Pen in Motion

I’ve been thinking about soul wounds

again and the people

who caused them, and it’s not fair –

they gouged me, tore a hole in my flank,

left their mark, then left.

They didn’t stick around to clean up

the mess,

patch the wound,

nurse me back to health.

Or maybe I’m the one that ran off

– stopped giving them an easy target.

Either way, I’m still changing bandages

and they’ve moved on.

How is that fair?

What’s wrong with me that I can’t

let bygones go?

Or maybe it’s not all on me

to try and band-aid

all the bullet holes?

Is it too wrong that I want them to hurt too?

Not anything bad

like death,

but maybe a punch or two.

Right in the kisser.

Bringing the rain,
bringing the pain,
all the fire I can muster.
Gonna burn this mother down,
just ashes and cinders
after I’m done.
Enough of this past,
this monster baby to torment my dreams
and force me to regret
all over again.
Been there, done that.
Thought we moved on.
I did anyway.
I’m all new and ready to ride away,
into the sunset,
into the horizon,
just somewhere else.
Better say your prayers and make your peace,
cause you’re done for.

Grammarly won’t hear of it, 

and neither would I. 

Sad to say, 

but it’s kind of my superpower – 

never committing the dreaded crime 

of the comma splice. 

That and organizing messy drawers and closets – 

which is sort of related 

to practicing good grammar, 

somehow. 

Not gonna pretend that I never make mistakes. 

I just don’t do that. 

I won’t do that. 

Not in my nature. 

But, sometimes, every now and then, 

comma mistakes can happen. 

Maybe.

I saw a tattoo today that reminded me of life – 

supposed to be a tree with branches 

reaching up 

and roots digging deep into the ground. 

I know the roots are black 

for a reason, 

but it got me thinking about us, 

people and society, 

and all the darkness we try to hide 

where no one can see. 

Or maybe we think no one can see it. 

We try to show off our light 

and keep the darkness below the ground, 

you know, 

what lies beneath the dirt. 

But that’s our roots – 

all hurt and black and bruises and stuff 

we don’t want to acknowledge. 

But maybe we’re hiding less from others 

and more from ourselves. 

But we gotta deal with it eventually, 

or the dark 

will eventually show up 

in our branches 

and block out all that great sunlight.

A place for everything,
and everything has
some kind of place – in my head,
on my hard drive,
on any of my shelves.
Big box,
little box –
all shapes and sizes.
Folders in folders
in folders.
And on and on,
without any end in sight.
It’s how I roll,
how my brain stays happy
most of the time.
Who has time to actually process anything when you’re
too busy revamping your filing system.
Something is broken though – somewhere in the system
that just keeps
shoving things in boxes
and folders
with no labels
so I don’t have to remember,
until I forget
what’s inside and open it –
should have labeled it “Pandora,”
but that would get confusing
after a while,
when all the boxes have
the same label. 
I’m not ready to deal with it yet –
I guess I’d rather risk
the anxiety that grabs me
out of nowhere
than mess up the system.
Maybe I’ll label some of the boxes “Schrodinger” –
won’t know if the memory survived
if I never crack the lid.
But how can it be dead
and gone if the clink of ceramic
on my kitchen counter
still makes me scared of the fallout?

I don’t really hate you, 

just kinda. 

Not really because 

I don’t want bad things 

to happen. 

I just want you to be sorry – 

to apologize for when you lied about me 

and made me think 

you were my best friend 

while you ruined me for four years. 

Or you – when you didn’t stop. 

No means no, 

but you had to get yours first. 

Or you when you made me give in 

so I wouldn’t be forced.

Or you – when you left us and played daddy 

to all those other kids. 

I waited for you to do that for me 

until you left for good 

and I just had to let it go. 

How about you – 

for making me think I was nothing 

so you could be something. 

It’s not fair 

that the good man still deals 

with your mess. 

I’ve been told that I need to forgive. 

I thought I did, 

but then I’m triggered. 

I’m yelling at the TV 

because I know what it’s like 

to be beaten with words 

until I’m just a wounded animal 

who wants to make you bleed like you made me. 

Soul wounds – that’s what they’re called. 

I’m a bruised mess down there. 

And it’s your fault. 

I want to let go, 

but can’t one of you just be sorry? 

December 28th –
Happy Anniversary
to me.
The day I stopped
moving forward
and went way back –
back to the pain,
the mystery,
the never knowing
when my body would
betray me.
Back to the unsolvable problem.
365 days
of 2 steps forward,
1 step back,
and so on.
It’s a merry-go-round
from hell.
Well, almost.
Yeah, could be worse –
almost the same
as a sharp stick in the eye.
And at least that can be fixed.
I’m stuck again
and I don’t even know why.
Yay for a new year
of what? This?
As Kuzco would say,
I’m all funned out.

There are poems inside
my head –
didn’t know they were there
before.
Maybe they weren’t,
or maybe they were just hidden
under the fog.
But now they can see,
and it’s a mad rush to be first in line,
first to break out,
be something more
than just thoughts.
It’s a jumble of words and feelings
and no one wants to be polite –
like wild mustangs
who just discovered the fence
has a gate.
The horses didn’t know
they were trapped
until they saw that boundary.
But there’s a gate
and that means freedom.
It’s a whole new world
out there.
I want them to take turns,
be nice.
But the horde is not listening,
not lining up in order.
Is it chaos in my head?
Maybe a little.
But still,
all that trampling
is a symphony
to a once barren space.
Don’t worry –
you’ll all get out soon.

I say I can handle it
from here.
But, from where?
Where does it all stop and
when do I get to not be this anymore?
It’s not real madness,
fake anxiety and all that jazz
because the messenger
is mixed up.
But it’s still here,
and I’m still stuck in this place
of never knowing
when my brain will get
the wrong signal.
Can’t trust my own body anymore –
isn’t that what they say
about thieves?
No trust.
No one knows the reason for all this.
Hooray for modern medicine
that can’t even help
because I don’t have a diagnosis code
of your liking.
I feel like a broken record.
And also,
just broken. And silent.
Who wants to listen to the problem
when it’s not yours.
Or it’s not in your lane.
Screw your lane.
I’m just the that bad penny patient
who won’t shut up.
I’m tired.
My body is tired. My brain is tired.
I’m just over it.
And over all of you
who don’t want to understand.
Adios.
Sayonara.
Ciao.
Have a good life.