"...in spring, the most delicate feathery yellow of plumes and plumes and plumes and trees and bushes of wattle, as if angels had flown right down out of the softest gold regions of heaven to settle here, in the Australian bush."
— D. H. Lawrence, Kangaroo
Paraboloid totems of evergreen hope, upside down,
Sparkling white trinkets, sparkling white dears;
‘What do we need to do now?’
You ask;
I got my husband’s winged blue stone gift around my neck, a dragonfly,
Isn’t my green dress an ornamental kingly shroud?
Both stormy and luminous, the cuts on my arms are still caked in dried blood,
You are sad: your heart bleeds into mine with a bit of emerald dust and ruby red sunrises;
The Doctor is the Rose; I am the Flame
You are all marble, Plato, self-contained,
I am grotesque, decaying, Lilith-born,
My scars are trim poodles
Whose slightly wolfish eyes
Will bleed a blazing cornucopia of yellow wattle sprigs;
Doctor, your heart is a gold mine and joyous as Spring
Categories:
self injury, allusion, analogy, me, myth,
Form: Free verse
I should be dead by now,
Not eating micro waved Banquet
Pot pie for dinner past 3 AM,
Count maximum hours of sleep
Before I see my therapist tomorrow.
Living should be long over and gone:
Heart attack, suicide, massive stroke, or
Drunk-drive-death at eighty miles per.
I waste the god’s time and crap on mine:
A bowl of Frosted Flakes before
Reruns of “Cheers” every weekday at 12,
Then throw-away nights alone.
I should try harder to lay it down in the mud:
Drink ’till I’m blind,
Don’t pay rent or for TV,
Stop treatment, therapy, church, and love,
Quit Duel Recovery Anonymous meetings,
Tell God to leave me the alone,
Return to self-injury,
And basically don’t give a flying about
Anything, me, or the thought of a god not there.
Categories:
self injury, depression,
Form: Free verse
I sit in a corner,
it feels like my only home,
not wanted anywhere,
at school i just sit,
ignoring the names,
tryin to forget the looks,
at my house,
i try to avoid the fights,
i'm unwanted company,
everywhere i go,
the hurt,
cant be said,
the tears,
cant be seen,
my only form of release,
is self injury,
i cut my wrists,
burn my skin,
scratch at every little mistake iv made,
alone in my corner,
the only place that feels like home.
10-8-11
Categories:
self injury, sad,
Form: I do not know?
With that awesome aura
of competence about her,
against her cool confidence,
he'll have to walk on water;
her lethal, legal logic makes
his best arguments leak,
and now he's thrusting his whole arm
in the dike, so to speak,
with water spraying all around him,
he just wants to cry,
but he's got no one as a scapegoat
to hang out to dry.
Her expertise kicks up in him
a dust-storm of mute wrath,
like dull anger throbbing
as murderous thoughts' aftermath;
his pique hisses low, wanting
to roar as fiery fury,
but he must control his blaze
to forestall self-injury;
he must feign congeniality
and endure all of these
and swallow what's left of his pride,
pleading, "Your Honor, please."
Categories:
self injury, on work and working
Form: Rhyme