Spasms to a Crystal Overture

Smoke demons.

In honor of one recently fallen, may you have found the peace you searched for in life.

Twitch, twitch again.
Twitch, twitch again.
Fumbled up the crack back, didn’t do it right,
left loose diamonds pooled in starlight.
Chewing on white whales of smoke,
dense enough to consume morals and hope.
There’s no platitudes to offer,
if you’ve been inhaling at the holy altar,
just bow your head low for new atonement,
merciful gods appear if you stay to own it..
Twitch, twitch again.
Twitch, twitch again.
Ceaseless movement all around,
darkness clutters so shapely where beasts abound,
nightmare creatures from shadows are made,
do what you can though you can’t be saved.
There are monster deeper then mind or skin,
you called them forth hoping to let them in.
Twitch, twitch again.
Twitch, twitch again.
Begging for slumber at the end of 10-days,
get along now sanity we’re deep in this haze.
A misbegotten attempt at revival,
turned the mysteries of the past into present survival.
Let lessons be taught in the way that they are.
Sick and gasping looking for the end not so far.
Twitch, twitch again.
Twitch, twitch again.
Never again, he said.
never again….

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Glass Walls

Glass maze image from overhead.
Labrynth

Putting pieces back together in a maze made of glass,

Seeing clear the future goals to move beyond the past.

These walls that edge without blotting out my vision,

They feel so tight yet loosely fit and lie about position.

I thought myself to be far in, so buried deep indeed,

Nearly neglected thought and action calls to change for want not need.

Externaphizing

Hoping the jury is out.

I’m coming to the realization that on so many different levels I am either a remarkably calloused and demanding individual or there is a screw truly loose (several more likely) upstairs. It’s the only thing that can, or would, account for such indiscriminate moments of self indulgent burbling and behaviour as leads me to regularly overlook the concerns of those loving figures in my life. Unless I am well and truly an actual certifiable dick.


I’m even finding a flair for it in the fact that I tend to fixate on my own reactions and actions in situations – pre-emptively justifying some flagrant display of asinine “my way or the highway” choice making prowess with a fixated smile plastered in disregard on my face (which I will only later realize to my own chagrin). If I were to explore the world around me, step outside of this little glass room and observe that what I previously represented as fun was actually a brazen push off of my wife’s emotions and verbalized needs (supplanted by my own), irresponsible actions that drained coffers and put us at risk, and a worthless extension of a wonderful day into the doldrums and mire of a night huddled at opposite sides of the van.

Somewhere along the lines there is a lynchpin moment – like when I say, “wow, we are getting along great recently!” Klaxons should go off inside my head that any moment now my own self-destruct sequence just silently clicked on and started down. If I can chase back that singular moment as it happens and repetitiously drill it into my head that this is the moment where a choice can mean the validation of goodwill and genuine happiness being experienced and a continuation thereof, or disaster and a repeat of the same overplayed mistakes once again.

It seems intuitive that anyone would want to sustain positivity and goodvibes that are making themselves felt in an interpersonal dynamic – so why does my brain blank to suddenly and with seeming intent when it comes to taking the basic neccessary steps to do so? I don’t like the burned out husk of joy that is left when I don’t, no one does. If I have to be self serving enough to recognize the discomfort that the miss of that moment will bring to myself in order to identify the external impact that will precede, so be it.


I really hope I’m not just a dick. That would really be terrible.

Stuck

Stuck on,

Wash, rinse, repeat,

Stuck on,

Reading the same page.

Stuck on,

Making the same mistakes,

Stuck on,

Being stuck on.

Summertime Delusion – A Letter

All credit to The Hamer https://www.deviantart.com/the-hamer/art/Little-Soldier-Boy-182842008

Despite every frothing nuanced prayer that initializes my psyche, the distorted grimace of broken promises and lost understanding, perched atop a wistful hallucination, a misted and cloaked recollection of the past run doggedly down by the present pretense.

If ever there was something akin more to the listless and forgiving welcome end of the fight with the embittered arrogance of senses beguiled by a world at odds with the wasted conviction that drives each of us to draw determined store each day.

I don’t want to see that shit.

It’s going to remain a figment of some darker god’s plaything.

Poor darlings chained up until the scent of dread and hate and playful desperation and longing and weakness and fear cum resignation. Soaks the fingers loose from greased clasp on steel.

Fucking breaking would be the sweetest of releases.

To find forgiveness in deceit , blunder through fields of denial, laden and swollen deep with the putrid rage at self and world.

Just take one more day beautiful.

Please.

I’m begging through this weakness and shame of my indignant mistrust.

Please.

Please show me I’m crazy enough that I won’t die in my hate lust that these fears have spawned.

I’ll be your puppy faced joker.

Your sterile cat of misapprehension.

Feed me your sin to mirror mine and kiss these wounds to sew them shut against a clot of your mercy. The sheen was lost so long ago and hasn’t been a clean reflection since you woke me to a world of normalcy bathed in the crackled genius of the wounded.


Ownership

green wooden chair on white surface
Photo by Paula Schmidt on Pexels.com

Motivations interviewed and irrelevant,

I’ll lay my head guilty pressed on insignficant,

For cowards face never the burning sun,

They’ll hide in shadow and deep shades for far,

Too long to justify,

Too short to miss the feelings of defense,

A good name is relative depending on who plays the better game.

I’d settle for naught but honesty,

Review of self with society as whole the juror,

Makes for fearful selling,

That for each wounding action their is a conflict acting.

Were each moment played off the last,

All credit due for manipulations, scheming, mind games,

But each one remaining new,

Pure of outside intrusion more than human,

That would board for explanation.

To the inn keeper who lent a room,

Truth be told I wanted warmth without the price,

For both myself and my wife,

Without money on hand my labor was an easy price,

We left you a story and a poem,

You gave us peaceful hours till we meet again.

The individuals who have given freely and randomly,

Not all your funds went to the gas tanks,

In fact I know,

Aside from coffee and some flowers,

Much has gone to calm the sway of panic,

I regret to say booze to numb the world,

In this turmoil and limbo I’ve fallen to the ease of calling it a moral disease,

Let myself be sold to the desire,

A bottle sits easier sometime when buried in mental wreckage,

Burning in quagmire.

I’ve had bouts with lifting,

Ignoring and getting loud with my wife,

Falling short at jobs and seemingly checked out on life.

Surely by the standard of the world I’m guilt ridden as sinning,

My core personality is crawling back though,

Believe in its honesty or not,

I will sit down with a young woman and try to share her pain,

With my wife, bath tubs and reruns, church and tradition,

Moving Christmas boxes for a hot meal from a kitchen.

I’m finding a stride,

And yes, I am open to denouncement and decry,

I’m a fool touching down,

Getting his head scanned and on meds again,

Trying my best,

Hell, signed up for college and even showed for the test.

I’m far from perfect,

And I’ll sign to the tune of my own recognition,

Of failings I make,

Mistakes or plain fuckery from more rebellious days,

For the first time in long months though,

With eyes clear to the world,

As much as they can be,

I’m on a road to improvement,

On bettering up my awareness,

So that I can be I,

You can be you,

And together bring each other ourselves,

You and I, us and we.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TTI – Troubled Teen Industry #2

Been going back through and working on a lot of different memories and listening to my wife who is also a survivor of the troubled teen industry though we went to different programs. When she is finally able to compile all of her research on the shocking disposition CURRENTLY of the political figures in office, misappropriated funds, connections back to mind-control programs from the German’s and the USA, Pavlovian work and scientifically backed manipulation and breaking sessions with CHILDREN that is allowed to go on today despite more than 50 documented deaths and thousands of lawsuits….it is my most fervent hope that it shakes this torture founded industry to its core and helps those other survivors attain a modicum of peace as it is torn money bound limb from limb with it’s supporters brought forward into the light as they so richly deserve.

In regards to the following piece, it reads a little bit askew – the rhythm is off a bit, but I thought this first draft before I expand it and refine to a spoken word piece might be worthwhile to share.

Best wishes and thank you for reading and any comments!

To the parents and the crooks,
The political impersonators who throw out the rules,
Sit back collecting stacks of cash while cooking the books.
Your children were tortured for paychecks and gain,
Sent off to boot camps and gulags,
Battle grounds where they learned nothing but shame.
Where brainwashing is a joy and considered a game,
Breaking wills and minds in front of others,

Forget that we were actually someone’s son or a brother.

Just stay out from fronting and flow in the current.
Where connections are made to MKULTRA and more,
Paperclip, Monarch, Bluebird to start,
Did you know that the APA head once had no heart?
Read into the research and what you will find,
Is that you sold off your children to perpetrators of a vicious crime.
Families in need of console,
Desperate to regain control,
Looking for someone to fill the hole,
Left by the departing absence of their lost child’s soul.
Here come the consultants,
Professionals for hire,
Arrange for kindnappings that draw no legal ire,
And off in a flash your confused child went,
To a community of sorts with promises to fill,
Make them better, fitter, compatible, or better still,
More compliant and loyal,
Fit to be royal,
Have ’em back in a jiff – 12-24 months isn’t too stiff.
And when the communication blackouts went on,
Fuckers stuck us back into rooms and handled us too strong.
Workshops in blacked out rooms,
Dog kennels and beatings,
Touched by staff and indoctrination meetings.
Hazing and rough play,
Rape and endless marches day to day,
Screams to a counselor,
Get put in a box,
You paid these fuckers to place us in places with locks.
All for our own good,
And what have you found?
Are most of us sound?
Hell no, just look down, down, fucking down.
You’ll find many of us cracked out in back alleys,
Drunk in ditches or trying to get our jolleys,
Hooked on fixes with drugs,
Banging strangers for our newest buzz,
Complex PTSD is the tip of the berg,
You ripped a generation of youth out of life,
Detached us from a world.
Is it any surprise?
We were shattered to pieces,
Taped back together despite our begging and cries.
No one could hear us, and no one cared if they did,
We were teenagers then,
Just fucking misunderstood.

Crack Pipe Peter Pan

Peter Pan Syndrome with Wendy
Peter Pan Syndrome by Gwenhyvere all rights to them.

Call it Peter Pan on a crack pipe flight,

Overseen by angels and whispers of devilish delight.

Carve wanton whiptails in the air,

Playacting as children with zero care.

Feel the rush of blessings given free,

Thank the wisdom that kept you from me.

A Divorce for the Past, Present, Future

So as something of a preface to the following let me just say that it has been an extraordinary (in both positive and negative ways) period of weeks since I last punched together something to share with the webs’ people. I had a few challenges about a month and a half back which resulted in my being asked to write a divorce letter to my “disease:….but not the quintessential “goodbye forever drugs” – but rather, towards however I envisioned that sickness which had driven me to be were it to wear a physical form. The suave smooth talking salesman, a blundering and demanding gargoyle, a bad ass mans man with a beard, a sexy woman teasing and seducing….whatever form i chose.
Hey baby you sexy thing,
Hey brother you filthy rock star.
Thank you for the stories,
Those staggering rides up with the comets,
Them epic nights rolling without pause into endless days.
Damn but we fucked well and,
Damn we sped past those pathetic sheep on the streets,
Damn we were a fireball of excitement,
A hurricane of insanity.
My sweet goddess of sin,
My destroying titan of hatred.
You blessed me,
You cursed me,
It’s time to walk away,
Sky, John, off with you and your false matrimony,
Off with this slavers collar on my finger,
Just like you spit in my face when the fun was done,
Feel the scornful gaze that your wisdom brought so many I once loved to cast upon me.
Sky, my lovely succubi, take your sinfully beautiful body,
Those promises of impossibly intense bliss that would never end,
Taste the disgust you draped me in before all I encountered.
My gruesome and powerful spirit,
My depiction of remorse,
Of emotion to be understood and chased,
My devil-may-caresofuckitallandwatchtheworldburn charmer,
John, even when you convinced me that I was doing something positive,
Always those that I wanted to hurt the least caught the brunt.
You made loving tantamount to self-inflicted emotional trauma,
Never again.
You both served your purpose, goodbye.
I divorce myself from my past including you.
From the present wherein my personality is lost in yours and all I can see and be seen as is as you made me,
From the future of which I know little,
With this freedom,
I embrace myself again to stand tall and walk with purpose and confidence to something brighter.
Where the voices are new,
The suggestions more pure,
Life lived more passionately instead of intensely.
-S

Lovesick – BPD on Day 2

Purging of love by force

Lovesick

Why is it that my words echo with such deep longing and feel so true,

But my actions call to task each syllable, each letter, each sentence,

Make me a liar in my own eyes, and shame me to the one I love.

Why is it that I regret each moment of time that I connect to another,

When I know that it will end in tears, that it will end in sadness, in another broken heart,

Because inside I never seem to change from the disgusting thing I’ve always been.

Why is it that the outside which feels so pure and grasps for grace blessed with integrity is so sweet,

When foulness runs afoot on seconds of impulse, chased spots of purgatory, whims of fancy,

Forever haunting myself with the tastes of beauty that I want the world to see me for.

That I think I can be.

But I deceive myself worse than all the rest.

I can never change.

So it seems.

And only God can forgive me in the end.

For I can never forgive myself.

-S