*artwork- via pintrest.com
I’ve gone astray
Amongst the fir trees of my years
Under cold snows
During sweaty summer evenings.
I’ve failed to tie a string
Or leave a bread crumbs trail
So I can find my way back
(36 years ago)
When I slipped into this world
And maybe then was happy.
Invariably, i am
( a sad little girl- an angsty adolescent-an all accepting woman)
Just looking for a place,
One guarded and secure,
To keep my hopes.
*artwork-“intimacy” by svetlana ziuzina via artmajeur.com
|maybe because he does not speak
i am mute again.
comfortably embraced by silence.
listening to the music of heartbeats
instead of uneven rumble of words.
we hold hands in our sleep
and i let him kiss my face in the morning
and make a dinner. for me.
simple things used to be so complicated.
but now i rest.
and i let him touch, where no one did before.
*artwork- via darkascharcoal.tumblr.com/
god’s lion, he is
or god’s lamb?
my hebrew jesus crist
so close to perfect, but
it was like dancing
because i wasn’t
i could not feel my limbs,
i was too old, and all the same the youngest
suburbs of holiness
illusive peace of. mind?
unending touch. no words to hide in
so easy to pretend
another step on
well known ground
so firm so nonexistent.
*artwork- frustration by mehran roozbahni
|she says i’ve got to try to like this little girl
and i wonder, what is the way?
i wish i could friend her on facebook
she says i’ve got to stop pushing her away,
stop erasing her from this hard disk
on the back of my mind,
mossy used to say
she says i should be empathetic…
for something that i can not really grasp?
i hide among all these names that barely have faces
just so i won’t have to see my own
and there they go
so precious so unimportant
i keep this puzzle of pieces with no unique form
i choose where to place them
while i lay in my bed and do not remember
whose stomach is pressed against my back.
*artwork- “red couple dance” by naxart studio via fineartamerica.com
walled in comforting fears
my fruitful quest for rejection
won’t stop. i’d not give up
so sweet, slap after slap
every word tastes like leather belt on my skin
leaving red marks that i collect and keep
carefully cataloged and maintain them thoroughly.
we move, altering egos of cowardice.
my faceless men
your nameless women,
an endless fuel for
our dance of hurt and solace.
*artwork- painting by andrew salgado via justimagine-ddoc.com/art
|i was having pulsing you, in me,
for long minutes, i believed
your phone rang and rang and rang
i asked to pick it up
and right away
i felt your flesh and your mind sliding out
she was bleeding,
maybe loosing her baby.
i heard you say
” i am sorry, i can’t”
and the thought
“i could easily be in her shoes”
blew my mind
you were out,
out of me,
out of my bed, my room
yet not with her.never taking sides.
always in the middle.
i was silent.
you- eaten by guilt, every touch is an apology- asked
“what’s on your mind?”
“i am sad, for
you’re so eager to be the savior.
yet you are never truly there ”
*artwork-new vision, osho zen tarot
|i am an artist’s housekeeper.
i always wished to be a muse,
but this will also do fine.
i come, and i arrange.
facilitate the space,
so he can create.
i feed him.
i wash his dirty dishes
and i fold his tangled clothing.
i put on his favorite music,
and light the incense
then i open the windows
to let out the smell of paint
and of dreams that will never come true
i watch him working,
and my heart is full.
i touch his mess
and i feel empowered
for it is my tiny share,
his creation is ,in a way, mine
*artwork-“don’t take my sunshine away” via tumblr
|sometimes i wake up in the mornings and i just know that it is going to be a bad day.
or, filled with dismay and anxiety.
and then everything gets slow.
arthur says these are the days of Hecate. so that i am sensitive during. and, in general, sensitive.
gera calls it “love deprived whore, with her heart locked”. that is also a way to put it.
it’s been a year since i am tending to myself.
sometimes it seems that i do hear something.
is this how breaking through feels?
today i am restless again. i am not barren, but i can not give birth. there is something inside, yet it is unable to come out.
i am not letting it go.
*artwork- drawing by kosta gurgov
getting no share.
i am gone.
hungered by anger
stabbed with self pity
embedded by excluding blame
again, i am being tortured
while glue-like minutes drip away
that’s who i am
still waiting, miserably restless,
for ever evanescent mom.
oh, mother, is there any good in talking
(of imminently shifting tides?)