A mix of everything from free form, to verses, to spoken word, to haiku touching on all topics from insomnia, to addiction, to borderline personality and mental health.
Truncated meat sticks all bundled up warm,
I’d advocate for less layers,
We’d look less like worms.
Ever have that moment,
When you have to peel words off your brain,
There’s almost a physical sensation,
Like the tactile release of an orgasm,
Only small like,
Sometimes.
Stuck on,
Wash, rinse, repeat,
Stuck on,
Reading the same page.
Stuck on,
Making the same mistakes,
Stuck on,
Being stuck on.
Not so specific is the way that it should feel. Like a chronically ill patient who has that stomach twist around that nobody can identify. It’s probably just gas pains, or a thought caught in between sternum and outlet, one or the other seems most likely, but who knows at the end.
Hyperbolic is the chance meadow we sit in, a graduated course outline on desperate measures and abject failures coated in sin. Nothing but molehills as far as the eye can see, though the weather on the far side is anything but sunny, I’ve heard wind and snow.
That’s the kind of character building exercise I’m all down for, you know how they mean. Where it walks up dizzying heights and then crashes into the burrows beneath. Even rodent beasties are terrifying if given the right scale and these ones have eyes the size of saucers, lips peeled back in screamless fright, tongues lashing about with tastebuds signaled that there’s blood in the water for their sharkish moods.
There’s even games that outfit gumballs with the kind of attire to tackle this kind of noise, give ’em gauntlets and the like so as to hack and smite. What about limit broken soldiers with shuddering penflaps and a sackful of ink leaking all over the place. What about the child outside blubbering with an appeal that it can’t sound out between the emotional climaxes stuck to the morass of its shattered soul?
What then are we to do? A minefield abounds and there’s literal fancy footwork needed to parade across the land, I’d hazard event a courtesy or two to be handled as appropriate.
Bloody topographers got it all wrong this time mate, time to ship back the other direction and pray for anything but the doldrums to keep the ship going.
Composite a spectrum,
Diagnosis alternative nostrum,
Qualifier doctrine placenta,
I’d call it a kid if only it were one.
So, birthplace be lobed,
Rounded and gray matter globed,
Because words man,
Them is the things that I once loved.
Even while relying on mindfulness as the cornerstone of my own healing process, I’ve found that most popular guidance on meditation and mindfulness only offers a superficial treatment of what this is about. It can cure anxiety, depression, help you be more focused, empathic, compassionate — the list goes on. The fact that meditation can actually help support a lot of positive things in people’s life dominates the conversation. And while it can indeed do all of that, in the process of getting there it is also a destructive force, challenging the conditioned self. It can tear us to shreds before it makes us feel better. This isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution and in some instances it can be plain dangerous. …
via Mindfulness and Complex Trauma: The Rewards and the Risks — Everything Matters: Beyond Meds
A screaming madhouse of trumpets blaring,
Drummers on speedballs layering the double bass,
Wavering certainty,
Confidence on the rise, but just barely,
The world is too bright,
The looks of strangers is just strange,
Maniacally plotting,
To a joke that you don’t know,
So tell them these interesting passion facts that they won’t know.
Smile while you cry,
Laugh at the wrong gasping sigh,
These rules and constraints are making breathing unfair.
Choke down and recite,
I’m okay and this is all right,
Till the next bad sound,
Bad brush of a fabric,
Discomfort from all around,
Can’t they see the connections?
Feel the motion of energy,
Don’t they understand this quality?
The world is askew,
Words like love and care,
Confused and tried over long rounds with intensity crackling the air.
There’s a kaleidoscopic cacophony of feels,
An incredible world beyond what we’re so painfully pound,
Just a look,
Just a taste,
“How can I be such a waste?”
So little understood,
All my earnest wishes are to call you now true friend,
This awkwardness leaves me bashful and confused,
They all leave anyways in the end.
How much do I accomplish just by opening a door,
Welcome in the miasma of fear that would leave a neurotypical floored,
Scent the wind,
Gather reserves,
By the time I’ve left my bed I’ve confronted an onslought of nerves,
Nevermind the staccato blasts of sanity on swerve.
If you listen and watch,
Appreciate the stimming and don’t consider this to be “my loss,”
You’ll know I am gloriously fragile,
Toweringly glassine,
A ravenous angel of knowledge and love,
Set to task and to pace,
Hurtled forward by God with a shove,
So be patient,
See that for what you may fear,
I’m sublimely sweet,
Easy to wound deep,
Each day the scars rip,
And for all of my toil and grit,
A reluctant soldier of survival all legit.
Penance is my smile for a crime that set me a glow,
Step into my world,
There is so much that I’ve been dying to show.
,
Whiptail fun times,
She laid back and threw that hair
Fire doesn’t have that shade,
Red on shimmer on length,
A fold on the mobius loop,
No drinks for breakfast man, reality is already soup.
She’s got a lily to her eye,
A tone to her smile,
Edge to her skullmeats,
Nothing average, not at all.
Beggars for fun,
And in a whisper,
Airy as a feather,
“Let’s do without the sorrow for awhile.”
Motivations interviewed and irrelevant,
I’ll lay my head guilty pressed on insignficant,
For cowards face never the burning sun,
They’ll hide in shadow and deep shades for far,
Too long to justify,
Too short to miss the feelings of defense,
A good name is relative depending on who plays the better game.
I’d settle for naught but honesty,
Review of self with society as whole the juror,
Makes for fearful selling,
That for each wounding action their is a conflict acting.
Were each moment played off the last,
All credit due for manipulations, scheming, mind games,
But each one remaining new,
Pure of outside intrusion more than human,
That would board for explanation.
To the inn keeper who lent a room,
Truth be told I wanted warmth without the price,
For both myself and my wife,
Without money on hand my labor was an easy price,
We left you a story and a poem,
You gave us peaceful hours till we meet again.
The individuals who have given freely and randomly,
Not all your funds went to the gas tanks,
In fact I know,
Aside from coffee and some flowers,
Much has gone to calm the sway of panic,
I regret to say booze to numb the world,
In this turmoil and limbo I’ve fallen to the ease of calling it a moral disease,
Let myself be sold to the desire,
A bottle sits easier sometime when buried in mental wreckage,
Burning in quagmire.
I’ve had bouts with lifting,
Ignoring and getting loud with my wife,
Falling short at jobs and seemingly checked out on life.
Surely by the standard of the world I’m guilt ridden as sinning,
My core personality is crawling back though,
Believe in its honesty or not,
I will sit down with a young woman and try to share her pain,
With my wife, bath tubs and reruns, church and tradition,
Moving Christmas boxes for a hot meal from a kitchen.
I’m finding a stride,
And yes, I am open to denouncement and decry,
I’m a fool touching down,
Getting his head scanned and on meds again,
Trying my best,
Hell, signed up for college and even showed for the test.
I’m far from perfect,
And I’ll sign to the tune of my own recognition,
Of failings I make,
Mistakes or plain fuckery from more rebellious days,
For the first time in long months though,
With eyes clear to the world,
As much as they can be,
I’m on a road to improvement,
On bettering up my awareness,
So that I can be I,
You can be you,
And together bring each other ourselves,
You and I, us and we.
by Ron Unger When people are seeing the world really different than we do, it’s often reassuring to think that there must be something wrong with them – because if they are completely wrong, or ill, then we don’t have to rethink our own sense of reality, we can instead be confident about that own understandings encompass all that we need to know. … [click on title for the rest of the post]
via Finding the Gifts Within Madness — Everything Matters: Beyond Meds
We live in a van and I’m an asshole.
It’s a blessing, in that we can stay out of the cold, that we are mobile, the rent is the price of gas and avoiding the police, but still, it is a van and it is icy outside in Washington State.
So when we had occasion recently to revisit the hometown of my wife post-Thanksgiving and running at exactly $0 entering town with the expectation of freezing for the opportunity we ran into something truly remarkable.
I’m the kind of guy who will walk into a hotel and ask them if I could do something, anything, trash, bathrooms, you name it, in order for my wife and I to enjoy a night off the four wheels we call lovingly home.
I’ve asked this kind of question at stores for food, at restaurants, gas stations, and now hotels. The response is varied, but I honestly don’t have a problem working in exchange for a bartered commodity.
This time it worked, and for a few hours pulling weeds and emptying trash bins around the site we were graced with a beautifully appointed room, a bloody shower (no blood, but you know how these sayings go), a TV which we typically don’t watch but decided a MASH bonanza was in order, and a BED.
I think the joy of a bed is indescribable under the best of times, but when compared to the wonderful (thank you Arabella) topper that we have in our van, even a full sized BED is orgasmic in it’s perfection.
We slept there for nearly 14 hours straight the first night, waking warm for the first time in months, and then maybe 12 hours the next to the same enjoyable results.
This is kind of an obscure way to go about saying it, but to each and every wonderful oddball out there that actually considers some request from a weirdo like me/us out there….thank you. It was a much needed comfort, respite, and opportunity to try and regain some of the closeness that stressful situations put on hold indefinitely when your chamber pot is in the middle of the transmission column separated by only a few inches of steel.
The warmest of wishes to those of you who have gone without and understand the enormity of life affirming belief that can be realized by simply helping some random stranger with something simple – think gloves, socks, a place to stay for one night, a few dollars in gas, something to eat, hell, a beer under the right circumstances.
You’re the kind of people the make the underworld spin, in all the right and appreciative ways. Thank you.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 