|
RIP Kaua'i Let Insanity Be Sweet... Sparks Journal --- 1990 Poetry - My Love Poetry - Touch Of Her Heart November 06 December 06 January 07 February 07 March 07 April 07 May 07 June 07 July 07 August 07 September 07 October 07 November 07 December 07 January 08 February 08 March 08 April 08 May 08 
RSS 2.0    |
|
|
I'm doing some political art for a friend... thought I would test it out here first. I need critics.....
This is a picture of the Fantasy Island Falls that I took when I was in Kaua'i 6 months ago. I travel to Kaua'i every other year to kayak and of course to get chased by Nenes (Hawaiian geese). lol I went to Yosemite for a few days last week, I'm looking for my pictures now.......... Life and my ideas of her assimilate inside me at times without my knowledge. Innate defense mechanisms naturally conceal painful experiences via denial, lies and suppression, while other survival instincts foolishly embrace pleasures regardless of the consequences. This is normal, however a fragile mind often requires an opaque retreat in which to shelter it from the glare of sentience. Inebriants obscure the sharp edges and smooth a long and jarring journey through life. While sober, the need to forget ones experiences are required frequently. Cowardly, I have acquired much of my reality by self inflicted illusions and untruths for the sake of self-protection and peace of mind. Inevitably, my reality is difficult to comprehend. Oh, but how exciting confusion is while intoxicated.
Recently I have become acquainted with neurosis. I am completely lost and severely weakened by a personal void and a severe lack of toxins. This is the price one pays for a life of self indulgence. My external means of happiness and comfort have all abandoned me. It’s just me, myself and I along with a vast emptiness that resides here now. Alone with myself I attempt to make conversation with a person I no longer recognize. The role I play in a script I wrote and produced for my life is no longer substantial enough to survive. Without my supporting characters, I too am disintegrating into emptiness. This reminds me of the movie The Incredible Shrinking Man. How small did he get? Is he still alive fighting off creatures that cannot be seen even by the most powerful microscope invented by mankind, or did he simply shrink into nothingness? POOF, no remnants whatsoever, not even a speck of dust that remains forever in the Universe. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
Overwhelming fear forces me to make the most significant decision of my life, and to face a climatic dilemma. Sanity or Death. Death with the interpretation in the critical sense, for I have already died in a story book of tales soaked in alcohol and cocaine. Incapable of leaving the house, I am unable to replenish my supply of booze. This has left me horribly sober. As chunks of truths and emotions once suppressed by alcohol regurgitate from the deep and dark vaults of my being, I find it necessary to make serious choices. Naked and confused, I slowly attempt to dissolve delusions one by one. In anger I gather strength, in sadness I become humble. I explore truisms as I continue to try and fill the emptiness inside me with substance. At times of weakness I hold on to my lifelong and comfortable bed, a bed I myself manufactured, a bed of lies and denial in which parts of me will be forever lost in. These difficult decisions and feelings of despair often court death, a courtship to which at times seem like the easiest choice. Teetering on the border of insanity I am forced to revisit the past over and over again in an attempt to decipher actual events from falsehoods.
Please let insanity be sweet.
I need to organize my thoughts, write them down, no matter how simple or complex:
I am loved and accepted by all,
I don’t hurt people,
I close my eyes to envision the color blue, I hate the color blue. It reminds me of a bad relationship. Ironically I actually liked blue as a child. My sisters always wanted things pink, their clothes, their toys, and of course, the wall color of their room. I preferred blue, especially when it came to my clothes. I don’t really hate him (the reason I hate blue), not everyone is capable of being a good friend or lover. In truth, it was me I hated, not him. I felt I had to make our relationship work because I couldn’t do better for myself. I hated the fact that he could make me cry, that I allowed him to demean me, and I hated that I accepted the position of a second class citizen out of fear. F--k it all. Who the f--k cares. I was weak, so the f--k what. I still don’t like the color blue.
4. Truth: I hate the color blue because it reminds me of how much I hate myself.
"Hmmm, that went well".
I will mentally place these issues in the Closed file section of my mind. Four down, 179,401 to go. I slip down onto my pillow and try to sleep.
Fear consumes me. Knowledge of my desperate and inadequate attempts of self preservation in the past are revealed. I hate myself. I hate myself , I hate everyone. This uninvited, yet welcome transformation is an asset of sorts, it serves as a shield to block out external distractions. I no longer need to exert extra energy by treating others compassionately. Anger is my favorite defense mechanism. I implode this emotion to conjure up strength and create a powerful warrior willing to fight to free me from the abyss of dementia.
Frantically I pace the long corridor in a house with too many windows, as my dog barks at a stranger. Moving through the house I can feel my heartbeat accelerate at the sight of me laying in the fetal position in the corner of my bedroom. Daylight and nights, hours and minutes, all moments are jumbled into one. Concerned friends knock at my door and beg to help from the outside. Curtains sway without a breeze, and cabinet doors loose shape and liquefy. Deep slumbers fail to revive my appetite for food. "The Truth Will Save You", a quote used for manipulation. It’s all bullshit. Yet, in my sleep I continue the grueling process of analyzing, decoding and revealing my existence. Insanity is exhausting, I’m tired, I’m dying. I miss my sanity no matter how distorted.
Literary profundity intensifies her awareness, passion and wisdom. Her pain, completely recognized, is unsympathetic and combative And yet, she weeps at the sight of anguish This insatiable poet’s love has countless tribulations... She will envy your significance and despise your deficiency. Devoted to convictions that in time no longer hold true. Her fear of being exploited is parallel to her desire to love. A constant need to be surrounded by feigned aficionados... persuades her self-manipulated disguise to be her most intimate bond. Consequently, I can only love her for what she is not. My truth of her lies far beyond an invincible shield, Her reality... Is in the palm of her hands, And with the touch of her heart she will give it all away. 
1
|
