Blood-Bound Sing Song

My grandmother had a poem she

Would often-times repeat to me

“By your year of thirty and three, the world will become dead to thee.”

On into the night, she’d go

At my bedside; candles low

Her sing-song poem only known

By the two of us

Her voice was raspy, her tone was true, she sang,

“They’ll wonder what became of you

after you reach thirty and two…

Now, sleep, my lil one.

Tell no one of our song

For, not one would believe.

Imagine the pain that you might cause

Should  you cause upset to me.”

Then, Grandmother would blow out the light

And Darkness would abound

My chest was tight

As I’d struggle against

The thing that had me bound

I’d scream all night inside myself

Till morning’s light was found

~

Years came and went, so quickly it seems

As I lived my life

Still bound by Grandmother’s curse to me

I was a good woman, mother and wife

Till came a day, the last day of

My life, year twenty and nine

A wish was granted me

On that day

When Grandmother was doomed to die

The call went out with the chill of the evening

That Grandmother had fallen ill

Along with the others I ran to the place

Where her body grew more still than still

I could not help but watch the clock

On this eve when I’d turn thirty and aught

Could it be that I’d been blood bought

And she would go away

On and on I watched, you see

Until eleven twenty three

When her breath grew shallow

Her skin went pale

And her heart refused to beat

As I stood by, holding her hand

Amongst her family and a few close friends

I could not help but smile

As those around me cried tears of sorrow

I knew that I’d now have tomorrow

And the Shadow she’d cast over me

Was blown into eternity

And, when my time became thirty and three

I’d live to see the dawn

I am now fifty and one

And, till now, have told no single soul

Of the sing-song poem that Grandmother sang to me

Oh, so long ago

~

‘Blood by blood, until it sleeps,

a promise made is one to keep.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

Always, The Thunder

I’m everyone’s rainy day

Even when I’m sunny

There’s a lil touch of grey

And, always, the thunder

In my head

My heart

My soul

As hard as I try

It won’t let me go

There aren’t enough pills to cure it

All I can do is endure it

As everyone who ever mattered to me

Falls

Away 

Another Mayberry Morning 

It’s a beautiful morning 

The Mayberry sun shines so brightly

Even my dark shadow has disappeared into the joy of platinum light

Critters busily make ready for the day

As I watch the life beyond my window, waiting for the meds to kick

…like a China doll

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I’m having a really bad day. When I say ‘really bad’, I mean it. There’s a lot that people don’t know about me, and I tend to keep things to myself. Lately, it’s getting more difficult to avoid certain subjects, as my life is trying to get larger, but my mind simply won’t allow it.

One thing that people don’t know about me is that I’m agoraphobic. Some days, I can’t leave my house. That means that, at times, I can’t even make myself touch the door. On other days, I can open the door, but I can’t step out of it. People see me in my car, which is parked exactly five big steps away from my front door, and they assume that I’m just out and about, running errands and what not. What they don’t know is that I can only ‘shop’ via a drive thru, so I go to the drive thru liquor store for my smokes and fast food places for my food when my son doesn’t have time to grocery shop for me. Everything I purchase is online…clothes…things for my home, etc.

I have severe PTSD, which is the root cause of the agoraphobia. I haven’t been to war, and am still indignant about the diagnosis, as I feel it is best ascribed to one who has been. But I’ve been through some bad shit. That much is true. Very, very bad shit…things I can’t say out loud; things I cannot believe could happen to me. Me. I’m a fucking badass. Well, I used to be. Until… I don’t feel sorry for myself. I know that many have been through worse, and I pray that God touches them and gives them peace. But, I can’t find peace, no matter how hard I seek it. Nobody knows but my shrink, immediate family, and me.

I’m also bipolar. I suspect that people would guess that after chatting with me for a few minutes. I take meds for it, but they don’t really work. When I find one that does, it only lasts for a short time, then my brain finds a way around it. When I’m manic, life is amazing, even when I can’t leave my house. I feel happy and free and expressive. I can feel my soul again. I don’t sleep…I eat whatever I want to without feeling guilty…I work on my book. I feel like…everything. Then, without warning, comes the crash and I’m plunged into total darkness, it seems. Everything good in my life is turned off, as though someone flipped a switch. What is left is a death-craving woman who cannot find the nerve to pull the trigger. I drink a lot during those times. Nobody knows about that. My son suspects, but I always make and excuse. I tell him my meds are making me loopy, etc. I don’t know…when you’re depressed, life is so bleak and there’s no way out. You can take all the pills you want to, but they aren’t going to fix the problem.

Since I’ve had most of these problems since childhood, I am very good at covering. I suppose the theme of my life is ‘Smile Pretty!’. And, I do. Dying on the inside, smiling on the outside. That’s me. Because I can’t bear for people to know how I truly am. The ones who do walk on eggshells around me because they think I’ll either break like a China doll, or go off like a bomb. My mother tries to make it all seem like mind over matter and that I’m failing miserably at the task. The truth is, had she not abandoned me, the bad shit would never have happened. I think she knows it and that’s why it’s so hard for her to deal with me.

Lastly, I deal with severe and chronic pain. That’s one reason I don’t post much. My fingers rarely do what they’re told and it takes me ages to write anything. So far, I’ve been an hour writing this. I’ve written more than I normally can in an hour because i’m having a fairly good pain day. Normally, my pain level is 7-10 throughout any given day. If you haven’t experienced severe pain, you probably can’t relate to that. But, if you have, imagine that you experience pain at that level every single day and nobody can figure out why. Fun! My life is a whirlwind of pain meds that take the edge off, and little more. They make me dull and incompetent and sleepy. I hate the way they affect me, so I take as few as possible. There are some things that are worse than physical pain. Emotional pain and intellectual numbness are two of those things. In any case…I think that sums it all up.

So…I have purged myself, for the most part. Now, all of you know more about me than anyone, for whatever that’s worth. What do I get out of that? Freedom to write the truth about my life without having to explain myself at every turn.

In closing, I’d like to thank everyone who reads this mess of a blog. It makes me feel connected to the world when, sometimes, I have no connection at all. I’m grateful to have an outlet like this. Truly.

 

 

Sanguine Kisses 

​I awoke, eyes open, still dreaming of you

Your scarlet dripping from my thirsty lips; the delicious remnant of our sanguine kisses 

Your body, still and close to mine

I watched you until your shallow breaths became full and deep

I simply could not leave you alone, behind the Veil 

As Hell broke loose in my heart, knowing our time was short, my eyes could not bear to look away

But as I reached out to pull you closer

You disappeared from sight

A mist 

A memory

A longing that I cannot contain

In Like A Dime… 

Out like a cash register. 


In the silence of the wee hours, I dream of you

Beyond the Veil, I see you, in shadow

Just beyond my reach

So begin dreams within dreams…

~

I can’t seem to rest tonight. Memories entangle themselves with stark reality. My bed…empty. My life…lonely. My heart is so full of regret that I don’t think it possible to forgive myself. 

I was unkind. Cruel. Even though he who was pricked by the thorn of my unyielding heart was, ironically, a prick, I should have shown mercy to the sick man who made me his bride decades ago. At the time, it made sense that one should receive cruelty as reward for the same. I never gave it a second thought. I stupidly assumed that the day for forgiveness would come, but not until I decided to invite it to my twisted lil party. 

It is true that my behavior was sown with the seeds of betrayal. I felt justified. Righteous, even. I never dreamed that things would end so abruptly. Before I could close the door on my season of vengeance, Death came calling and closed the door for me. Then, He locked it. 

It’s been twenty-four months, today. Twenty-four months since Death took the man I’d grown to hate, and began my mournful lesson. He has been faithful to teach me what true regret is. I’ve learned how a hard heart cannot hold its own against the silence of a vantablack night. And I have come to understand that tears have a will of their own. I am broken…an A+ student, no doubt. 

As I write these lines, I am called to remembrance of the last I saw of the man who was, and always will be, my love. I am in his hospital room; he is on his deathbed. I reach out and take his freezing, swollen, stiff hand in mine. I lean down to kiss his forehead. I beg him to come back and forgive me for being so unkind. There is no blame. I offer no excuse. He knows why. But none of it matters because he has been whisked away, beyond the Veil, and I am left to learn my guilty lesson; forever and always, awaiting my day of forgiveness. 

Christian Shmistian

I’m a Christian, but I don’t believe in organized religion. Am I spiritual? Considering the fact that I’m a spirit occupying a body, I’d have to answer, “Yes.” But, keep in mind, that ‘spiritual’ can mean most anything. You’ll never hear me say, “I’m not religious, I’m spiritual.” I would say, “I’m a Christian who doesn’t believe in organized religion,” Or I’d tell you that it’s none of your business. Whatever is appropriate. 

God says that where two, or more, are gathered together in His name, He is in the midst of them. That’s something that occurs regularly in my life, even though I don’t attend church. I have come not to trust most church folk, but have the pleasure of knowing a few lovely and sincere ones. However, in my personal experience, they are not very nice people as a whole, unless you sin the same way they do. Few of them, though they may not cuss or carry on, are nearly as holy as they’d lead you to believe. Like my brother says, “If ya can’t get laid in church, you ain’t never gonna get laid.”

A comment on FB yesterday has gotten me to examine my walk with Christ, as well as my faith, in general. He said that only a tiny few Christians are truly Christian. I agree. I consider myself to be one of them, but I’m certain the man would not see it that way. That’s OK with me. It’s up to us to seek out our own salvation with fear and trembling . Fortunately, Almighty God sent His son to die for our sin. He did not create us to be perfect, then He went and gave us free will and wrapped our souls in a sin suit. Were it not for Jesus, we’d all burn in Hell. That’s just the way of it. 

I do often wonder what the Lord thinks of me. Why would I be worthy of His sacrifice? I know I’m not worthy by way of my misdeeds. And my good deeds don’t make me any more worthy. The only thing that makes me anything in God’s eyes is His son’s sacrifice. Thank God that He loved the world that much. 

My opinion about the modern church, (not to be confused with THE Church/bride of Christ), may be misguided. If so, that’s my sin to pay for before Almighty God. To me, organized religion is simply a way for the wicked to disguise themselves while, what is frequently a wolf in sheep’s clothing, spins yarns and spoon feeds his personalized brand of crap to people barely awake in more ways in one. That’s all. 

She Laughed


What did she do on her last day? 

Did she scream? 

Cry? 

Did she speak in riddles? 

Yes. Yes, she did. 

Why do you suppose she took such grave action against herself? 

Was she sad?

Was she lonely? 

Was she broken hearted? 

Indeed. Most, certainly. 

What words did you hear her say at her last? 

Goodbye? 

I love you? 

So cruel is the world? 

No. No such things were spoken. 

She laughed.