grief

i know not the lengths of this journey as time, unbeknownst to me, shall likely coil it’s precious and vile moments within the ruptures of my brokenness.

hear the tumultuous cries but leave me to dance in my seemingly motionless state

watch me glare into nothing yet as if the narration of my life is before me

grant me this nirvana where I shall run to the shadows for solace to bleed, to smile, to weep to laugh, to burn, to soar…

image of “Grief” taken from Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington DC. Sculpture created by Augustus Saint-Gaudens and listed on National Register of Historic Places. To read more about its elusive history read on…

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adams_Memorial_(Saint-Gaudens)

Poe Places: An historical East Coast journey in the footsteps of Edgar Allan Poe: Baltimore

It’s taken me over three years thus far to travel up and down the East Coast in search of the places entwined with the history of poet and writer, Edgar Allan Poe. His works have been such an inspiration to my own pen muse and he birthed my love of poetry. And since I’m OCD about everything, it makes perfect sense to divulge in every place Mr. Poe once lived, visited or has some historical tie to. Right? Right.

Edgar was born in Boston, Massachusetts to David and Elizabeth Poe. He had two siblings, older brother Henry and sister Rosalie. The children at a young age found themselves parentless as their father abandoned them and at the age of three, Edgar’s mother, a then actress in Richmond, Virginia, died of tuberculosis. The children were then separated. Henry was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Boston, Rosalie to the McKenzie’s of Richmond and Edgar was adopted by John and Frances Allan, also of Richmond, Virginia.

While the places I have visited thus far are all of importance and have their own individual connection to Poe, they are not in historical order and notably the states of New York and Massachusetts I have yet to be visited which I hope to do in the future.

This stop brings me to the home of the Ravens…Baltimore, Maryland. Poe left quite a legacy to this bustling city so much so they honor his memory by naming their NFL team after one of his most popular poems. Poe spent a lot of his life here and fate it seemed was deemed the place for him to die.

My first stop had to be the most notable place that Baltimore offers. His grave.

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What more fitting a place for Poe’s final resting place than that of Westminster Hall, a converted gothic style church built above Westminster Burying Ground, creating catacombs. Upon discovering them I was disappointed that time wasn’t allowing me the opportunity to take one of the tours that the church offers.

Not only is Poe buried here but his wife Virginia and her mother Maria Clemm as well. Historically however Poe originally was buried in the back of the church grounds in an unmarked grave that today has a stone memorializing his original resting place. However just like all things Poe, rumors grew of the accuracy of the move. To read more about it, check out http://www.eapoe.org.

Because I’m a geek when it comes to Poe, I already knew this upon entering the church yard and knew exactly where to go hunting for the original memorial. Some other fans that happened to be there at the same time as myself, clearly weren’t as obsessed….errrr prepared as I was and didn’t have this little tid bit of information so naturally I offered to show them. My daughter took a picture of me guiding the tourists so as to memorialize my Poe geek status reaching its all time high. And no, I will not share it. Grrrrr. But I will show you where I took them.

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Because I have a natural love for cemeteries, not only was I snapping multiple pictures of the grounds but I found words brewing and wrote this as I came upon this corner with the broken stones.

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The church and the grounds were quite lovely and offered a moment of solitude amidst the extremely busy streets of downtown Baltimore that pretty much nearly swallow it.

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Located on the same street as the church just a short drive up the road is what is left of the home that Edgar lived in along with his Aunt and wife while in Baltimore.

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Operating now as a museum by the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, the home was built around 1830 and was originally rented by Edgar’s aunt, Maria Clemm along with her mother, her daughter Virginia and Edgar. Poe left his family here however around August of 1835 moving to Richmond, Virginia where he’d been taken on as editor for the Southern Literary Messenger. Around this same time Ms. Clemm’s mother died resulting in a shortage of money and the family was faced with being unable to cover rent. Another family member having heard of their circumstances offered to take her and Virginia in but Edgar hearing the news and perhaps fearing he would lose his family, wrote a heartfelt letter proposing to Virginia at which she accepted and the family was rejoined in Richmond. Check out the emotional letters here. Good stuff. You won’t be disappointed.

http://www.eapoe.org/works/letters/p3508290.htm

The tour of the house includes poems and short stories that Poe wrote while in Baltimore, facts about his life and death and features Poe’s chair, lap desk and telescope. The room in which the items are set up is thought to be the room that he would have slept in so yeah of course, I was needing my salts. To think I was in the same room as the macabre master had once laid his head and no doubt dreamt up who knows how many of his short stories humbled me. It was surreal. Well, for me. And yeah, I stood there for a bit soaking the moment in.

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Upon leaving his home I went next to the Edgar Allan Poe Room at The Enoch Pratt Free Library and to say I was blown away by the appearance of the library itself is an understatement. The architecture geek in me was bleeding a smile. But I’ll refrain from getting sidetracked and sharing the gazillion pictures I took once inside.

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Dedicated to Poe on the 125th anniversary of his birth, The Edgar Allan Poe Room is in essence an exhibit of letters, memorabilia, and a copy of a daguerreotype of Poe by Thomas Corner. It is used as a meeting room and this is where my OCD kicked in when upon arriving I discovered it remained locked unless it was being used and was not typically open to the public. Obviously that wasn’t acceptable. I mean hello. So the determined five foot three inches Poe fiend went searching until I found the biggest security guard I’d ever seen. I smiled and told him without using said words such as geek or stalking or obsessed that I would like to see inside the Poe Room. He gave me a look over, grinned and said “for a just few minutes, follow me.” Ahhhhh and the rebel wins again!

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After snapping pictures like a bat out of hell and speed rushing through my oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s I thanked the very kind giant and continued my journey. I couldn’t help but think he was probably saying “another crazy white girl.” under his breath. I giggled. Yep. No doubt I fit that bill.

Although Poe lived quite some time in Baltimore, many of the places that had a connection with him have over the years been demolished, so those places I skipped this trip as their quite a few. But I got them written down in my trusty notebook aka Poe app. Yes. Poe app. Nevermind that. So lots of pictures of what now might be Taco Bell’s and laundry mats is in my future next trip.

I saved the saddest for last. The site where he died. Such a shame I didn’t have any of my paranormal investigation tools back then. Just saying. At his time this was the location of Washington College Hospital where he was brought after being found near dead on a street nearby. Four days later he was dead. Many stories surround the hospital including kidnapping and body snatching. Of course. You can read an in-depth article about it here. http://www.eapoe.org/balt/poechh.htm

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Thanks so much for reading and please make sure to check out my other write ups as I journey up and down the East Coast to feed my need. The struggle is real…

J

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just a rant

It is sometimes, no scratch that, most times hard for me to come to terms with the sincerity of a cold mind. The inability to have a conscious that has the power to strike you at any given time into a vulnerable coma.

I’ll never understand the capability of one such soul perhaps because of the way I see the world. The way my heart starts and stops again at all the beauty of what in truth God or science has given us. The way my heart bleeds at another’s misfortune. The way I smile at another’s triumphant battles. The way I feel when I hear a baby cry. The way my heart warms when I see an old couple hold hands. The compassion I have for an addict. The need to advocate for the mentally ill. The desire to adopt every single stray animal. The moment I capture the most breathtaking image.

I’m no angel. Far from it. I’ve made some fucked up choices. Many things I regret, resent and still haunt me. But you see I have the ability to recognize my own faults, to own them, to learn from them and most importantly to be apologetic when I should be and unapologetic for simply being me. The remorse I carry for poor decisions.  The weight that burdens me from a broken spirit over and over again. Those are things I cannot push away. They own me. Every waking, breathing dirty broken moment. So how is it that others can go numb to any semblance of humanity?

Is it possible that somewhere even in those darkest of souls there lives good? Could it be possible that for every dark soul there is an equal darkness that covets enough light for the other to see?  That somewhere, somehow goodness overcomes evil? Or does evil make everyone its whore? The older I get my hope is fading. I see now why my Grams had such hard lines upon her face yet did the best she could rearing me and my sister. She struggled with the same reality of humanity. I think there comes a time when all of us have to grow up out of the perfect world we paint it to be. Yet still, its hard to stomach.  Even with every roadblock life has given me, it always will be. For those of us holding on to the pretty side of this fucked up world.

end of rant-

J

 

A picture is worth a thousand thoughts…

I do love when I stumble upon an image that stops me in my tracks. An image that is fueled with so many different emotions where the words just start screaming at me to come out. Below is one just image that will stick with me for a while followed by the words it evoked. The power of art, words and music and the beautiful path where they meet where imagination is born, inviting us on an epic journey…

 

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a bitter heart shall eat it’s owner

to embrace the knowledge

with the pain

shall lead

to the acceptance of that which

we haven’t the power to change…

J

 

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taste this poison in me

this massacre of years of love

besieging pieces once pure

my wanderlust of exquisite self destruction

J

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this world

battling constant choices

listening and derailing a million voices

blistering my mind

how I easily become confined

trust, a virtue I never seem to find its core

most times thinking but a folklore

words deceiving

eyes almost always reveiling

in silence I live

unsure how to give

a constant let down

just when I begin to think I found my crown

resolving to stay away

protecting what’s left from continued decay

J

 

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to the depths of your flame

a madness of lust fueled by your words

a journey past my every breaking point

in pieces I wait…

J

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poe Places: a historial East Coast journey in the footsteps of Edgar Allan Poe: Philadelphia

It’s taken me over two year’s thus far  to travel up and down the East Coast in search of the notable places of poet and writer, Edgar Allan Poe. His works have been a notable muse to my own writing and the birth of my love of poetry. And since I’m OCD about everything, it makes perfect sense to divulge in every place Mr. Poe once lived, visited or has some historical tie to. Right? Right.

Edgar was born in Boston, Massachusetts to David and Elizabeth Poe. He had two siblings, older brother Henry and sister Rosalie. The children at a young age found themselves parentless as their father abandoned them and at the age of three, Edgar’s mother, a then actress in Richmond, Virginia, died of tuberculosis. The children were then separated. Henry was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Boston, Rosalie to the McKenzie’s of Richmond and Edgar was adopted by John and Frances Allan, also of Richmond, Virginia.

While the places I have visited thus far are all of importance and have their own individual connection to Poe, they are not in historical order and notably the states of New York and Massachusetts have yet to be visited which I hope to do in the future.

My first stop took me to the city of brotherly love, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where Poe resided for six years from 1838 until 1844. Here he lived with his wife/cousin Virginia and her mother, Maria Clemm. His time spent here is described as the happiest of his life. While most of the homes he lived in while in Philadelphia have been demolished, one still stands. It is the last home he lived in before he decided to leave with his young ailing wife with tuberculosis to the then tranquil outskirts of New York. Today the home located in the Spring Garden section of the city is owned and maintained by the state park service and listed on the registry of historical places.

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The home itself has been left to age with murals upon the walls depicting how the home would have looked when Poe lived within its walls.

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A room set up like a parlor lends a feel to the macabre feel that was Poe’s legacy. Within it contains many writings and advertisements over the years of Poe’s work. Also on display is a prized possession, a copy of the famous Annabelle Lee poem as written in Poe’s handwriting.

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Entering the basement the macabre feel continues with its spooky feel and truly one of my favorites among the whole house. Talk about getting some paranormal ju ju down here. Heck yeah.

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The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Namelessherefor evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrowhewill leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
Sheshall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—isthere balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting,stillis sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
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Next up the lively city of Baltimore, Maryland that holds beneath its branches quite a story of Poe’s footsteps…..

J

 

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Bullying, My Two Cents

 

In the wake of yet another teen suicide in my community as a result of bullying, I need to vent. Mean people suck. Simply put. I just don’t get it and I know I never will. This coming from someone who was not one of the cool kids, nor was I one of those kids that can say I looooved high school and would jump at the chance to relive it. Hell no.  I loved my teachers and excelled, graduating with honors. While I got along with everyone I never quite fit in with any particular group either. As a result I kept to myself. Solitude, music and books were my best friends in those awkward raging hormonal years. Perhaps that’s why I was one of the lucky ones. I stayed in the shadows. But I saw. Even some twenty-three years ago, bullying was happening. Nothing compared to the scale that it is today though. Nowhere near.

It completely and utterly saddens me to hear when  a fourteen year old girl takes her life because some popular boy doesn’t like her and a group of girls, the bitches we can be especially in packs, relentlessly making her life hell. And this girl, she kept it balled up inside her, like most kids that age do. And I get it. I so get it. You’re humiliated enough amongst your peers why bring it home where you have some sense of control. Schools these days are like fucking battle grounds. Education takes a back seat to behavior. But, but, it’s up to us parents to be involved with our children. That is the key people.

I’ve often bumped heads with my children’s pediatrician when it came to signs of illnesses over the years. Why? Because I know my children more than anyone. Every parent does. Well, a participating parent. We know their every day behaviors. We know when they are sick. When they are lying. When they are hiding something. When they are withdrawn. And we can’t ignore it. No matter how awkward it may be. We simply can’t. It sucked major ass that I had to talk to my daughter about sex in the fourth grade because of things she heard in school. But I did it. And she walked away still believing in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy and knowing what “jerking off” was. Yah me.  It totally wasn’t the way I’d visualized that conversation to go and totally not at such a young age. But I did it, while silently cringing.

But that’s what we do. That’s what we are supposed to do. We are supposed to be their protectors. The ones they can trust with anything. And when they get to that age where they get all hormonal and crazy, where mine is these days, it’s up to us to reel their asses back in, ride the storm, and pray for the best. But that takes an effort. And effort takes diligence, not to mention patience and understanding.

We owe it to our children people. God knows parenting didn’t come with an instructional manual, I know. I tell my fourteen year old all the time, we’re in this together kid. This is your first time being a teenager and my first time raising one.

Bullying is a sad reality effecting our kids all over the world. It knows no boundaries nor color. And it thrives on people keeping silent about it. Talk to your kids. You know yours better than anyone else.

J

 

 

~beguile~

you gave me the key
to finding your every destructive ability

the waves i found upon that dark path
like a crashing flood of your own blood bath

with courage and my love for you
I pushed through it, knowing I needed to

for without embracing that history
your  actions would have remained a mystery

but when i let myself go there
I found my own darkness and despair

so I turned to you my friend, seeking the same end

how empty and betrayed I feel when you say
I can’t help you, find your own way

adrift

 

 

 

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adrift

I never knew what it was
to be without fear
until there was him
how he led me
to the shadows
of my salvation
and i, easy prey
desperate for freedom
freedom to let these dark wings biting at my skin soar
and he, he sensed it, smelled it
and embraced every ounce
coaxing it, willing it, molding it

into this dark angel I became
life-long barriers quickly diminished in this realm we created
debauchery was not a word
it was a way of life
and in it, I thrived
I became an entity of me
in the trenches of my mind
the dirty, dark confines of one’s soul
where the sane distract themselves
from fear of getting ripped to shreds
that is where I lived.
i bathed in it
and he,
he was my water.

how i let him ravish my veins
turning me into his masterpiece
standing on the edge of his every word
waiting, wanting, needing
and when he came I drank him as he would taste the spoils of his creation
my sweet poison he was that I forcefully injected without haste
my daily dose of life that without, my breath would surely fail

and so we danced our dance a thousand nights from moonlight to a tipping dawn
how I knew even then with each new day brought with it this emptiness, this brokenness
this void that drowns me now
for he is gone
this false God I bowed to
this magician of sorcery
this beast that fed me in slow seductive doses
and now I am here in once our darkness
unable to stray
broken, addicted and derailed
waiting for my wings to come back to me

~J~

03/24/2016

Infected-a short

~infected~  

In the silence its breeding ground she knew. How it twisted it’s coils about her. A ticking time bomb she was. The pounding of the clock as the seconds passed. Each one resounding her torture. Just a few more moments and it would be over. Quieting the demons, eyes dead ahead, head high, determined not to succumb to its weighing strength. Voices about but in muffled bursts of excitement. For her attention, her concentration only on him.

She knew when he was coming. She could smell the remnants of the soap he likely scrubbed himself down with repeatedly from fear. And the fear, he wreaked of it. But it was different. Almost intoxicating to her. Not vile like the others. Not hatred or desire to destroy, but simply intoxicating. Her veins, they floated in a way, in his direction. The pain diminishing ever so slightly but it was enough for her to notice that first time he appeared. And it was for that reason his presence captivated her each and every time he came.

As he got closer the tapping of fingers along metal off in the distance grated in her head. Squinting her eyes, shifting her head back and forth in an uncontrollable rage, she heard his footsteps falter. Sucking in a breath, tasting the stale air, she closed her eyes and counted to now what took ten seconds before she could tranquilize the noise from her mind. Each day seemed to take longer but she avoided thinking of it.

She opened her eyes to find him peering upon her with hesitation his face revealed. And as she forced herself to sit still his gaze changed, softening into a courteous smile. He was the only one really that was nice to her in this cesspool and for that small fact, she was thankful. He began his walk again towards her and she fought back the need to reach out to him. Such an odd sense of reaction she thought.

He reached for the chair next to her bed, the metal scraping against the floor, again filling her with rage but with him near, somehow she gained the power to push it away. She noticed then for the first time that he had a book in his hands and upon sitting down, the sound of the spine cracking as he opened it left her teetering, gritting her teeth. But she focused on his actions. This was new. He’d never done this before. Or at least, not that she could remember. Some days seemed to fade into the next and her mind, it played tricks on her.

He sat in silence which baffled her yet continued to captivate her. And then without notice he stood and almost whispered, “I’ll be back tomorrow my love,” placing the book in her hands and then was gone. As she sat in silence, she peered down at the book, its pages full of images of a girl, a beautiful girl.

~J~

03/23/16

 

 

Hybrid

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These early morning thoughts before coffee. I never know where my mind is going to take me. This morning with the television on in the background I hear a documentary about wolves. And like often times, something so simple can trigger something so groundbreaking.

When I was a teen I can recall it began. My fascination with wolves. I could not soak in enough of these misunderstood beasts and even took to collecting figurines to adorn my bedroom with. Yes, amongst those Teen Beat posters strewn across my walls of omg he’s so hot boys, was my quickly growing obsession with wild animals. Oh yeah my friends totally got that…not…My first true sense of refusing to conform. I just didn’t realize it.  It wasn’t intentional.  But truly is it ever? Are we just not being true to ourselves?  I guess at the time I didn’t really go full circle with why I was so attracted to them but now as an adult, looking back, I get it. At least *chuckling* I think I do. Sometimes I’m even too weird for my own self.

These magnificent creatures as I said living among the wild have always been misunderstood. Free spirited, untamed and undoubtedly impossible to be tamed. Because the world did not understand them, their anything but consistent behaviors, they were deemed dangerous. Make shift fences built to keep them away for fear of killing livestock. Laws created to ensure the decline in their reproduction. Overall humanity feared them and still do. Natural born killers they say.

Really? Wait for it…

Ignoranace is not bliss. It is archaic. It is irresponsible. It is living in a box, afraid to except diversion. Afraid of the unknown. Because you don’t understand it, it must be bad. People suck.

Me, my writing and overall my personality…I relate very much to the wolf. I’m a textbook introvert. Big shocker I know.  I have a hard time conforming  to a certain style. I find myself all over the map when it comes to things I’m interested in. My music, art, reading, the way I dress, my writing. Pretty much everything. I am in essence a hybrid I suppose.

And with that feeling comes a sense of not really belonging in one place. I have struggled with this my entire life.  I find myself at times now trying to fit in. Trying to conform. Trying to be “normal”. Over obsessing with what people think. All the while, inside, the wolf cries.

I have so many different aspects of me that I keep hidden. Simply put, from fear of being misunderstood. That is why I write. That is where my poetry is born. That is where the shit show of characters in my head comes to life. And none of them or my words have a filter. I cuss. I’m obsessed with sentence fragments and these puppies right here … are my bff’s. Straight up I’m different and for the most part I’m cool with that.

A lot of us introverts I’m sure relate to the wolf. I’m certain I’m not alone. Out there in the shadows you are lurking. Just shoveling along. Doing your thing, not giving a fuck or doing your thing wishing you understood why you are the way you are. It’s a roller coaster for me sometimes. Some days I beat myself up for being this way- Not literally, truly I’m a wimp. I can play some mad soccer though-Then sometimes I relish in my diversion and thank my lucky stars I’m not living in a box, staring at the world with rose colored glasses.

I guess the moral to my morning rant is don’t be afraid to howl. Do your thing. Don’t lose sense of yourself. Don’t let anyone convince you to be otherwise. We are all different, yet bleed the same. And on a side note but albeit very important one, if you so desire, check out the wolf. In some places it’s threat of extinction is quite real. We can’t let these beautiful creatures die can we?

Thanks for reading.

J

3/19/2016