A Poem: Call for Help

I put my heart into the wrong container,

expecting it to be healing and warm.

Instead, what I found was a complainer

whose affection hit me like chloroform.

In those years, every time I would wake

and work to fix the situation at hand,

instead I would find a man like a snake,

all too ready to lie and misunderstand.

My inner strength was sapped away,

stolen in pieces, he’d ruin it, bit by bit.

A kick or punch is so much clearer by day

than the words upon which he would sit.

How I was so blind, I ask myself daily,

wondering how I could be so broken.

If only he’d hit me, punching as gayly

as his words and dismissal were spoken.

Now, I find myself in a vice-grip by fear,

its cold, dead fingers attached like a leech.

My first instinct is to run away, steer clear

of any affection—anxiety makes me screech.

Please, I implore, help me pick up the pieces

of what is left in the aftermath of this fall.

Alone, impossible, but with help, it ceases

to be something for which I feel I cannot call.

Thoughts and Memories

Memory may be imperfect,

but mine lasts a long time.

Some things I remember,

some are lost along the line.

Still, never in my wildest dreams

did I imagine something like this.

Never would I have considered

Taking another swing after a miss.

“If at first you don’t succeed,

try, try again,” said our old friend,

a quote I failed to take to heart

from our Founding Father, Ben.

Now, though, I look around,

bemused and wondering what I see.

Uncertainty and anxiety, my friends,

and the results of severe PTSD.

My memory is long, and I

remember vividly how we

fit together and you inspired

romanticism in poetry from me.

Still, memory is broken in places

and I find myself wondering

just who it is you’ve become, now,

and I can’t stop pondering.

Tinted Glasses

You perceive of me only what you wish to see,

but I’m a human with flaws, like you.

Like him, you’re quick to say, “It’s not me;

it’s you, you’re wrong,” but I can see through

it now; things will play how they must be.

At the end of the day, see, I have my crew.

How many close relationships does he keep?

Tones would change if you knew what I knew.

But you could never be wrong.

I recognize when I’m wrong, I write it down,

take note to make the needed change

and work on it every single day, through the frowns

that come when I’m feeling a little strange.

I’m learning every single day, yet like a clown

you recognize nothing of import, set a stage

to paint me as a villain all the way around.

To think I’d wanted to chalk ignorance up to age.

But you could never be wrong.

If this were a movie, we could flip; we could switch

perspectives, and maybe then you would see

the truth instead of calling me a rude bitch.

 Unfortunately, I can tell when it comes to me,

there’s nothing you want to see but that which

makes you pretty and helps you feel free.

So, then, like a disease, you pull at every last stitch

on my heart, doing your best to unravel me.

But you could never be wrong.

The meaning behind your words is so devoid,

I can practically feel your desperation

to control everything and monitor the noise

coming out of every radio station.

Your eyes glaze over, all you care for are coins,

ears plugged while you make accusations.

Your masks are so thin, it’s no wonder your boys

are so easily discovered, peeled like crustaceans.

But you could never be wrong.

Heaven forbid you see things through the eyes

of any person other than yourself,

but I won’t join in your pity-party or lies

or enable the bullshit to come back off the shelf.

I’m done with you and your slithering spies.

But you could never be wrong.

Perception

Mindful practice leads to mindful expression,

yet my words bring on unwarranted projection

of a psychotic, horrible, toxic perception

of unfolded events; denial; rejection.

Boomerangs aren’t my style; I prefer seeds

to plant as thoughts that, like food, feed

some ideas that might just let you see,

if I explain it right, I’m a human with needs.

Reputations do not depend on one person’s thoughts;

actions explain themselves, reason is sought,

and when reason comes up naught,

then, only then, is the true villain caught.

Those without balance devise their own doom,

regardless of dark or light on their loom

of life; the organization of their living room

does nothing to stop the disastrous boom.

“Unacceptable,” the consensus does say;

the same word is uttered every day

as an assessment of the inexplicable way

he decided he no longer wanted to stay.

A tiny spirit, confused, heartbroken, trampled and torn

over sudden abandonment, sharp as a thorn;

I do what I can to ease her pain, while my scorn

comes out in writing; yet it’s seen as something worn.

Distance, closed by screens yet expanded by air,

I am here and you’re all the way over there;

you will never see the why and the where,

the what or how I soothe her when she’s scared.

Shit: A Poem

If you ain’t about shit,

then you ain’t shit.

I’m done; no time for bullshit.

It’s time to be grown.

You can be about your own shit,

or someone else’s shit.

But if you’re on some other shit,

it’s time for me to go.

At last, I see what’s wrong with shit.

I hadn’t noticed this shit:

People not maintaining their shit,

their dwellings in disrepair.

I’ll tell you all about my shit,

’cause I’m about a lot of shit.

But I am done with bullshit,

and all you can do is stare.

Watch me rise higher than any shit

you’ve seen before; my shit

will have you saying, “Shit,

man, I need more!”

But I’m a selfish bitch; you’re shit

cause you ain’t about your shit.

I’ve seen the way you live: bullshit

owns you from your core.

Irresponsible like some child’s shit,

you play with nothing but shit.

You talk to spread some bullshit

and never wash your clothes.

I tell you now, I’m done with that shit.

Grown-ass people recognize shit,

but you’re so damn stuck in bullshit,

you can’t see past your nose.