Gobble, Fucking Gobble.

I guess sometimes my nightmares must consist of things that directly tie into my dwindling sense of motherhood; as, there are mornings when I wake up feeling deeply wounded by this element of my irretrievably haunting visits to the realm of dreamland. This experience, when it happens, is enough to have me in full-blown tears of grief and devastation before my bare feet even touch the cold wood of the floor. There are so many sensations and notions attached to these mornings (thank Gods they are few and far between) that it quickly becomes difficult, if not impossible, to process any of them…they just sit there on the stagnant surface of my consciousness, too blurred and ambiguous to get my head or hands around. I guess today, I am thankful that these nights do not catch me slippin’ all too often…because when they do, I pay for it for a few days afterward.

Happy Turkey Day, y’all.

 

Roaming the Hallways.

 

These are things:
hidden meanings;
soundly maintaining
in between –
the likes of you and me.

The same goes for anybody:
structured similarly;
that functions remotely
close to –
any likeness to Yours Truly;

It becomes impossible to see:
your side of anything;
my heart does not hear or speak
the obsolete –
language of a Hollow King.

I ride lost in loss and strife:
the chaos of a star’s dying light;
the haunting of a dead man’s life
but why –
must you roam the hallways at night?

When I cannot comprehend:
the commands that your faded voice sends;
across the emptiness of the long-forsaken
echoes within –
the spaces and places of the ill-spirited gardens.

I cannot answer then:
a single one of a hundred questions;
the dialect has tumbled over the edge of extinction
you win –
but a world where you’re happy is hard to imagine.

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.

 

Night Terrorist.

I don’t know,

what it means,

I don’t recall,

too much at all,

all that I know,

upon wakening,

both fists in a ball,

afraid of everything,

the walls feel like,

they breathe on me,

eyes are blurry,

skin is clammy,

a revival of buried things,

from a past most terrifying,

I can’t run or hide,

and I can’t scream,

he’s there searching,

out there lurking,

disfigured and bloody,

undead and muddy,

with a blade that keeps flashing,

at that moment,

another layer of torment,

I am sickened by the scene,

as I know deep down,

with certainty,

that eventually,

he will come find me,

slash his shiny blade,

right through my airway,

and there will be,

at least for me,

no way to escape,

this same old crime scene,

same old tragic psychopathy,

a crimson crown,

trickled down,

my face, but I feel no pain,

and I steadily drain,

terror from my severed veins,

my memories,

washing heavily,

down the gutter again.

 

 

 

Wobble.

Woke up again this way,

my groggy mind,

already confined,

to a maelstrom’s disarray;

and I snarl at the new day,

looking ahead,

I’m unexcited,

by the prospects in my face,

oh, how I hate this place,

not my environment,

but my own sentiment,

a land of spiritual waste,

I can’t easily rinse out the taste,

this kind of day,

gets wasted away,

while I try to kick-start my brain,

a task that is always in vain,

it shakes things up,

it fucks me up,

it makes me feel so helpless again,

and supposedly, I’m on the mend,

this is “progress”,

but I confess,

every day like today does me in.

 

 

Heavy.

Now I lay me down to sleep again,

in the grips of a dread that I slumber within,

the same unforgiving and cramped position,

wound up mentally and the ratcheting begins,

the memories and tragedies flood fatally in,

my body won’t sink and my mind only swims,

things I regret never saying to him,

the betrayal and shattered belief systems,

the battered and tattered fragments of oblivion,

the daughter I lost to the very darkest of demons…

now here I lay me down to sleep again,

in the coldest of places that I’ve ever been,

no loving faces haunt the dreams I’m given,

through the hours I can’t keep the terror from slipping in.

 

Wake-up Call.

I am plagued by “night terrors” in a bad way sometimes; and seemingly at random. Of course, nothing is at random when it comes to the intricacies of the human psyche, however…this, I know. This morning, I awoke with the layer of jello-like sweat from head to toe, the image still singed freshly into my mind, my heart pounding as if it will come right through my aching rib-cage. I look around me in complete confusion and disarray, unsure at first which direction to swing my fists in – so I just swing wildly around me in frustration.

The strange man whom I had just watched slide a knife into my daughter’s head as she screamed bloody murder was nowhere to be found in my room; nor was my daughter of course.

This was at 5:49am and my skin stills crawls; my heart still hurts itself as it thumps against my chest; my mind still searches for someone to receive my wrath and vengeance, someone to protect or rescue.

I fucking hate it.