Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

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The Reflection of Two Little Girls

Published on November 16, 2009 in Abuse, Borderline Personality Disorder, Mental Health, Poetry and Relationships. 1 Comment

That skinny old man sounds like a stampede of spooked cattle as he runs across poorly padded carpet
To open a door about to fall off it’s hinges.
I hear it slam and think to myself,
I hate him.

—–

It’s not the slamming door or the way he goes about clueless in his ways that bothers me so. It’s that he reminds me of my sister in some ways because he refuses to say, “You can’t do this to me.”

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Smaller Than A Mouse

Published on November 13, 2009 in Poetry. 2 Comments

My attention span is short and small.
It’s tiny.
Tinier than a mouse.
Tinier than a minnow in the pond out back
And more fleeting than Florida rain in the spring.
The sun comes out, kisses the earth and leaves no trace
That a single drop ever hit the ground.
In this fashion goes my concentration
Even faster, my recollection of what I wrote and read.

© Faith-Magdalene Austin all rights reserved

I wanted to sit in the living room by a host of candles and read my new book but I’m anxious and can’t retain what I read. I get up and pace a bit, get into this and that then try to go back and read a paragraph or two. The first paragraph is the last one I read so it pretty much feels like one step forward two steps back. There’s no need to force it I guess. It’ll be here waiting to be read when I’m ready to read it.

fma
Friday, November 13, 2009 – 7:41PM EST

Gratitude Monday: The Senses

Published on October 12, 2009 in Gratitude Journal and Poetry. 3 Comments Tags: .

Pleasing to me was:

The sound of my best friend’s grandchild giggling in the background as we talked on the phone.
Ever so delightful was the last sip of coffee where my peppermint disk settled.
I had warm blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream. My Lord it was good.
I like the smell of heat. When the heater first kicks on there’s a scent that is very soothing to me.
I have a vanilla candle that I put on a mug warmer and let melt slowly as I sleep. Vanilla fills the room and helps relax me.

Last Night's Fire

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Permission

Published on September 9, 2009 in Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Emotions, Grief Sadness Loss and Poetry. 0 Comments

I don’t need permission.
I don’t need the okay, a nod of approval saying to let go
Cut and cut lose.
I do not need a hand on my shoulder, holding it, grasping the corners of my arm
To flip me around and stand eye to eye.
I don’t need you to remind me that your love will wash all this away.
I remember, you promised this yesterday
But still I yearn for the release of skin and blade.

I am not driven by lust as lust goes.
I have no need for danger or to feel like I’m alive.
I know with each beat of my heart I live, horrified and battered, yes I live.
There is no joy found in devastating once smooth virgin skin and
No pleasure born of perversion as I lay down my mind and prepare to ravage my soul
In hopes of saving what remains of my shell before I lose it all to a fear greater than your disappointment, your disapproval.

You tighten the loving gaze in my eyes
I know what you’re thinking
You can fix this if you love completely, purely.
If you stand a little closer, dedicate every waking moment to my fights
Love with more than an abstract idea of what I need
And force my dreams to only lay claim on my night
Sparing sanity from long listless days.
I know what you’re thinking; you thought it yesterday and many times more
With the same conclusion as if destiny would change.
Still you seem stunned when pleading leads to manipulation
As my hand lays claim on razors and blades and
Strokes fueled by control re-open half healed wounds.
I know what you’re thinking, why aren’t YOU enough?

My breath is held captive when clutched in your bear hug arms
As I wait for permission to no longer need your permission to hold or push
To scream, talk or be silent.
To pull back or fall upon your neck and fill your ears with why
Why I’d ever place hope in steel’s sting
As I search for the vein that leads to yesterday
To spill its burdens before it claims my today.
How can I ever explain?

Arrow of Morton’s Pride
2/27/07

Sensitive

Published on August 18, 2009 in Depression, Medical, Mental Health and Poetry. 0 Comments

When it goes on and on like this……

They’re going to tire of hearing me say this. Lets talk about something else. Say something encouraging. Mention something minor, something people feel they can act on and fix. ….. I’ve come up empty, so lets go back to the same old complaint.

I’m sensitive. I’m dissociative, delayed in my responses and slow in thought. I’m energized for a moment then depleted of strength by the same moment. I’m unsteady and ashamed of it, unorganized, unmotivated, emotionally fatigued. I reject. I accept. I mourn, plead, then settle on apathy. I catastrophize, rant and rave, refuse to speak and refuse to open my eyes. I see sunshine the same as darkness, gray the same as gold. Sweet tastes salty. Cool water offers no refreshment. The air is heavy, heavier than my eyes.  I feel stunted and forced to again move forward and drag my feet through hope turned to ash.

Acceptance, rejection, can and can’t. I swear I won’t be broken by this. I promise myself, recount what I’ve survived.  I tell myself just a few weeks more and this will pass like always. The realization, the truthfulness of that statement brings tears to my eyes. We’re going to do this again. I don’t want to do this again.

Assurance and proof of strength, long suffering, unbreakable will falls hollow, as if on deaf ears. I’m not the same person.  No, I’m a fraction of that soldier and tired of the service.

Joan of Arc

Tuesday, August 18th, 2009 @ 3:17am EST

*** comments are off  ***

Perseverance

Published on July 12, 2009 in Poetry and PTSD. 2 Comments

I’m overwhelmed.
I’m tired.
I need to leave.
I’m overwhelmed. I’m tired. I need to go slowly.
Overwhelmed. Tired. I need to rock.
I need to close my eyes.
I float slowly to the back of my mind in the dark and in the quiet,
Where hills made of past memories roll like the tide in the rainy season on the east coast.
Hard rain leaves no stone dry.
With relentless battering, stones become worn, broken and at the mercy of natures temper.
Through the struggle, regardless of the plight of rocks and ocean, life takes its stand and triumphs.
It crawls beneath the rocks and grows a dense, fuzzy shade of green and waits for someone in need.

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A Little Too

Published on July 6, 2009 in Art, Depression and Poetry. 4 Comments

A Little Too

I’m a little too quiet, a little too polite, too awkward, too shy.
I’m a little too insecure and a little too willing to please.
A wall flower, a speck in the crowd who feels like a soar thumb
I’m a little too serious, too old and too tired to play along.
I’m a little too short to see,
A little too big to squeeze behind
And hide
Just a little too this
A little too that
Just a little.

Monday, July 06, 2009-2:38AM EST