Homeless Idols

House the Homeless - from Council to Homeless Persons
Truth.

Dystopian cartwheels in the caterwauling life we lead
staring constantly at the satisfaction all around.
Bitching occasionally to satisfy unmet desires
that we struggle to attain even at unreasonable cost.
The hunt for happiness overwhelms the basics
and sometimes its worth it whatever the price.
Disciples of a daily rut where we stay stuck and mired
deeply in the mud of a situation not planned for.
In the moments of joy where our desire for completion
coincides with our faithful love and devotion,
we find a peace despite the discord that is without compare.
In the moments where we falter under the weight
surviving as only survivors can and are willing to do,
we have to remember the strength we share to stumble on.
Nothing becomes the norm and requests for aid
cut as a degrading act that dehumanizes us further.
Outlasting the shame of each failure and the disgust it brings
resolutely waking each morning to the grim gray of sameness.
As upper class homeless we are on the outskirts,
enjoying luxuries like cold running water and a toilet,
that the rest of goddamn society imagines are god given.
Fear that the envy of our possessions will lead to thievery
leads us to close the door and have knives on hand.
Eating another can of soup in mid-summer heat
because the soup kitchens provide cans and bread regularly
and its too goddamn expensive to purchase a real meal.
Endlessly pretending that things will just fix themselves
because the reality of work necessary to get out of this situation
is beyond daunting, it’s easier to capitulate and get high.
Holding tight to special items because they are memories
encapsulated in the fur of a stuffed animal or favorite shirt.
When you’ve lost it all so many times before
the littlest things can have such an enormous significance
you might even indulge in a treasure box for safe keeping.
Solid week long stretches without bathing
because the $7 per person to shower at the truck stop can’t be found.
People look at you with mixed contempt and confusion
because if you dress nicely and present well
it defies logic that you should be in such a predicament.
Putting on makeup diligently just to feel pretty for a moment
scrape the grunge of sweat stained skin stickily from your body.
Oh yes, there is freedom to be found if you chose to indulge
and let the wash of illicit and irregular activities become your home.
A beer and some vodka to wash down the weather and heat
along with the anxious discord of stress over the unknown of tomorrow.
A shot or a bowl of glass to provide focused determination
the confidence to strive for success into the oncoming crush
or an opportunity to zone out and lose days at a time without emotion.
Some black tar to sleep peacefully and stay dazed
no thought and no fear, no nothing at all because you’ve gone dead inside.
Its a slide down into a pit of needles and loss
where the bottom can always fall out and take you lower,
lower than you ever imagined possible in such insidious ways.
Bravo to those that soldier their way out of the muck
find themselves a spot of sanity and personal identity
allow themselves the grace of overcoming through grit.
Fucking monsters of life having been torn through the gutter
when they stand proud and defiant despite their obstacles
applaud those hard mother fuckers that didn’t give in,
defied all the odds and managed to rejoin the world on their own terms.












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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Troubled Teen Industry

Sorry Mom Troubled Teen SmokingEverything is about finding your voice,
So here goes,
An attempt to tell a story.
One where the hero and heroine fall short in every category.
They were stripped away at tender ages,
Put in lowly spots,
Locked away in beautiful prisons,
Thrown away into lovely cages.
One was in country and one was out,
One had a religious theme,
The other mind breaking,
Brain scarring and fuck you over was what it was all about.
One chained you to beds with cuffs made of steel,
Let girls kick you in a nightshirt and watch you squeal.
The other was prided on group interaction,
Breaking each other down was the main attraction.
One praised God on a daily basis,
But both praised the dollar sign on a much larger dais.
With the coms blacked out and the parents away,
Most children celebrate,
Act diabolical,
Hell,
Those little fuckers might play.
We put our noses to the grind stone,
Got raped, molested, abused, brainwashed, conditioned, and then some.
Another day in the life,
Of a troubled teen school paradise.

Support for Creators

Patreon – Creator Support Website

Hi all – it’s an interesting time, we are living in a van (actually yes, down by a river) and we are in dire need of support to help break away from the day to day survival in order to create more, and better, content for this site and several other projects. If you are interested in helping us by becoming a Patron our heartfelt thanks would be insufficient to express the gratitude.

Also, if you yourself are a creator and interested in pursuing this avenue we would be ever so appreciative if you would like to use our referral link below as we might get a small kickback, ;-).

Patreon Referral Link

Best wishes, and thank you again!

Find Your Voice (and Video)

Spoken Word Video Reading

Find your voice,
Find your ink,
Air through lips or pressure through finger tips,
Find your voice,
Use it proudly,
Share your love,
Your hate, your pain, your vision, your create, your palette of life lived,
Sing it however you will,
Your voice will carry resoundingly.
Find your voice boy,
Find your voice girl,
If you whisper in the street,
If you stutter and feel like you bleat,
If you shout with violence and hurt,
If you crackle with intensity unleashed.
If the paper runs torn beneath your pressure,
The pentip breaks and spills its hidden treasure,
Find whatever you find that lets you know that you are able,
Complete, and perfectly capable,
Damaged beyond belief,
But beautiful in shining relief,
Find your voice
Find your words,
They’re the path out of wherever you’ve roamed,
And will cut the road home.

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.

Catching Up & Thank You

It’s been quite some time since I got anything put up here. Life has changed rather dramatically over the past couple weeks. I moved coasts, started a far more relaxed job at a local climbing store slinging coffee, beer and gear. Started climbing again, re-entered the program, have been juggling all the variables to get my life together and realize some satisfaction with who I am. I’ve rediscovered passions, happiness, and actually feel like I’m re-establishing connections with my family – something I never really expected to happen. There is the challenge of leaving behind the few very important and meaningful people along with the prospect of seeing my kids any time in the near future.

Sadly, it’s more important that I resolve some of the issues with my BPD and bi-polar which will allow me the opportunity to be a positive and consistent presence in their lives instead of the erratic lunatic I’ve been. Would be nice to not create such convoluted space within my relationships, perhaps even find some peace.

I do have an essay in the works and some other writing pieces which I’m hoping to get finished in the not so distant future.

Thanks for the patience everyone, and the support you’ve shown for this little experiment. I hope life is treating everyone well.

-S

A Day in the Life

drug-addict

This is my life. There is no rationality, no planning, scant expectation of success. An ego the size of this planet argues with a weakly protesting child, and the outcome is so basic that it bears minimal mention. Joy in one, anger and loathing in the other.

Note: written in 2014 following essentially a normal day with a relapse before my marriage collapsed. Not surprising I suppose considering the state that I was in.

You can be aware of it with a sense of resignation knowing that the inevitable outcome will be yet another failure of your will and the joy of just another day wiled away in discontent. There is an internal battle, naturally – who really wants to fight themselves mentally trying to prove that it’s wrong to do the thing the other part of you demands, regardless of the consequences. 1:30pm is about when it kicked in, and the fight was short, I had already been snorting buproprion despite all the fears brought on from yesterday’s clear overdose and seeming serotonin syndrome. Hallucinations, confusion, twitching, staggering, blind terror….certainly seems like something that you would want to do over and over again. I had been safely knocking off items from my to-do list, planned to tackle so much more for the day, when the fluttery thought of a cold beer dusted across my determination to continue the 48hr. streak of happiness and health I had been maintaining. So what if it was an hour walk to the liquor store and I had a pocket half filled with change.

Cut forward 8-hrs to my wheedling, intimidating, and self-righteous anger with my wife because she won’t give me the grocery money so I can get a pack of cigarettes.

This is my life. There is no rationality, no planning, scant expectation of success. An ego the size of this planet argues with a weakly protesting child, and the outcome is so basic that it bears minimal mention. Joy in one, anger and loathing in the other.

I’ve always questioned whether or not the majority of most other individuals at AA or NA meetings have experienced that same flat out smothering weakness. Non-committal and breaking at the slightest touch. I’m not sure. The “Big Book” speaks on “incomprehensible demoralization,” but there is always a touch of glamorization around each escapade that denotes in the back of my head some control. To be truly out of it, with only the smallest hint of coherency or willingness to fight against the thing destroying you – probably just my arrogant inner self bleating for sympathy because I must be just that damn bad. If the world had more people like me, I’m sure they would have popped up on my radar some time. Then again, AA preaches terminal uniqueness and loss of control as some of the basic precepts to their program. Depending on the time of day I’ll feel one way or the other about it.

To put it in perspective on a physical level, imagine yourself preparing to make dinner, say a tasty salad or some such other vegetablish item. Now picture that about halfway through, a casual thought about how tasty some meat would be in addition to the salad, but sadly you lack the funds. Before you finish, you’ve discussed the variables, the outcome, the possibilities, the pain – and you’ve come to a conclusion – your finger would make the perfect accoutrement. Down with the knife, up to the lips, and in a heartbeat, you’ve maimed yourself over a passing thought. Now that the moment is over, you can embrace the pain and relish the understanding of how sick you must be, provide yourself that information for an ongoing reference to continue justifying your actions.

But this disease sustains, it offers glimmers of hope, of optimism among the shroud of misery that you wear over your daily interactions with the world. This last time, that was absolutely the last time. Tomorrow you’ll feel better, and you’ll be stronger for having survived another ordeal. Until the day comes that you bitterly and pathetically weep that there won’t be a tomorrow with longing and hope for your expiration. Choking on tears and gasping prayers to any god or devil that will listen to remove the pain once and for all. Prayers so rarely answered it seems.

I told my wife at counseling that I had given up, but was balancing the need to see her, my son and my unborn child set-up someplace where I would know them to be safe and housed comfortably with a cushion in front of them. Seconds earlier, our counselor, Paula, who had initially been working one on one with me, had announced that she would no longer be working with me as she felt that there was nothing she could do to help and had become discouraged.

“Well, then why haven’t you gone out full tilt?”

At my core, I’m still a coward. I know where that will take me. Not where I hope it will, but likely to an institution or a jail where that one prized aspect to my existence that I have ever embraced as the key to masking the inner turmoil; independence. I don’t want to lose my family, and I would to delude myself for a few moments longer that all is not lost. I want to feel like I did one good thing as I crashed to Earth. Even if that single action was a mere minor amelioration of the damage so unjustly caused by me on way down.

And I’m human.

I’m scared.

 

Hello Grim

Insanely possible impossibilities,

Shattered and replaced with ingenuity.

Hot roach on a highway hitting nothing,

I hold all the aces and still I’m bluffing.

Smeared sneer pasted in a smile,

Choking on air – so I’ll smoke for awhile.

Ups are getting tossed ‘round the downs,

When I fall and trip I don’t hit the ground.

Show me the trail and I’ll run on through,

I may laugh at death –

-but death laughs at you

NOTE: Written at 16 years old after starting crystal meth. grim-reaper

Checkmate

chess-drugs-rev-2-2

I saw the sun set in a shallow grave,

And I watched the moon twitch in its cage.

I’ve seen infinity twice,

And I’ve explored both ends of life.

I gazed on the rage in a sea of smiles,

And I studied the eyes of a man who was not beguiled.

I’ve battered my way out of the inferno,

And I’ve walked in the halls where the saintly dream to go.

I’ve left my enemies in the past,

And I’ve brought my friends with my out of the ash.

This universe has done its best to beat me,

It’s learning now that you can’t defeat me.

I play this game called life on a different board,

I hold all the aces,

And all my pawns are lords.

I’ll throw my seven,

Lay my straight,

And you can king me.

Another checkmate in a game you don’t play for free.

Note: Originally written at age 16 when I entered deeper into the world of #drugs and #crystal #meth to be specific.