Category: Poetry

A Second Chance Whether Deserved or Not

Poetry, Post-Transplant Depression, Schizoaffective Disorder, Sexual Assault, Trauma

A Second Chance Whether Deserved or Not

Jerked awake in the stillness of the dark of the night,

I’m soaked in sweat, my clothes clinging to me like a wet sack,

Closing my eyes I attempt to stop my hands from shaking,

Tears slowly drip down my cheeks taunting my grasp on reality,

I choke to breathe feeling the knife once again back at my throat,

All I had to do was lean forward and this torment would have been over,

I can hear his fucking voice in my head, mocking me nightly.

I grab your picture on my nightstand, gazing into your eyes,

Dare I tell you of my feelings of inadequacy, is it what you want to hear,

How can I not after all you’ve shared with me,

Surely I’ll be better tomorrow; I know it is a lie,

My trembling fingers caress your cheek down to the line of your chin,

A tear drops onto the glass blurring your lovely face,

I close my eyes hoping to still see you there.

Alcohol used to always make it easier to get through the night,

Just a drink and I can push these thoughts out of my head,

My body lurches forward at an all too familiar thought,

My stomach gurgles in agreement that a drink is not acceptable,

I glance at my picture of my niece and then to you my love,

Am I so weak that I think a drink or a drug would help,

Years of self-medication die hard, but die they must.

My fingers trace over the scar across my belly,

Someone died so that I might have this second chance,

I cannot and will not make the same mistakes this time,

I won’t throw away a second chance at happiness, at love,

Love the word ferments in my mind as I gaze upon your loveliness,

I feel like I’m disappointing you even considering a drink for an instant,

Do I tell you how weak I am, how scared I am without you.

I’d welcome back the physical illness to get rid of the mental,

I am always so filled with doubt, did I deserve this chance,

I’ve done so many truly horrific things in this life,

Is it possible to be forgiven, can I forgive myself,

People tell me I am so strong, why can’t I believe that,

Did I only fight to prove those wrong that said no,

There has to be a reason I was given the chance to survive.

I’d like to drop to my knees and beg your forgiveness,

I’d like to go back in time and change that decision, make it right,

One desire is impossible, the other simply unfair,

The thought of my disrespect, conjures up my feeling of inadequacy,

Maybe I never deserved you in my life as I half fear and believe,

Would you be better off without me – I hope not,

With every fiber of my being I dream of the day you believe in me again.

Vignette of The Past

Alcoholism, Mental Health, My Schiz Life, Negative Coping Strategies, Poetry, Schizoaffective Disorder

Vignette of The Past

I sit at the end of the bar,
A tattered copy of Percy Bysshe Shelley before me,
An ashtray overflowing with Camel Straight cigarette butts,
The fifth double Vodka-Tonic of the night resting upon a stained coaster,
Three shots of Jamison Irish Whiskey in a rocks glass,
I down a swallow of the whiskey, followed by a gulp of Vodka-Tonic,
And finally a slow drag from my cigarette,
Silent pleasures of a life already lived.

Trailhead

Mental Health, My Schiz Life, Poetry, PTSD, Sexual Assault, Trauma

I gasp through the blood-caked lips of the sins of my past,
I wince reliving the same nightmare dreamscape,
The nightmare haunts me – over and over, I relive the visions,
The visions of my past indiscretions, visions I cannot deny –
They are who I was, who I am, who I will become.

A gasp, night sweats, daydreaming,
The knife blade caresses my throat,
The weight on the small of my back makes me wince,
My head jerked back, fingernails dig into my scalp,
My hair Entwined amongst grating fingers.

The foulness of his breath permeates my senses,
Nightmare tears of my consciousness cascade down my face,
His breath bathes my skin…filling every pore,
The breathing becomes short and rapid,
My mind preoccupied with pulsating groans.

My jaws are locked open in a silent scream,
A call for help which is destined never to be answered,
The sweat of my shame permeates my soul,
The tears of my horror drench my face,
The sins of my past conceived and made flesh.

A procession of nightmares flood my tightly clenched eyes,
Acquaintances of my past occupy the room,
I inhale deeply melting into the chair,
The room spins and liquefies,
Visions of my friends melt from my consciousness.

My eyes strain to conjure the acquaintances of my past,
A nightmare gaze fills my senses with the scene,
A close friend, a needle impaling her vein,
I strain as she fades from my sight, my reality,
A slap of the face, tears well in my eyes.

I scream into a silent non-listening void,
Wake up, I cry panting for breath,
My tears soak her cheeks during a final embrace,
Her pulse slowly fades in my arms,
Stop please wait, don’t fade away.

The sins of my past weigh down on my soul,
Each day I fight through the memories,
The reality of my past makes up who I am,
I clench my eyes tightly shut,
A sigh, a breath – moments from my past.

The Summer Rain In Her Hair: A Sestina

Distractions, My Schiz Life, Poetry

The summer rain shines gently in your dark hair,
Droplets rest quietly upon your warm face,
A smile crosses my face, as you touch my hand,
I gaze long at you, becoming lost in your eyes,
I sit listening, while you tell me of your world,
I remain content, gazing at you, my love.

I think of the moment that I realized my love,
As you slowly run your hands through my hair,
I hope to introduce you to my world
I stand, looking straight at you face-to-face,
Brushing the hair away from your eyes,
A smile crosses my face, I wipe the sweat from my hand.

I still feel that same joy walking, when you hold my hand,
Acknowledging the fact you are still in love,
I notice the glimmer not lost from your eyes,
The one when you gave bathed, that remains in your hair,
It complements the tone of color in your face,
Which begs me to penetrate deep into your world.

I want nothing more than has been given in this world,
While I silently caress your sweet hand,
I notice the deep color of your face,
Knowing that I have not misplaced my heart’s love,
Learning each inch of your face and each hair,
But always returning to the life in your eyes.

The doorway to your heart rests open in those eyes,
I am an explorer of a whole new world,
Deeply in love with your stark dark hair,
As you return your grip on my hand,
I search my thoughts for my ideal love,
The image presented in my mind is your face.

The gloom filled night fades to reveal your dream-face,
Placing my heart deep in those eyes,
Smiling at you, my one and only true love,
Ending a day in the life of my world,
Wrapping my arms around you, holding your hand,
Placing my head at the edge of your hair.

I embrace those eyes, that are you my love,
Our thoughts converge, I run my hand through your hair,
A smile crosses my face, you are a part of my world.

Memories of A Perfect Evening

France, Poetry

Opera Bastille

We met on the steps of the Opera Bastille you and I,
I paused in admiration before you noticed me,
You were dressed all in black – sleek and willowy,
Our eyes met, a smile crossed your face with a blush,
My eyes transfixed upon you I felt strikingly underdressed,
I’d had a haircut, and my beard neatly trimmed,
I’d shopped all afternoon, dressed just how you liked,
I made my way up the stairs to meet your gazing eyes,
“You’re lovely,” I whispered with a quick kiss of your cheek,
You grow nervously flushed, nearly a dark Crimson,
I take your hands in my own giving them a tight squeeze,
Your lips part in silence as if you wish to say something,
Longingly you gaze into my eyes pulling me closer to you,
You wear the black leather choker I so adore,
Matched with your Victorian black lace gloves,
Your lips brush my own, I deeply inhale your breath,
“Come my dear you’re all mine tonight,” you deviously grin,
You take my right hand in yours’ leading me down the stairs,
Your nervous squeezes of my hand echo your excitement,
We wind through the crowds bustling outside the bars and clubs,
You pull me into a tiny club and down into the basement,
Winding your way to a reserved table in the corner,
You motion to a waitress placing our order,
I smile curious of the whole evening will be so orchestrated,
I hardly notice the waitress return as I gaze into your eyes,
“I’ve been planning this night all week,” you blush shyly,
Our lips meet in a more intimate embrace,
My heart races at the brush of your fingers over my knee.

Shadows

Mental Health, My Schiz Life, Poetry

Shadows

I’ve lived my life in the margins, a life in the shadows,
Never have I looked up bathed in the sunlight,
It hasn’t been that bad it’s where I always belonged.
From the shadows the voices scream inside my head,
Voices nobody else can hear, voices tormenting me,
Cries of anguish, cries taunting me, echoing in my mind.
The shadow people cloaked in darkness, eyeless, faceless,
Pursuing me through my dreams, through my fractured reality,
They are sent to torment me, through the void to this moment.

Self-Imprisoned Into This Cell of Orchestrated Ignorance

Mental Health, My Schiz Life, Poetry, Psychosis

Self-imprisoned into this cell of orchestrated ignorance,
I eternally stare into the mirror upon the wall,
At the chance to see a reflection,
Of an isolated world from our preconceived notions.

All that forms the images before my eyes,
Is the deep, dark, backward memories of my life,
Carrying me back to the present moment,
Enabling me to analyze what I have evolved into.

My back braced cold against the table,
They place the ether mask across my face,
The fog carries itself into the corners of my mind,
Allowing me to be propelled among the world.

I follow the dark sky, by the slight moonlight,
Placing each foot in the trail I’ve created,
Careful not to touch too much emotion,
Careful not to experience too much.

Let us go past the deserted streets,
Fading memories long since fallen into dust,
Let us cross the fields of distant thoughts,
Releasing the manacles of time to manipulation.

Into our world’s forgotten souls I search,
Waiting cautiously for each moment of experience,
Tearing off the blindfolds of our innocence,
Tearing down the walls of our ignorance.

Night Terrors

Mental Health, My Schiz Life, Poetry, PTSD, Schizoaffective Disorder

Struggling to sleep – the night is an all too familiar refrain,
The ceaseless conversations overwhelming my mind,
His voice always piercing, always breaking through the din,
The laugh always mocking who I was, who I’ve become,
That face ever taunting, ever gloating, always judging,
I blink imploring for some release, some distraction,
Alas the eternal vision persists, mocking my sanity,
The eyes glaring, judging, satisfied at what I’ve become,
“Shut up!” The laugh, never allowing me a moment of solitude,
Clenching my eyes the eternal vision persists,
Failure, pathetic, weak – the labels swirl in my unquiet mind.

Lurching my body upright I stare through the blackness,
My breathing is short, shallow and tight in my chest,
My hands trembling, my eyes consumed with horror,
Swallowing hard I sense the ever present knife,
This time not a razor-edge between life and death,
But a choice between life and his domination of my sanity,
Why do I let him control my decisions, make me so weak,
How is it I make choices simply to defy the bastard,
Why am I overwhelmed with guilt and shame,
Every time I ask for help, set foot in the therapist’s office,
How is it that I believe he has won over me.