what way did I insult offend you to receive what I did from you?

"Twin Flame" (2017) 

This dream is about accepting what I've known throughout. You too easily gave her up early on. You too easily agreed with my requests. You too easily said Yes to me. My mistake and only mistake is to trust you. If only I could take all that time back. All the energy and wasted emotion. I could then erase the tears and finally, finally scream. 

It weighs on me still, the nothing you turned out to be. An encrusted shell you surround yourself with glistens in the moonlight. The sun turned enemy shows off the zirconias and not the diamonds you pretend to hold. She's too young to know the difference. And, suddenly I understand the appeal. The need you have to not be seen. She doesn't know you like I do. A part of me hopes she never will. 

#SurvivedHim



// *By the Horns* by Julia Stone

A Tweet

It appears I tweeted rather sternly, the other day.

Exposed

I said the thing, used the word, invoked His name. It sounded foreign. Unknown. Distant and valueless. It would hurt him to know. He values admiration. Expects adoration. Is insulted to receive any other kind of attention. A year ago - how do I explain? A few days ago I was asked why I missed a significant fundraising event last Fall. 

"I experienced a concussion," I calmly said. 

I made a mental note of just how calmly I said it and then immediately felt awkward because I had no follow-up to that. As expected by most everyone I've said it too (which aren't many), the person gave me a surprised look and showed immediate concern. I knew not what to say without shedding more fragments of that past life with a dangerous man I was lucky to have gotten away from. 

"It's OK. I'm alright," I said in a knee-jerk reaction.

We do that, it turns out, to make you feel better, or less guilty, or not sorry about our circumstances. All it does is diminish an experience that deserves acknowledgment. I hate I did that, but there was no way to walk it back without getting into the details.

I said it calmly and conversationally to another person. That's growth. It has to be.

domestic-violence-awareness

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. 

In Color

I've craved the feeling of painting while at home. My weekly visits to my favorite pottery store aren't enough lately. Several years ago I bought a few of those adult coloring books that are supposed to reduce anxiety and increase concentration. They frustrated me. I was impatient. Didn't even like the metallic color pencils I purchased for the sake of the tin they came in. 

Photo Credi (c)deyanira.

I've changed this past year. Part of me is calm. Part of me is erratic. Part of me still cares. But, most of me is looking for colors I've never seen before. Colors he'll never know or understand. It's these days I've turned to that which once caused me strife. See what I've done now? Added color to pages designed to entice and draw us in. 

I've listened to my heart through music and stumbled through the lyrical maze. Each time, the pain that once pulsated through my pores and streamed down my cheeks is harder to find.

I've turned to colors to amend my mood, give me perspective and a better life. Cheesy? Maybe. True? Definitely. Coloring these black and white pages and adding my color to them makes me happy. Happy, like a child. Happy, like I used to be - that innocent, kind of cheer. Do you remember that feeling? It was the sense of the present. Of being fully immersed in your mind and creation. Remember?

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)