Phantom Stitches.

Somebody taps a chisel,

into a phantom nerve end,

my body racks and wriggles,

as I wake up screaming again,

somebody drives a freight-train,

through thinly-laid dreamscape,

somebody else is using my name,

and handing out my handshake,

someone is chasing me constantly,

anytime I look his face is somewhere,

like a silent horror that’s stalking me,

with a presence that’s everywhere,

somebody rips up the stitches,

the sound of Velcro against my screams,

the scenery changes and switches,

but the stitches are ripped out unfailingly,

somebody please tell me,

this isn’t the best of recovery,

that spending more time in therapy,

will allow the stitches to dissolve naturally.

 

Nocturnal Decline.

How the lids of each eye,

had been pressed and dried,

to each cheek overnight,

as I slumbered and cried;

how the corners of the smile,

that no one’s seen for a while,

turned down by the light,

with classic taciturn style;

how the sweeping of time,

collected dust into a pile,

to sift through and find,

grains of truth that were mine;

how the passage defines,

the subtle crossing of lines,

the journal of my nocturnal decline,

slumber is no friend of mine.

 

 

Around.

You don’t know what my tears taste like,

because your lips do not catch their’ fall,

and the tendency to judge my actions…

well, you’re nobody to judge me at all.

You don’t have a clue what I’ve come through,

I don’t care where you think that you’ve been,

as soon as you’ve perfected your own shit…

maybe, come back and take a crack at me again.

I don’t need a single person’s approval,

and most certainly wasn’t looking for yours,

I know who I am, against your presumptions…

I stand for the steps you’ve never taken before.

People like you only shrink when compared to,

somebody with half of a beating heart,

I’m not sure why it shines so sure from your eyes…

a slice of humanity would break you apart.

Please keep your greed from my scenery,

if you own the slightest hint of a clue,

of how much I despise the habit of lies…

take heed, if you know what’s good for you.

Because, one day you will taste my teardrops,

you will feel the fathoms of my own grief,

despite all of your efforts at destruction and doom…

someday your reflection will look just like me.

Dirty Kerosene.

reduce heat;
overthink;
let simmer –
stir in memories…
add some seasoning,
cover entire mix;
boil overnight,
slow and steadily,
infuse the sauce,
with every teardrop,
slow-cooked misery;
a favorite, indeed,
to anyone in the room,
this unspoken recipe,
Sugar-Candied Doom,
sadly,
it all tastes,
the same to me,
a price to pay,
for the slow-brew,
insomnia infused,
home-made marinade,
douse any leftovers,
in dirty kerosene,
and burn it up,
with any residual,
happy memories,
the pot has boiled over,
over-stimulus,
to the sensory…
bury the book,
the one from,
which you took,
this torturous recipe.

Scared.

I guess it’s good that I can’t recall the nightmares I have after I awaken from them; they are bad enough to often already have me in tears upon waking for the first time for the day – and I don’t mean like a few little snuffles either – I mean like full-blown

“I’m upset as hell and can’t stop crying and don’t even know why”.

I’m a fucking trainwreck
I’m a fucking headcase
I wake up in the morning and I’m sobbing and scared and the worst part about it is that I can’t even put my finger on WHAT I’m so afraid of or WHO. I just FEEL SCARED.

Dirty Kerosene.

reduce heat;
overthink;
let simmer –
stir in memories…
add some seasoning,
cover entire mix;
boil overnight,
slow and steadily,
infuse the sauce,
with every teardrop,
slow-cooked misery;
a favorite, indeed,
to anyone in the room,
this unspoken recipe,
Sugar-Candied Doom,
sadly,
it all tastes,
the same to me,
a price to pay,
for the slow-brew,
insomnia infused,
home-made marinade,
douse any leftovers,
in dirty kerosene,
and burn it up,
with any residual,
happy memories,
the pot has boiled over,
over-stimulus,
to the sensory…
bury the book,
the one from,
which you took,
this torturous recipe.

On Time’s Passing.

Keats

Keats

Time passes,

painfully,

and painlessly,

beating drums,

a Capella,

in a Native tongue

charge the masses

all against one;

time passes,

painlessly,

and painfully,

broken home,

intravenous,

a tap to the bone

reality in flashes

I’m all alone;

time passes,

painfully,

and painlessly,

sapping hearts,

déjà vu,

of the same parts

hurt that smashes

all else apart;

time passes,

painlessly,

and painfully,

silent tears,

blasé

to mask the fear

lightning crashes

between my ears;

time passes.

painfully,

and painlessly,

and I wait,

promiňte

destiny and fate

enamel smashes

porcelain tea plate.

Time still passes

it both hurts

and strengthens

me, Sir;

Be it never

really for

you

or I

to understand

or to

its dance, concur.

Moonlight and PTSD.

What might
tonight’s
insomnia-ridden,
wishes for dreams-
of happy things…
eventually lead me to do?
I may end up running uphill-
away from me,
begging for you;
Might I find myself
in serious need
of emergency help,
when my heart
stops beating by itself?
Possibly, my PTSD
will create so much anxiety,
uncertainty,
lack of any sense of safety-
such a nightmare to fall asleep.
Shhhhh;
pretend I do not breathe;
play dead inside
of my own head,
when will it be morning?
Perhaps, the chaps
who bait the traps,
will wait down by
the creek for me;
but then again-
I can’t stand those men,
and none of them
can easily tolerate me;
What was that noise?
The Man and his Boys…
tumbling around inside
of my stoniest weed;
arched backs,
slash-hacks,
unstable,
in tailored tweed;
Flip the book pages,
lock-down the hatches
infomercial orgasms
while playing with matches;
finally…
when the skies are pink,
and my fearful mind
bangs itself to sleep;
I will sleep, somewhat
Though rather fitfully…
wrapped
inside of the quilt
that I intend to
steal right off your body.

Comes Around.

You don’t know what my tears taste like;

Because your lips do not catch their’ fall,

And your tendency to judge my actions –

Well, you’re no one to judge me at all.

You don’t know what I’ve been through;

I don’t care where you think you’ve been,

As soon as you’ve perfected your own shit –

Maybe, come back and talk to me then.

I don’t need anyone’s bullshit approval;

And I most certainly wasn’t looking for yours,

I know who I am, against your presumptions –

I represent steps that you’ve never taken before.

People like you; seem to shrink when compared to:

Anyone with even half of a beating heart,

I’m not sure why it shines so sure from your eyes –

A slice of true humanity would break you apart.

Please keep that ugly face from my scenery;

If you have the slightest hint of a clue,

Regarding how much I despise – the falseness and lies –

Take heed now, if you know what’s good for you.

Because one day, you will taste my teardrops;

You will feel the depths of this grief,

Despite all of your efforts at destruction and doom –

Silly you, someday your reflection will be me.

“It Only Hurts When I Breathe”

Heart failure describes the inability or failure of the heart to adequately meet the needs of organs and tissues for oxygen and nutrients. This decrease in cardiac output, the amount of blood that the heart pumps, is not adequate to circulate the blood returning to the heart from the body and lungs, causing fluid (mainly water) to leak from capillary blood vessels. This leads to the symptoms that may include shortness of breath, weakness, and swelling.
Understanding blood flow in the heart and body
The right side of the heart pumps blood to the lungs while the left side pumps blood to the rest of the body. Blood from the body enters the right atrium though the vena cava. It then flows into the right ventricle where it is pumped to the lungs through the pulmonary artery. In the lungs, oxygen is loaded onto red blood cells and returns to the left atrium of the heart via the pulmonary artery. Blood then flows into the left ventricle where it is pumped to the organs and tissues of the body. Oxygen is downloaded from red blood cells while carbon dioxide, a waste product of metabolism, is added to be removed in the lungs. Blood then returns to the right atrium to start the cycle again.
Left heart failure occurs when the left ventricle cannot pump blood to the body and fluid backs up and leaks into the lungs causing shortness of breath. Right heart failure occurs when the right ventricle cannot adequately pump blood to the lungs. Blood and fluid may back up in the veins that deliver blood to the heart. This can cause fluid to leak into tissues and organs.
It is important to know that both sides of the heart may fail to function adequately at the same time and this is called biventricular heart failure. This often occurs since the most common cause of right heart failure is left heart failure.

Okay everyone…my heart is physiologically “failing” due to the reasons outlined above…

I actually spoke the line used for the title of this post to a nurse two days ago, which in hindsight is pretty fucking funny.

Kimberly and Me say “Fuck Xmas!”

Scrooged Out Poetresses

Scrooged Out Poetresses

Nighttime. ..

Makes me so lonely I just wanna die…

image

Half of the Purple Pill

I took the pills. I needed to get some real sleep for a change. Sleeping pills have never been something I’ve been into, so the thought of popping a pill and being able to feel that tender yanking on my senses into slumber land has become intriguing lately, given the total lack of my only child’s whereabouts.

It’s hard to sleep under my current circumstances; and when I am able to drift off into the lair of my waking enemy, my visits are short-lived and bitterly laced with mental snapshots I’ve blocked out in the conscious moments during daylight.

To the mind of a non-practicing heroin addict, the inability to become truly sleepy is something akin to a foreign concept; because back when I was a practicing addict, the tried and true escapism, the accepted and sought after realm of the “Netherworlds”, known as sleep and slumber – shit, unconsciousness, for that matter – never managed to evade my habitual calls upon them. Incidentally, when I was strung-out on heroin, my existence (or lack, thereof) was in reverse from today in this respect: it used to be extremely and notoriously difficult to wake me up. I once slept through the first two days of broken jaw (the first and MOST painful of my broken jawbones). Thinking back, I can hardly even believe that was me – in any aspect of the situation, wow…

The pill – an anti-anxiety tablet from a zip-lock baggie my Shawnee Mommy forcefully punched into my fifth pocket the other day. This is my mother’s version of packing me my lunch before sending me on my way out into the big bad world, something she never got around to doing when an actual mom-made-packed-lunch might have made a difference somehow. The baggie was like a favor bag leftover from a Keith Richards & Stevie Nicks slumber party: Clonazepam, Seroquel, Alprazolam, Hydroxyzine, Trazodone, Valium, and of course my all-time favorite in plentiful amounts: Xanax.

I went with half of a Hydroxyzine; I just wanted to drift off to sleep for a change, I swear…

Within 45 minutes of popping the bitter, purple half-moon, I was clicking through photos from a long-ago burned CD-R filled with the lives of me and my only child – from her beloved infancy and toddlerhood all the way up to a few ugly years ago.

 It was during this time that the guilt reared its familiarly hideous head out of the CD-R, and commenced to swallowing me whole. I could no longer even see the images on the screen; a foggy, tear-embedded haze had redesigned the room and everything in it. Despite eating the half-pill that supposedly helps with anxiety and is praised by my most high-strung of acquaintances, my heart was thumping so painfully in my chest that I got angry. Yeah…get mad dumbass – get that adrenaline in on this too, that’ll help a lot.

My emotions affected by seeing my daughter’s little baby face at age 6 months or one year old – her wild bright blonde hair all over the place, her hauntingly unchanged green-brown doe eyes, her O-shaped little mouth – her innocence and promise and chances in life seemingly hovering over her in each photo I looked at – were absolutely consuming in every nano-ounce of my being.  Anyway, I learned last night, that sleeping pills aren’t my answer to the perpetually perplexing equation at of my life, either. I guess my backyard MacGyver laboratory lives on nocturnally, for now. DISCLAIMER: I don’t really have a laboratory and I don’t really make bombs, it’s totally symbolic when I make these remarks on my blog. I’d be lying if I said that the thought of slapping one into my camel pack instead of the water pouch and paying a visit to my daughter’s case worker over at the Department‘s Headquarters isn’t a daily fantasy of mine. I have truly become a hateful and calculating individual – a coiled up mother snake just waiting for my moment to strike, and strike lethally. I have enabled this through my PTSD and its overall grip on my concept of everything.

I have times when the reality that I have put upon my daughter is too much to bear for me; too much to accept, to swallow down and move on. I’m having one of those times today, likely due to the drug-induced guiltfest that I threw for myself last night in the attempt to get some sleep for a change.

Another. Lesson. Learned.