Two of Her

Mountains of wrinkled up

Stretched across.

Bulges of choices

So badly made.

You could fit two of her

In me.

Board straight

No mountains there.

Just plains and plains

of bare.

Mosquito bites

they used to call them.

Now jugs or melons

they giggle and say

with a putrid green envy

in their eyes.

It’s hard being honey

and baby as I walk

down and across

the streets of towns who

have loved me through

my stick times.

And now as a Grecian

I hear the cartoonish

whistling and horns

and feel as if the world has

put big bold lights on me.

Shaming me for owning

these mountains and melons.

Why can’t I be a plain or a beach?

Bad choices made who I am.

Does the presence of the mountain air

seduce those to make bad choices?

Maybe if I let the rain and wind

whither me away,

I will feel the warmth of the Atlantic’s

summer air.

The people will come and go

and pay no mind to the

mountains and mosquitos.

Just the affectionate air

this life provides.

And I will remain a mountain.

Something big curved,

standing in your way.

Vulnerable to every action

Mother nature enacts upon us.

And the mountain can feel the

climate mocking.

It can’t be changed. It’s going to happen, they say.

Seems impossible for this mountain

to become as flat as a plain.

As arid as a desert.

As uninviting as the heat of Georgia summers.

As dry as the sand you do not wish to slumber upon

as you trek through that parching desert.

No one wants to stay.

The mountains seem cool and moist.

The houses are cozy and warm.

Inviting.

Why would they want to stay with a view

that’s so stark and vast across

this big wide world?

It’s nothing really. Just a stare into

sheer steep shadows.

Bulges of the earth that are somehow

Inviting.

But why would they visit when they

have not received an invitation?

Or have been continuously uninvited?

I must become like the desert.

Like the plains or the beach.

Uninviting.

Choice/Excuse

I am an advice giver. I can rationally and logically choose the action a person should take for the best outcomes. People seem to admire my advice, but when I need advice, I don’t tend to take it from people. I go with my personal choice. But personal choices aren’t always the best. I am that girl who likes to take the easy way out. I lie and make excuses. I let my sickness take over my life.
There’s a difference between living, coping, and curing. And I still don’t know the difference when every day is a painful one and weakness in my heart. When every day is a hope that my blood will pump at a pressure to keep me happy and perky like I used to be. I so want to be like that again. The pills help but never enough. I feel much better, but not enough. I get rest, sleep and laying in bed. But it’s never enough. My life is livable, but not comfortable.
Worth every minute of every moment I’m awake. Planning every action I take. Asking advice of people and not taking it because they don’t understand.
Excuses are excuses though. Painful or fake.
I just want to benefit my liveableness. I still want my advice to be taken.
I just want to take advice and take actions that I want to.
But life is short.
And coping is indecisiveness.
You want to clean your space of your laziness, but you know it will hurt. You know it will clear your mind, but you know it will hurt. You want to treat yourself without that pain.
But it hurts and it’s terrifying.
I wake up every morning just awaiting my rising and dropping symptoms.
Will I have pain today?
Will I near-faint today from only sitting in lecture?
Will I hydrate enough?
Am I about to faint?
Are they staring at my feet?
Are they going to yell at me for parking here?
Invisibility is a strength and a weakness.
So the advice I’m given is not understood advice. Because sometimes, my choice is to be invisible. So the lies and excuses persist.
I don’t choose this for my wanting. I choose it for my coping.

Okay

Two months, it’s been. I find myself losing you in a way that I never thought I would. Losing isn’t always so bad though. Losing is learning. Hurting. Grieving. Fighting to regain. But above all, as the clock turns and the days grow warmer and brighter and more lovely than two months ago, losing is forgetting remembering.

The Bouts of the Tide

I don’t think life’s supposed
to be this way
Fighting against the tide
And remaining in place
Dreaming of the worst
And hoping for the best
And you find a middle ground
A limbo between wanting and waiting
The water washes over but it’s not very clear
Your impossible thoughts pollute
And you cannot see
Until the tide goes away and you see clearly
But you know it returns with a power stronger than the last, or so it seems

The Deep Down

On the best days
It warms my skin
But on the worst
The sight is sickening

It becomes a giddiness
That I can never fail to miss
And a nostalgic lust
That the heart yearns for
Deep Down

But the surface of my heart
And my head fight
And the Deep Down is defeated

Better days return
The surface sleeps
And The Deep Down claws up
To stand on the surface
And say
No more

Let me feel the warmth on my skin
And I will be delighted to find that
Now
I will feel the sun shine upon my face
and I will be happy
I will not simply survive in a dark pit
which itself seems to repress the Deep Down

I will thrive.

To Write is to Spill

Ernest Hemingway said “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” In this day, we sit at our bright-lighted laptops and submit our signal to our fast moving fingers. Our hands lift up useless words to those who don’t care to hear them. Our arms are wasting use of our muscles for pointless language. We write for the sake of writing. For our own sakes. For our followers’ sakes. For our so called confidence and self esteem. People like Hemingway wrote for sake of self. Sake of wisdom and grief. For the sake of heart and pain. Not for the sake of transcendence, but of acceptance of what is to come. Life is what it is: a simplistic difficulty of roller coaster circumstances. Write for you to come to terms with that. Write for others to meditate and discover. For the sake of the world’s self. Write for that. Sit at the keys and gush your blood and guts to the world. For the sake of all.

Bland

I’ve lost my appetite.
Binging for so long
Makes you full.

And after a while you
Can’t mindfully process
Good taste from bad.
Now everything is bland.

Not black or white.

A cold grey that you cannot
Desire or push away at all.
You don’t take at all anymore.

You starve yourself from
Every taste imaginable.
Because the entire sense has gone
Blurry.

And I don’t want to suffer.
I don’t want to chase after
A craving anymore.