9 Lives

poetry, Uncategorized

Curiosity killed the cat
But the cat had nine lives
After curiosity was fulfilled
Lust ran through his mind
He explored the neighbourhood
In search for pussy of his kind
Then promiscuity killed the cat
But the cat had eight more lives
So the cat learned from his mistakes
And left his cravings behind
After being scarred from desire
All he ever had was time
He chewed the fur around his nails
The cat knew he needed a vice
So he chose alcohol to kill the memories
but his organs paid the ultimate price
So Jack Daniel’s killed the cat
But the cat had seven more lives
So he went on an adventure
For himself, he wanted to find
But he was not prepared
And the people were not kind
So the cold took hold,
As he slept beneath the pines
Hypothermia killed the cat
But the cat had six lives left
The only option to being broke
Was resorting to theft
So his stomach became full
But his criminal record was next
Cops snatched him up
In his self-twined net
Prison killed the cat
But the cat had five lives left
Once he got out,
He had to make up for lost time
But employers turned him away
And his family was unkind
So all he had left
Were gangs with coloured cloths
So he bought himself a gun
And his first deal got him shot
So a pistol killed the cat
But the cat had four more lives
Scarred from brain to toe
He couldn’t keep dying inside
His head ran in circles
Searching for something he couldn’t find
A cycle unbroken unless he finally called it quits
So he stepped atop the 50-foot ledge
And stared down at his bliss
He squinted his eyes shut with a smile on his face
As he released all his tension, his balance lead the way
Until the final fall, the cat had good intentions
Bribed by societies need for ascension
Sanity was all the cat had kept
But none of it matters,

Because the cat has 0 lives left.

Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?

poetry

Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?
How a smile so radiant can hide a shadow so dark
Or a cigarette so deadly forms smoke like rising art
Withered rose pedals beginning to stray,
A truthful view of beauties habit never to stay
A book ripped and ruined from reading in every corner
But that decayed book tells more than one story
Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?
Sacrificing our health for memories we won’t remember
Laughing at the vulnerability of a man so tender
The quick rush of adrenaline, never worth the guilt
Or the degrading experiences ruining the persona you’ve built
The undying love for a man drowning in his own vanity
And the euphoria before hitting the brink of insanity
Ain’t it beautiful, how ugly life can be?

Bukowski

perspective

He burns, under my skin.
all three fucking layers;
physically, mentally and spiritually.

You want to play the guilt game? Well I can play it too.

You can’t keep wrapping silk around the wounds you caused.
You can’t cover up your harsh words with letters of love.
You can’t throw a pity party as your optimistic thoughts dance to their deaths.
You can’t sharpen your nails like spears then try to caress me.

And you can’t fix the paranoid love you ripped to shreds with your own insecurities.

And yea, I will happily keep reading Bukowski with a glass of red in my hand.

Be yourself

perspective

Just a worn out face with wine-stained lips and cigarette breathe. I will never stop laughing at my young naïve self for thinking life would be a soft stroke of paint, preparing for a masterpiece to be revealed.

Instead my brush broke through the canvas and the paint was splattered all over the floor. So I kept trying to paint new pieces,  narrowing this image in my head. Craving to create something better, something worth wall space.

Somewhere down the line, I realized I cannot pretend and imitate, cannot trace and colour in-the-lines. At the end of the day, that beautiful mess on the floor is me; the chaos and ruin will always be me.

It defines me

That is what raw art is right?

Something you never want to look at, but cannot keep your eyes off of.

Just another post about anxiety

Thoughts

Even when the path I walk upon is exactly what I’ve been searching for; one which can open into a wide road filled with signs leading the way, I still find a reason to stop dead in my tracks. I am somehow attracted to trails surrounded by quick sand and land mines. They never end up killing me, just leave a few wounds that can make a person squint in disgust.

Even if the rough soles of my converse step onto a path of soft silk with fields of open space and hazy pink skies, nothing will seem real. I end up looking around and around; over the hills and under rocks, sometimes forcefully stubbing myself on the pines of an evergreen as an excuse to run the other way. Maybe rip out the begonias to dissect their roots for something, anything to make me think this is too good to be true.

And as I play the world’s worst treasure hunt, I find myself lost again. I end up straying too far from the path and lose my sense of direction. Lonely, lost and looking for a new path. One of decency and comfort, but nothing better than what I think I deserve.
The only problem is,
Being lost is starting to feel more comforting than following a path.

Dying Delilah

poetry

I was taught hell was underneath us
Waiting for us to sin
But hell lye’s beneath the surface of our minds
inching towards our most vulnerable moment
When the foundation begins to crack and rot

A black rose forces its way through
Penetrating the only source of light
casting a shadow that grows as it blooms
Forming unearthly thorns as protection
Watered by the falling pedals of bright delilahs and smiling orchids

The sun sets, and darkness settles
Crippling our emotions by the uncanny temperatures
Lacking any balance in nature and nurture

Thoughts misguided by the stormy winds
As bits and pieces of judgement and rationality get plucked away
Left to shrivel in the ruins of what was once the garden of Eden
Turned to a breeding ground for the prospering roots

All stuck in a bone case.
The only view
A black rose that lays untouched by the blizzard

OWNED

Stories

I had a boyfriend who treated me like his pet. He spoke of affection but showed a very minimal amount. He went out and pet other dogs, sometimes told them he loved them while I sat at home and waited at the door. It wasn’t all bad because the seconds of affection seemed worth the hours of waiting. He got me a collar one Christmas that had our names engraved, and I imagined the New Year would bring a leash to attach to my new collar. It never came, and I still waited at the door.

It felt like forever since I went outside and felt the warm summer breeze against my face. I couldn’t remember what freedom felt like or the fortifying feeling of my paws against the nearby gravel path. I barely saw my friends because I was never outside and eventually I lost all contact with the outside world. All because I never wanted to leave the door unguarded, just in case he came home.

Occasions were never celebrated, and treats were never given. Lies were all my floppy ears heard and cries for help were mended with silence. I told all the other dogs that it was great. I acted like he never left the house without me and I was gifted treats whenever I pleased. I lied, but I believed my lies so it wasn’t too bad. The only thing was, the whole dog park knew about my owner’s deceit, except me.

I began going crazy, sitting in the same spot, waiting for the same man every day. My hair was unkempt and matted, almost dreadlock-like, but he didn’t notice. I was purposely disobedient, so he would give me attention, even if it was the bad kind. Sometimes I’d go to the spots where he would hang out, like the soccer field, but I was ignored or made a fool in front of his other owner friends. My emotions became a roulette board, and I flew from sadness to anger with one quick spin. My family and friends couldn’t handle me, and I began believing everyone was out to get me. I started spinning out of control.

After three years of the waiting game, I had enough, I stopped waiting for the doors creak and threatened to run away. He opened the door for me, and a month later, I saw another dogs face in his window, waiting for him to come home. It hurt, a lot. I was good friends with his new dog, so I felt betrayed by both, so out of spite, I kept letting him pet me while she waited at home. I didn’t like it, but I was a stray who would do anything for a scratch behind the ear. I’d see them go for walks; it hurt a lot. I cried a lot. Whimpered helplessly without a means of communication because nobody understood me.

Even after letting him play with me in secret, he treated me very cruelly; called me a bad dog and told me that his new one was better, more obedient. The pain heightened and my emotions were out of control. Out of double spite, I told her that he still pet me, while she waited for him. She said that I was a stray and all he did was speak poorly of me. He told her that I followed him home and begged for affection, but he kicked me away.  I felt empty; it was betrayal wrapped up in betrayal, swallowed by more betrayal. She said something that forever pierces my gut, “You are exactly the sleazy bitch Rob told me you’d be, always trying to ruin other people’s happiness.” She continues, “Now I understand why he was never faithful to you.”

It spread around the entire dog park. I was known as the spiteful bitch who couldn’t keep her paws off other people’s relationships. I got into disgraceful habits I will never forgive myself to this day, just to block out the deceit because only I knew the truth. Other dogs looked at me with disgust. I felt alone, but I still thought about my owner. I still thought about the good instead of the bad. I wondered why I held onto the good because it wasn’t good. I had an altered perspective of what good was because I never felt better than what he confined me to. I went crazy and met other owners. I went for walks and got affection, but only for a day or so, then I’d wake up at the edge of the bed alone. I still thought about my owner.

It took me many years to realize I don’t need a door to wait at, or an owner for affection. I realized that I could walk on my hind legs and turn the knob by myself. Yes, it was difficult to grow the strength and take the first step on a pair of legs confined to sitting and waiting, but the outcome was a whole new perspective. What was once a black and white view turned into an array of fluorescent colours. I don’t need a collar or a leash because I have freedom to walk different routes while always making it home safe. I turned into a person who only relies solely on themselves for happiness instead of waiting for their happiness to walk through the door.

I can walk past his house and smile at the dog’s face in the window.

Burried in Barriers

poetry

Through the cracks in the pavement
I search for green
Flourishing and potent
Like our messy bedroom sheets

Through the spaces between the branches
I feel for falling petals
To kiss my head with delicacy
Smiling as they settle

Through the shapes in the electric towers
I gaze at the setting sun
It’s beams stroking my petulant skin
Like a lover on the run

Through the window of a car
I admire our kind
Solemn smiles exchanged
For a minuscule bind

Through the laughter of a friend
I notice the despair in their speech
Hiding more than self-pride
But a tone of defeat

Through the window cased with raindrops
I see the half lit moon
Admired by billions
But stuck in solitude

Through the rising smoke of my cigarette
I see hollow brown eyes
Slipping into space
As he holds onto his mind

Through the mirror I stare into
I see a desecrated smile
Searching past the framing
Into a heart made for the wild

And through the dreams in my trance
I see no more obscured views
For beauty is seen directly
Without a barrier to look through

The works of anxiety before bed

perspective

Sitting in the corners of my mind
The eerie crevices where the sunlight never shines
Its difficult to close my eyes
because before I die
I want to know who’s been watching me every night before I go to sleep
With his torture of silence and sinister shadows passing through the only street lamp that lights the back wall of my room.

Waking up with black bags reminding me of the black shadows
The ones that cut corners of my rationality
Leaps over my sanity
And fights off the comfort of reality

If i open and close my eyes three times
And nothing is there, I’ll be fine
Okay maybe three more times,
One more time and I will fall asleep.
This is crazy, I am crazy
Why can’t I take a breathE

Once the light goes out in my bedroom
So does the one in my mind

What time is it?
Three, the devils hour
I feel myself heating up, perspiration forming
I need to stay awake until four, just in case.
I know it’s just a myth..
But just in case.

I’m aware none of this is true
Aware the tremble in my knees is just my imagination smirking at me
Maybe I need pills
Or another puff

This piece of work, the way you read it and it’s format is the workings of my mind under anxiety. It jumps from solution to conclusion to problem to nonsense to explanation all moulded by my irrationality and fear. The only way to understand, is to experience. There is no order, no silence, no moment of peace, no continuity, no control in my thought process when anxiety hits in the solitude of the night. No matter how physically comfortable I may be, there’s an ache of discomfort pulsing in my mind and in my chest, it gets louder and more powerful the deeper I explore. There is no reading over the above post to correct my punctuation or grammar, just as I would never contemplate and rationalize my thoughts and anxieties. I even had to look behind my computer screen as I wrote this, JUST IN CASE. It is nothing but fear, fear of the unknown, a fear that relies solely on the lack of understanding the questions that stay unanswered. Well that’s personally my interpretation of my own anxieties, but again, I am far from understanding the inner workings of my mind. It is crazy what our minds can convince us of.