Give to me please my muse…

Give me paper to appease my soul and passion to fill my inkwell,

give me life flushed from living and drained from loving.

Give me pens, of many colors each one a speckle of my essence.

Give me a living canvas, breathing my air and tasting my spirit,

dust it in golden sun rays and ice it in moon beams to

sweeten the hidden depths of sin. Give me crumpled

edges and torn corners, ink blots and strike through’s.

Give me an endless ream with pause breaks for tears

and laughter lines tearing the core. Give me a hb pencil.

Chewed at one end and blunt, let it write my heart with

the smoothest of ease, love spilling through graphite,

lust splitting paper, let desire become the heavy lines

and fear the faint whisper of grey on white. Yes, give me

paper, a canvas, a living body to embody my soul upon.

Image and words.

Narcicist .

I recently had the pleasure of sharing private messages with a narcissist. By pleasure I mean soul destroying energy draining horror. I wouldn’t normally choose to communicate with such a person but in this case my eye was off the ball and before I knew it he was under my skin. I blocked him. Yet his presence has continued to annoy me. The fault lays entirely with me my intuition screamed at me that there was something wrong about this person, but this clashed with my beliefs that we shouldn’t judge a person on first impressions….what the fucking hell was I thinking! I communicated with him for just under a week and in that time he shared anger, gas lighting, manipulation, obsessiveness, a desire for power and control as well as an ability to wield that power and control. All of these emotions convert to energy as an empath I pick up on that frequency of energy….the problem with this is that most other people can’t , so his public posts just appeared to them as harmless, quirky as us writers are, but harmless. Of course in his pm’s he was able to explore my vulnerabilities with more vigour, but it was also there in his public posts and replies. I should have been able to shake him off but the reality is his clear disrespect toward me has highlighted my vulnerabilities and taken me into a place of questioning. Amazing how quickly a narcissist can get in and fuck with your head. In short he disrespected me as a female writer, us females are already fighting enough stereotypical crap as it is we don’t need individuals to play along too. He did this in a number of ways, covertly communicating in such a way that he expected me to not notice. I did notice. The vulnerabilities he highlighted have been dominating my mind and pushing me into a corner to clearly stand up and define who it is I am as both a person and a writer. I guess in a way the situation has made me question whether he didn’t take me seriously as a writer, because up until this point I haven’t taken myself seriously as a writer.

Over the next few weeks I plan to explore the different ways in which this person was able to disrespect me as a writer. I could of course sweep it under the rug, shrug it off and pretend it never happened, but why the fuck should I, my writing style pushes the boundaries and I often explore topics that allows society to stereotypically label me. This is the problem.. I am who I am, I am not the words on page I am the spaces between them and for that alone I deserve respect.

Leave me hollow.

Appease this fragile mind,

strip away the necessities

of grey that linger, bang

away the thoughts,

tease out the emotions,

leave me hollow and empty,

so I can refill on beauty.

333

The universe is all up in my face,
Repetitive numbers all over the place.
Orange skies where pinks once lay,
Songs whispering the words I need to say.
Opening doors and closing windows,
Poems to read with perfect flow.
They’re in my dreams the calmness I feel,
As I wake and realise it isn’t real,
But that warmth lingers on my skin,
A hinted touch of what life can bring.
They do not guide me they intervene,
Which by the way is a little mean.
Places I have to be,
Sights I need to see.
Hidden treasures to divert my attention,
I’m moving now with apprehension.
The universe is all up in my face,
Whispering that it’ll be okay.

Freshly grated ginger.

A quiet corner shaded from sight,
a peaceful place to rest my eyes.
Ginger tea to warm me through,
as thoughts wander over to you.

Zadkiel I call upon thee now to give clarity to a final deed, did I turn my back on a soul in need? Is forgiveness the acceptance of even the broken, no matter how harsh their words spoken? Must I forgive time and time again whilst they sprinkle down hatred that fills me with pain?
Zadkiel, can I forgive, forget and move on? Can I forget the shock in their voice as I questioned their choice? Was I wrong, should I have remained strong? Am I not her protector, is it not my duty to shield her? Was it selfish, did I put her ahead of their needs when they are so desperately in search of the broken seed? Zadkiel, I am lost and in fear, I searched for you but could not see you near. The words flowed with surprising ease as I watched her fall to her knee’s. Her beliefs torn apart, her thoughts questioned she stumbled upon lies a clouded darkness fell upon her eye’s. Chance and chance again, Zadkiel, I gave in and before my eye’s grey scale fell and I saw as I never seen before,
and now her role within, is no more. Zadkiel, I ask for clarity and forgiveness reserved for the strong, is my heart right? Did I do no wrong?

Futile resistance.

The conservation of energy so that I may survive,
a colony of destruction no shadows in which to hide.
Darkness fell and flames flared,
the corruption of memories never truly shared.
Oblivion denied frolicking with hate,
an illusion of pretence to celebrate.
Automated response clicked into place,
I wonder if I can wander without leaving a trace.
Silence erupts from the neck of brown glass,
repetition the new pattern learnt from the past.
I’ll sit for a moment take heed of the day,
before resting my body in the bed where I lay.
I’ll look to the window where the moon does glow,
I’ll ask her to help me so that I may grow.
I’ll speak with the angels and beg them for strength,
Metatron will show me in my dreams at great length.
I’ll listen to the silence as it screams into life,
Piercing reality like a sharpened knife.
No words I will say and you know this is true,
You’ve trampled my dreams
and I have nothing new.

What is forgiveness.

What is forgiveness? I’ve spoke those words a thousand times over and still I search for peace. I’ve forgiven your knowing spiteful tongue, i’ve forgiven your chosen ignorance. I’ve worked tirelessly to hold together the slipping strings as you have pulled and pulled demanding respect for your title alone. I have shed tears in the darkness on the balance of your belief. I have stood alone day after day because you refuse to accept her. Pride, my pride was swallowed down the moment I became.Standing alone in the darkness with my pride, you have danced holding it up as though a trophy of my defeat, I forgive therefore I am naive, I am weak. I am without bitterness, I am without hate.I am beginning to wonder at what point I should close the gate. You are blinded by your own selfish beliefs. You are blinded by fear. Perhaps, forgiveness is meant for me, I cannot make you see, perhaps this time, forgiveness is meant for me.

Why the banging!

You spoil my silence with your incessant voice,
a cat being strangled whilst you jump for joy.
Banging and jumping and so called singing too,
I wish I could record this, so you can listen to you.
Your voice is like poison
Addled with drink,
It penetrates through to the place where I think.
Your whoops and you screams
Seep curiously into my pleasant dreams.
Please let’s make an alliance,
you’re poisoning my precious fucking silence!

Universal electrons electrified in a catalyst of hope.

Whispers in the breeze of yesterdays thoughts
I dream of a sanity that I have often sought.
As I look to the skies for the light that shines north
and I think of the beauty left uncaught.
I dream of a day where humanity goes forth,
where loneliness is felt no more
and poverty is no longer a disease of the poor.
All this in the whisper of a breeze along the shore,
a knowing that I will one day arrive at that door.