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In roaring silence
I watched from my private bubble.
They are beautiful.
Whenever we are in public
people stop and stare.
It is unnerving for me as their mother.
Of course, theyíre striking;
but can society not see
beyond the stunning surface?
By acknowledging only the physical beauty, somehow this narcissistic culture is contaminating my daughters,
diminishing the true value
of their worth.
I want to scream into the face
of blinded ignorance:
BY THE WAY,
THEY'RE HIGHLY INTELLIGENT,
AND ATHELETICALLY SUPERIOR, TOO!
I bite my tongue instead; fighting the urge to gouge the eyes of perverted men.
In a surge of overwhelming sadness,
I feel like I cannot breathe.
Skilled in self-preservation,
I vehemently disconnect from emotion.
It is the battle of wills:
I will not cry,
I will not feel.
I will not allow myself to be crushed
under the devastating reality
of my life.
My head is too heavy for my neck;
and an invisible, thick rubber band squeezes the air from my lungs.
I am tired,
but I refuse to give up
out of spite towards god.
Vengeance fuels me
to move into the
From the outside looking in I watch. Each action, inaction, reaction, is orchestrated in some chaotic symphony of meaninglessness; and yet performed to perfection as with a purpose, even when one does not truly exist. I am left out of the loop. They wonít let me play any of their reindeer games. As if I really wanted to. So why am I drowning in this vast and sorrowful emptiness (with a twist of bitter rejection)? If it doesnít matter (I swear it doesnít) then why do I hurt so much? Where are all my peoples at? I am so alone.
Trust is a precarious thing. We build it upon the substance of faith; a foundation supported by the strength of mere conviction alone. Our need to believe and to trust in the unknowns is fueled by subconscious fear of the alternative. That being that nothing is worthy of real trust and the risks associated with our reliance upon this abstract concept. Forgive me if I sound as if I am being philosophical. My true intention was to make known my utter contempt to be so dependent upon this intangible, theoretical idea of trust. Notice how even words betray their actuality.
There are moments small and great when I am genuinely content with being me. Like tonight in yoga class, alone in my bubble, surrounded by others quietly following the instructorís poses. Even in my isolation I felt a connected oneness and I smiled to myself in pleasure. The floating, cloudy, heavenly feeling of intoxication lasted approximately one hour, seven minutes, and thirty-two seconds. Too quickly it faded away; succumbing to a loud and inconsiderate world. I wish my bubble was not so transparent. Perhaps I would find greater peace if I lived in a cave far away from mundane madness.
If you could not see me,
instead only feel me
you will discover I am everything you desire.
If only you could hear me
above the loudness of space, time, contamination;
receiving my pure, honest truth
you could not resist
the urge to love me.
I only say this based upon
the collection of reactions
from every man before you.
But what do I know?
Only you could decide this for yourself.
Will I ever be given that opportunity
to win the heart of one compatible to me;
to mirror to the God that you are...
Who are these people that I am allowed to see without them ever seeing me?
It saddens me to feel an even deeper disconnection in light of knowing the parallel of our human experiences.
How unfamiliar is the twinge of compassion buried deep within this apathetic tomb.
I thought I could not feel such things as empathy or sympathy anymore for a world that had abandoned me long ago; slamming the door in my face every time I extended my humanity.
Learning to be cold and unfeeling was a necessity to survival.
Cruel monsters painfully extracted kindness from my soul.
with unknown purposes
moving against time
leaving traces behind
of glistening slime
The foot of god hovering above
like a meteorite
the shadow passes-
fate spares the snail
Only to be tortured by sadistic demonic, but forgivable
Children of god
pouring salt like acid
eating away at its flesh
in the condemned creatureís peril
But it was all innocent
and only a test
The snail actually
for the reality
of the existing orb
we humans are imprisoned
The sweet cherubs are
Some claim God is love. Does this mean if
I am unloved, there is no God for me?
I remember many times believing
I was in love; and calling that
which was reciprocated, love.
How unfortunate that clarity
is found only in retrospect.
Undoubtedly, Iíve become
quite knowledgeable in
what love is not.
I am actually grateful for
all those failed relationships;
because experience has refined my desires to the point of excluding
My standards are
Ignorance is being
pacified by settling for that
which blatant unworthiness is.
Somehow active intelligence finds me classified a bitch.
When all the words are taken away
will there be anything left to say?
Will there be reasons more than today
that justifies why I continue to stay?
Does it even matter, these things that I do
in some kind of madness, to show I love you?
Is this genuine? or am I just a fool?
to invest all my heart into something untrue
Is it wrong to question, or naÔve to believe,
in the absence of malice,
you will somehow hurt me?
Are your intentions sincere,
or intent to deceive,
Should I even wonder
that you really love me?
In your ill-bred malevolence
Validated by the condonation of
Those just like you
In your insolent conjectures
You insult and defame
To the roar of applause which
Has apparently drowned the voice
Of reason and authenticity
Those things donít matter
To imbeciles like you
What is important
At any expense
Cruelty is worth the price
But trust- everyday
And all day long
I am forever grateful
To be nothing
So take your nothing-ass,
Epitome of stupidity, and
Sell it to the simple-minded
Sloppy fat hoes you so easily
The cursor blinks patiently on the blank page. It beckons me to recall the masterpiece I had toyed with only moments earlier. My brain is not responding and my eyes stare back at the screen in some idiotic gaze. Was it real or just an illusion I
I remembered? When reached for, it quickly faded away like a mirage designed for the disintegrated mind. A simple physiological reflex kicking in as some desperate attempt to preserve what pathetic life is left in me. Given a viable chance to reason, logic would most assuredly dictate me to never breathe again.
Nightmares and stomach aches, what does it mean? Will time ever distance me far enough away from the events that have left me permanently damaged? Itís not as if I walk through each day reliving the horrors of my past. Thatís the whole point of surviving tragedy: so that one might move on. So why must I still be terrorized by that which I refuse to disable me? Have I not suffered enough loss? Rhetorical questions I do not expect to ever discover answers to; Iím just venting my frustrations at the universe. Why the fuck am I still here?
He says he loves me
I say bullshit
Me alone every night
Me alone through each day
Me alone in ER contemplating my death
No, thereís no one to call
Dying a spinster like her mother
How dumb was that
The coveted Ms America ends up dying alone?
Perhaps this is
Canít nobody have me
Cuz nobody is good enough!
Nobody, except you
Loving me behind glass walls
And barbed wire
I can hold my head up high
Knowing I got
As I rot in this free prison
All by myself
Without such pain, how would I ever know I am alive? Walking alone in my bubble, sometimes feeling invisible to the world around me, because nobody seems to notice I am a walking corpse, but only half way dead. My physical senses have not abandoned me; I can still feel the warmth of a cold, merciless sun. It shines brightly in my face in an unforgiving manner. Mocking me for all that I am not, its promise of happiness withheld from me. No, itís not that Iím invisible. People simply choose to look away at that which makes them uncomfortable.
A facade and a fraud, thatís all that you are. On a good day you can hide those monsters so well. Smile politely, listen intently, interject only at the most appropriate moments; be sure to speak in such a manner that actually reveals that you far from being as dumb as you look. This is always to your advantage, however, for seldom does anyone expect you to be the prodigy that you are. In fact, you are so cleverly persuasive in your articulate delivery, that you even convince yourself that you arenít the uncouth piece of shit you really are.
Speaking truth has a way of pissing people off. The last thing a shallow, simple minded individual wants is to be reminded of such defectiveness. Instead they search out others like them that mirror back what they are; thereby confirming themselves as normal and acceptable. This type of behavior is apparently an immoral necessity for the general masses unable to formulate independent thought and embrace individualism in itself. We are a herd of clones, programmed to conform to whatever societyís norm dictates to us. People like me having audacity to challenge this dysfunctional misconstruction risk more than being social ostracized.
Looking into the mirror, she was startled by her own reflection. She peered closer into the glass. Were those new lines around her eyes? ďNot now!Ē she silently reprimanded the critical voice within. This interview meant too much to play stupid games of self-sabotage. There was simply too much at stake. She needed this internship. Years of hard labor and sacrifice warranted this position. Drawing in a deep breath she stepped back, turned her chin upward, and surveyed herself with attitude. ďYou one bad bitch!Ē: her mantra. She smiled widely then quickly switched back to stone-faced mode. This was war.
It was only a quick and shallow assessment, done within 30 seconds, as they stood suspended in time at the elevator door. His back faced her and that kept her at an advantageous position. About 6í2, slim, athletic build, chocolate; something about secretly molesting him with her eyes and thoughts excited her. His wide shoulders and smell intoxicated her senses. Just another mindless bourgeois brother, she thought to herself, chasing the American dream at the expense of his own identity. Was she any better? Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be an applicant for the position as well.
Eyes opened wide
Now shut closed tight
Unwilling to remember yesterday
When you fought back tears
Of disbelief and rage
At all that you saw
Unconscious in ignorance
Of your own neighborsí plight
Victims of political warfare
subsistence in abject third world poverty
Where the mourning of thousands
Fathers weeping for unknown sons
motherless children barefoot in mud
Unable to move
They stared back with blank eyes
Incapable of grasping the
Magnitude of their circumstance
The inconceivable choice of
Certain death for resisting
Oppression that kills them
Or accepting the penalty of being
Another faceless casualty of war
This world is my prison. My life is the sentence. Only the wrath of god could be so cruel as to abandon me to a continuum of eternal and unfathomable mistreatment. The most subtle being the cruelest of all. It is easy for one to understand the pain of blatant abuse. My life is an abstract of 100 ways to break the human spirit. But it takes a far more discerning mind to dissect the reasoning behind why a person becomes more miserable lonely, and ostracized as a direct result of continually making healthy choices and changes in their life.
Does he really believe himself above castigation? It takes all of me to bite my tongue. I understand that to speak in anger serves only to expel pent-up emotions. Ultimately it solves nothing. I will never understand why a person holding a position of authority is not compelled by the inherent principle of responsibility alone to avoid behaving in such an unethical and unprofessional manner. Iím appalled to treat people the way he does even when I may feel it is warranted. Wrong is wrong. Whatís wrong with these people? Does ignorance know no boundaries? I do not belong here!
Few and far between are the moments in time that when chosen to recall, bring a genuine smile to my face and deeper aching within the void of my existence. Remembering you, I cannot help but long to go back; back to a place hidden from the world. It was the disparity of your life, and the contrasting honor I felt because you let me in. Even then I was simply too naÔve to understand the depth of that privilege, and how quickly it would fade away. Fate and circumstance would not allow the moment to last. Missing you hurts.
Walking in the morning darkness is soothing to my soul. Quietly we travel upward into the unknown day, as the world around us remains under the mystical spell of a tranquil slumber. I have grown to love silence. We move without speaking, absorbing the invisible energy emulating from nature around us. An elaborate spider sits upon her throne; the silk castle suspended from utility poles above our heads. A tree extends its limbs towards me in mutual acknowledgement.
The bus came late. Walking home alone fifteen minutes later changed everything; the magic was broken. Noise rudely invades the newborn day.
if I cannot live in a perfect world, then I can at least conjure one up. Am I not entitled to that? In a perfect world people do not have the luxury of incorrectly categorizing me into pre-constructed boxes designed to define things of which they do not understand. We have systems in place for other means of knowledge by which one must prove understanding of the first step before graduating to the second. But when it comes to knowing a person, we simply extract a few random key words as our foundational assessment, then pigeonhole accordingly. This is ignorance.
The world moved about her in real time; the nanosecond lapse between its reality and the one she existed in continued seemingly unnoticed. It was only in those awkward moments, the ones that required immediate recognition or a quick witty comeback that revealed too painfully that something was amiss. She would learn to go to great lengths to avoid such exposure. There was simply too much at stake. It was one thing to always be at the vantage point because people erroneously assumed you were dumb. It was quite another to give an idiot ammunition to forever use against you.
It would be inconceivable to most to have imagined the world from whence I came. If not for concrete and undeniable evidence (like a brick slammed against my skull), even I would tend to question its validity. But I was there. I lived it. And it was not my supposedly distorted perception that had it all misconstrued; although Iím positive the end result of disputing the reality of a childís hell would be cause enough to emotionally disintegrate. My life was hell. Not because I say it was. Because the world reflects back to me the horror of its truth.
Donít live in the past
Those people havenít lived
Hell is not a place you
just leave in the past
Hell is a flashback
A bad high
Unexpectedly taking you
Back to a place
You only wish you could forget
Touching you in places
that have no names
making you feel something
that has no words
leaving invisible grime that
never washes away
hell is not a place you can
run away from
close your eyes to
positive affirmations to
somehow just make hell disappear
Loneliness is all consuming. The irony is enough to make me laugh hysterically inside. My outside is too busy crying. Flowing from this jaded soul is an ocean of invisible tears drowning me over and over again. My thoughts are swimming in madness, desperately clinging to random ideas as some possible explanation of my suffering. Fate should never be dependant upon the content of a fortune cookie. But there it was, like a meddling Jewish mother. ďYou already to know what you want; go to work and make it materializeĒ (!) what kinda fortune is that ??? I got jipped.
Today I was invisible again. It is so hard for me to comprehend why I go so unnoticed. There are bits and pieces of me so intricately designed, and to study my complexity is fascinating. I am more than a miracle, more than a prodigy. I am some strange and alluring masterpiece of the creator; my god a king of monsters and atrocities. Any divine spirit can emulate perfection. Beauty by societyís norm exists in abundance. But one would be hard pressed to duplicate me. I am a rarity, the essence of distinct originality. Is this why nobody wants me?
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