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.



Wepts/ Tears

My woman is dying, she cries out at all times of day... and night.  Screaming for life, searching for truth.  With enough strength to  see her... past my surface.

Understanding vulnerability, a mountain, not  judging or planting  weeds where flowers grow.  Pulling weeds creates Stone where there was once life that breathed.

My woman cries out for glory, light where darkness has prevailed.  Triumph where many have fallen.  Short quick attempts at life have created an inner starvation.  Grasping for air, she claws with her bare hands. Opportunity to see a better anything; a better man, a better lover, a better person.

My woman is found, searching to be found.  Screaming to be seen; completed.

Giving herself  to less deserving.  Sacrificing many needs for one need.  Forgiving mindlessness.  Understanding insanity.

I am a starving malnourished need for appreciation.  My break lasts from my birth throughout  my decades. 



I was born a wound, open broken flesh never healed.  Born a knife wound to a half dead, beaten, broken, body.  Life is a burden.

Wounds constantly scraped, incapable of scabbing over.  Slits welt, tears become infected oozing with desperation to know healing.

Malnourished need for appreciation; I starve.  Broken since birth.  Where is value when abusers and oppressors are more important to your birther than you are?

I am a woman.  I am a little girl.  I am a child.

My soul sobs at night for a caretaker, who may see my mountains flowers and plant trees.

Recognize where weeds have become pulled and plant love... possibly removing Stone.  Creating live where hardness and cold, dead weight took over.

Breathing life into soul where mountain hardness and death have made home.

Hoping one day God will provide clarity of my fire and why my heart has to unravel.  My mind has to begin unpeeling itself for my life to be validated.

My soul howls through my days and night to know peace.

Is that why I strive to so hard to give it to others?

I am a welted scabbed, bruised, broken, beaten, mangled creature.  I can not call myself human because human's are beautiful. 

I am pain, anger, devastation, and abuse.  There is nothing beautiful about the walking dead but their death.

Until peace can rise, I cry.

Phire Free © 2011