Hearts/Suicide

I wrote a collection of my poetry in which I am planning on finding 3 or 4 women that would like to perform them and give them life in front of an audience.  Because of this intention with my show, I also have pieces that I would only do audibly that are separate from the show.  In other words, I don't perform any of my (shows)  collection of poems any more because I don't want to bore those that would support my show.  However, now I am thinking that.... I can put some of them here on the blog, and I am planning a large event, I can put some of them within there to pin point certain things.

Things are falling together nicely.  Here is a piece called Hearts/Suicide:

My heart exists in a realm of pain, inner dark, screeching secrets,

subtle lights, flashing safe warning signs. 

Beating once to acknowledge its own existence, beats multiple times to move closer to its long awaited end. 

Agonizing over interactions with overwhelmingly over estimations of others.  

My life exists somewhere lost in optimistic shadows looming in from an unacknowledged past. 

Through love I experience intense hatred, fueled by productive fears, sorrows frighten my gentle nature, migrating my soul deeply into spiritual limbo, I know who I live for and where I fight. 

Hands grab at me from every side, my conscious devours my ability to self nurture, I am meaningless in this world, obsolete like the letter “Q”. 

My passion exists in a world of limiting possibilities and lack of care.  Loving for others who don’t love themselves enough to care.

My lust relieves my frustrations, now as a woman able to mold and control my chastity.

Slowed by my lost connection with strength, my sensual sexuality because I’m broken,

Cut

At  the sources of my sensitivity by a world so cold controlled by men, identifying themselves as “care takers”, “lovers”, and “friends”. 

Judgmental hatred

Cut like shards of glass, close-minded belittling forcing me down, loving my femininity into self loathing lifelessness

Arrogant ignorance betraying understanding, transforming love into lost uselesness

Cut

Where sensation is most vivid, I listen to women explore themselves, life of gentle goodness rises shining inside their soft vulnerability

Tortured through dead womb sharp needles still, bludgeoning anything daring to pass between my legs, killing shining star of any person brave enough to chance a connection

Slowly strangling signs of vitality out of positive welcoming goodness, awaiting end of this

Masochistic realm, cutting me into skinned welted bits, swollen, open from repeating hits

Turned into stabb wounds, finished off by fire burning, last of my life to its long awaited end.