just write

i don’t know if this is writer’s block…it feels more like mental constipation.  i can’t really think in the way that is going to make sense to anyone outside of my head.  i am not sure how well i am thinking things out.  the worst feeling in the world.  i can let go of the motor skills and i can even become friends with the pain….but my mind…that is all i have.  all there ever really was.  so is this the next step in the journey?  amy keeps asking what i am feeling…but it’s not about feeling, it’s about thinking.  she thinks it’s a fear but it’s not fear.  it’s more of an anticipation before an impulse….that millisecond before your brain receives the information that you are being burned.  it’s a limbo in between reality and perception and i can’t help feeling i am never going to be free of this horrible arena.  it’s my personal hell.  i tell people all the time just work…even when you don’t feel like you have anything going on up there just work and it will start to come.  i guess if i have ever felt even a glimpse of this before now, i focused my attention somewhere else, but now i am stuck in tar struggling to get out.  hopefully there is some cosmic lesson on the other side or maybe some god somewhere is getting a good chuckle out of it.  then maybe it’s useful somehow.  for now i just write and stay accountable to the fucked up process.

once upon a time

i was once a girl

never innocent, never carefree

i was once a girl

living and breathing

sometimes hoping, sometimes praying

i was once a girl

now i am a disease

to be avoided

to be locked away

to be quarantined

examined by the brilliant

the brilliant

with the letters

certifying their certainty

the brilliant

with adjectives

clarifying their clarity

to the brilliant

i am a study in oddity

i was once a girl

nervous system in tact

who loved and who desired

i was once a girl

blood carrying oxygen

dreamed of bits of peace

i was once a girl

but that girl is an apparition

of a psyche broken, forgotten, plagued

i was once a girl

who ate the pomegranate seeds

i was once a girl

never to recovery or emerge from destiny

too much!!!!

it all seems to just pile up until everything topples over.

i have been pretty active, keeping my mind off of all the chaos and overwhelming uncertainty of my illness.  that is kinda how i have to operate in order to just process information.  it’s always been that way…i get bad news and i have to throw myself into some project or work in order to take it in.  then, maybe, after some time i can sort it out.  when my middle son was diagnosed with autism, i went to work and worked open to close for almost a year.  when my dad died, i threw myself into planning his memorial then started a band project then let a crazy junkie hang out.  now i am steps closer to finding out what this illness is and i can’t stop writing or reading or working on the zine, shit i am even trying to start a project to help kids….

then when i least expect it, it dawns on me-“i am really fucking sick!!!!  i am really fucking sick and it is never going to be over….”  i have to fight everyday.  fight to stay at this level of sick, i have to let go of that one day dream.  this level of sick sucks!  medication boxes other people have to fill up because i can’t be trusted to take my meds the right way because my neurons are at war.  walkers, canes, wheelchairs, grab bars, handicap stalls…that is the good part.  at least those things help me do basic things without too much embarrassment.  being in public and having a total meltdown because there are too many lights and smells and noises and temperature changes, and the worst part is i know i am doing it.  i know i am reacting, but i can’t not do it no matter what.  i have to cover my ears and run…well, not run, shuffle as quickly as possible.  getting a coffee is a gamble-is there going to be too many people  who wear too much cologne, is someone’s cell phone with a horrible ringtone going to go off while the lady next to me is gabbing loudly, is someone going to cough on me…

but the worst is the holes…the holes the people around me leave.  it is unintentional.  they don’t mean it.  they just don’t care enough to learn how to not have the holes.  they don’t read to find out what this is.  they see the physical outward manifestations and they want that to not be there, but they don’t see the inside, the swollen organs, the lymph nodes, the nerve swelling, the fear because i forget how to walk or how to urinate.  it’s a non-issue the internal.  as long as they don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.  the holes.  i get so angry.  i get so hurt.  i need the support, but it is minimal.  when i try to talk about it, everyone just shuts down.  i just need some help.  i don’t know how to do this alone.  i don’t know how to see the holes.

it all seems to just pile up until everything topples over.

the long slow kiss goodbye

i am running out of addresses

no more places to hide

i knew if i let myself bleed once

it would never stop

if i exposed one bit of me

i would go up in a blaze of unglory

and here it is puddles of blood

the insides of me outside

for all the world to laugh at

rubbed raw with sandpaper

dried spit from passersby in my eye

there are no more tears left

i gave up on me last night

all the grit all the grime all the fight

i packed it in a neat little box

and started the funeral pyre

the curse is no matter how i beg

no matter how much i plead

no matter how much i bleed

i can’t escape

i am glued to this spot

eyes wide open

watching the world watch the freakshow of me

rocks slamming my head

and then the venus walks up and twists my heart

to remind me how sweet death would be

and how far away i am from it

there is no rest for the wicked

pouring my heart out

i have been working so hard on our new zine.  it’s an incredible project!  not just for the amazing people and their amazing work, it’s the open and diverse.  and although i love it, sometimes it is a bit exhausting.  it’s like everything else in life-busting ass is the only way to accomplish.  in that busting ass there is happiness, fear, loathing, excitement and overwhelming elation, but i have let my blogging and poetry fall by the wayside.  some of you know i started another blog, i am coming back to this one, this is my home.  i am hoping to keep up with my blogging and poetry; i set a goal to write a poem at least once a week.

for those of you curious about the zine-mostly because it’s bad ass- here is the link:


sorry it is not available for mobile viewing…we can’t afford the plan that allows for that privilege.  if you would like to help we have a gofundme account:


son of isaac, son of abraham

i don’t know how to feel lost


hogtied eyes forced open

to watch the destruction

no escaping the fire of wrath

caused by narcissism and loathing

loathing women, loathing different, loathing her

she is not her actions

she is not her words

a beautiful girl who should just know

know how to cope with the adult shit the adults are failing at

know how to show love when love has always had limits

know how to be the perfect angel at the end of your fist

i saw who you were

the finger prints on the throat

because bitches talk too much

because bitches cry too much

because bitches should mind their manners

i saw her see her mom beat so many times

i saw her believe that was love

everyone knew the goblet of hatred would spill over

everyone knew it would just be a matter of time

before she would be drowning in fear

shaking leaf like about a phone call

escape plans in the ready

i see the scars of watching her mother

watching the torture, the violence, the degradation

scars when razor meets flesh in an intimate setting

i see the coldness required to survive

a child afraid to live because it hurts too bad

a punch to the shoulder, slamming her down to the floor

standing, demanding the crying to stop

sprawled on the floor after your hands tossed her down

where is the knight to rescue the princess

how long can she stay locked away without losing it

how long until her knight is just like you

i should have stepped on the gas

you should have been a speed bump

your jehovah is gone

dealing with those worthy of a god’s intervention

one day we will taste freedom

one day she will taste freedom

one day you will get your dues

when that day comes the crazy whores will dance in the streets

then you will waste away while no one cares