PTSD

The trauma never really leaves with PTSD. It contradicts its name, the thing that makes it real. The things that you can’t see, understand or feel are what hinder me from healing.

They just solidify my doubt, in myself, my thoughts and intuition. I’m caught up in a mess of retrocognition, only to find out it’s not a past life, but depression and repression. And when the tensions rise and the trauma’s at the surface, the discussion tends to stop and erasing is catharsis. I’m just too nervous to even think about, to talk about the damage. Even when it’s someone’s job to mitigate the backlash.

I’m bound to the idea that this thing is me and I’m a burden. I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that I’ll always be hurting.

This thing is not me, this thing called PTSD. The way it gets its power is by preaching its name.
This thing is not me, this doesn’t make me crazy. Each day and every hour, this thing leeches on shame.
It preys on me the more I pray that it goes away.

Your Pretty Prose

I remember when you used to write
When I was a character pasted on your pages
When I was cluttered with beautiful words
I wore adjectives like scarves
Protecting me from the harsh white snowy paper
And the buzzing screen of an old PC at 2 a.m.

It was then you’d spy on me
And undress me from my garments
Have me try on different clothes
Painting me in a way
That best suited your prose

Hero/Villain

Hero: I’m big and strong and here to defend. I’ll send the villains to prison and then enjoy my night by firelight embers. I’ll sign autographs because I am a winner.

Villain: I’m small and I’m weak and I like to pretend that I live in a world that I fit in. And I wonder if I had a mentor, I too would be with family having dinner.

Hero: We all have problems, and not everyone breaks. You could have handled yourself another way.

Villain: But I’m the problem and I can’t go away. I should have battled myself to breakaway.

Waning Crescent

Another poem from my chapbook in production. Previously referred to as La Nuit et La Lune, I decided an English title would be more appropriate. I’m thinking The Death of Darkness. Thoughts? Follow for more free content and updates on upcoming releases. (:

This chapbook is intended to tell a story of a love between the Night and the Moon. They take you through a spiritual and magical journey for the life of celestial beings, and share struggle we feel humanity claims alone. The Death of Darkness is a story of love, death, rebirth and art. Look for it on Amazon spring of 2021.

Hope

Your eyes are endless meadows my heart frolics toward. I’m left hanging on the curve of the grin you’re trying to hide. And though with love, I’ve never been so forward, I’d like to plant a wish for a later reward. And though the threads of fate loom on my shoulder, they knit me a sweater for the coming winter. And though the days are getting shorter, my days of light are not yet over.

The Storm

Sad movies use rain as a mask for sorrow— a reflection of loss. But when I look into the rain and open my arms to the wind, I feel such power and love. Like I could close my eyes, and my feet would slowly lift from the ground. The people at the beach scurry toward the parking lot, but I stare into the lake and the crashing waves of a storm. The eye of the storm stares back at me. Its lightening laughs a thunderous groan that tickles my heart. I want to fly like the kite, fluttering to escape. Though instead of escape, I want to revel. For when the tide washes my feet, my path will reveal my weathered soles. As the thunder rolls. And I’ll bask at the beach which my tale would be told. As the tides fold at the shore, and I soar with the storm.

Honeybee

As the words ‘just be friends’ leaves my lips into a hiss, he looks to me like I have fangs and I’ve just infected him. He confuses my tears for contradiction, but I was just overwhelmed by a happy ending that came too soon. But you can’t bite into a lemon and expect lemonade. The sweet taste of the sugar I remember no longer lingers. The bee had harvested the honey and didn’t leave any for me. The bee didn’t ask for it. And I didn’t, the sting. But destiny permits the bee to fall if he puts up his guard too eagerly. He feels threatened when others seek out the flower of his favor. But the pollen turns to venom, and the honey turns to tar. A midnight snack was his favorite flavor. A sacrifice for a love sought long ago. For a friend that turned to foe.

Dancing in the Rain

Remember when I made you dance with me in the rain? You had hated water, and put out your claws like a cat. But you couldn’t help to smile, when I held your hand and skipped through all the puddles. You told me this wasn’t a romantic comedy and called me out for just wanting to kiss you in the rain. But why not? I wonder if you miss that, and think of me when it storms there. I wonder if the rain bothers you for those different reasons now.