For her
In all her distress
Who only in crisis
Can be worthy
Unburdened
Cared for
She believes only
With that necessary distance
Can she claim space
be free
Of expectations
Of failures
Free to rest
Free to fail
Unquestioned
Because there she can do
And measure up to
What is required
There she survives
There she thrives
From the bottom
On the bottom
Forever down there
She’s safe
Though barely alive
Is
The
Worst
Thing
You
Could
Do
To
Me
And you do it, everyday
Can’t seem to shake
This dreaded motion
Inside me
Trapped in mud
My feet won’t travel
Nowhere is safe
No one is kind
Tainted by tokens
Of what should
Take my fancy
What should
Give me wings
But all I learned
Was fear, to be afraid
Now my cage
Is the mind I own
Away from others
Failing to connect
From the sidelines
I seethe
Shamed and broken
Frozen
And hammered by should
all I’m amassing
Are regrets
>
For disabling
Undermining
Controlling
Knife throwing
Yessing
Obsessing
Unending til deathing
Oh Jesus the guilt
Of seeing him pale
Drowning in chaos
Burdened he sighs
But never untangles
From his cluttered web
Smothered and seized
I grasp at patience
Like wet hands at soap
To no avail
I never see it coming
Until I notice hooks in me
The manic narrator
Leveraging for defeat
It wants to talk
And it can talk
Persuasive, connected
Engaged
Relishing it’s place at the fore
It strokes it’s own authority
Oblivious to time
Indifferent to place
And all the while
Underneath
An exile is silent
Cowering in attendance
Believing ‘he’s right, he’s right’
It’s her birthday today
His reason d’etre
Perched with his feet off the ground
For him It’s just another Monochrome day
To put down, tolerate
Not one bit aware
How sad it is
That the one who adores him
Will go without supper
All day ragin
About selfish cliques
The fronting egos
Of boys and their clubs
A cloak of support
The condition: a slip
“Money + me = time for you”
Forced to concede
A hard hearted game
There can be no play
Where someone will lose
Born to nurture
To me, a bottom line
Means the diaper’s too tight
And someone’s too busy to notice
Promoting the feminine
In a masculine world
Means education
Appealing to ego
It saddens me to think
No, to KNOW
That to grow my dream
I have to grow balls
I hate conflict
Actually, I imagine any situation where I’m in disagreement with another, to result in conflict, if I say anything.
I suppose, it’s disagreeing I really hate. It’s the discomfort of dissonance.
And I find it really hard to speak up.
To date I have only given myself two options of response.
1) Bark
2) Bolt
No, wait there’s one more…
3) Triangulate an ally (Boooo!)
There are days spent with worry, torment, helplessness and fear…
Like a hen on a griddle
Around and around the bush I beat
Eggshells truly trampled on
Classic tapes playing in my mind, featuring the artists
‘I’m wrong’ and ‘Bad me’
Where does my voice go?
The thought of displeasing others
Being criticised, disapproved of..
It’s too much, too big, too scary
I open my mouth, despite
The panic of my parts
Awkwardly I begin to speak
Before spewing a river of my truths
Then spend my days
Wanting to take it back
Lamenting the comfort
Of remaining unspoken
Standing at the end of my bed I feel the temptation to jump on my angry wagon. On the cusp of indignant, I reach for my battered old script, the one which centres around the theme of unfairness.
I have only a spilt second to turn this around. Rants & tantrums don’t make for good sleep.
Heading for the shower, I catch myself in the mirror, I see it. I see it all. The pull toward self reproach tugs but knowing where that goes, I pull back.
A quick reflection of the facts and right there, any argument I may have been relying on is demolished.
What did I expect? To spend the past week in magic land and come out unscathed? Why do I repeatedly think my biology won’t notice shit in the tank and respond accordingly?
Seriously, some part of me checks out, leaving some kid part in charge of all she knows, the sweet shop. Then, when the holiday is over, returns and is shocked and disgusted to discover the kid had a party in her absence? C’mon, again? Really? What did you expect ‘this time’?
All those days ‘away’. In a row. Hello licence to fill!
Fortunately this evening, humor managed to win out. Most likely because there was a (return) trip to the gym to fall back on.
Another week of consistency and routine should rescue the situation, repair the damage. Repair the oul sweet shop to an ‘acceptable’ condition. Not the best in town, just so that nobody will notice it was wrecked, again.
Then what? Guess who’ll want to check out again soon…And leave the child alone, again..doing what she does to make herself happy, free, then sick and eventually, sad. Angry. Frustrated. Defeated. Wrong.
And you’ll end up repairing that shitty little shop again, and lamenting, again, about the changes you’ve always wanted to make to it but could never do because of the kid.
Here begins another trip on the merry-go-round.
Goodnight.
myimpossiblemind 