Catch Some Wide Eye

I am sitting here and going crazy

I am sitting here and going crazy
because I can’t find any way to get to you,
I always have to be the good girl,
but being good don’t get things done,
is it obedience that moves the world on?
(Jesus was obedient, even to death)
yeah, but His father was God
and wouldn’t the maker of the universe
know slightly more than my own two guardians,
who are selfishly locking me into my own mind,
the crazed visions I see each night are my one sanctuary.
Why does being good mean going nowhere
why do I have to do right
why do I have to care
what they say,
they don’t care anyway
unless I die, of course,
or get seriously ill,
and then, they get mad at me
for leaving behind another bill
they have to pay
(I gave them thousands when they were in need,
thousands they won’t repay)
upset at me for wasting their time
their energy and precious gas money
for annoying them by breathing
and not doing explicitly
what they demand of me
down to the wire
I’m down to the wire,
but I’m a good girl,
always a good girl,
but never good enough
and never will grow up
as long as they can look down at me,
they’ll look down on me
behold the fruit of your loins!

But you have no idea
the deeply disturbed,
cantankerous nightmares
that visit me
in my despair-
the death, suicide,
carnage, cannibalism
evil grinning from all sides,
fear gripping all around.
Attack, attack, tear out my self worth
and let me destroy,
crave flesh to spoil
to eat away the pain
to kill it, to end it
to take it away,
lost in mazes of myself
without meaning,
horrid things
peeking out from my subconscious
things that were always there,
groaning, screaming,
wilting, foaming at the mouth,
all too real, but only slightly askew.
You have not known hate.
I say to you: you have not known hate.
But I have seen it.
I have seen it rip a body to shreds
I have seen it take my own hand
to skin my brother alive.
I have seen it shoot a room full of believers
I have sacrificed myself before it
I have spoken to the distraught memories
that never existed.
And they cling to me,
not like morning mist,
but like an ever growing part of me.
They are part of my existence,
they are memories to me,
places I’ve been,
disasters I’ve fled.
People I’ve killed
or seen cooked and eaten.
Flesh! For all the outrage
of rotting flesh!
The demons that scratch at me
in the night are no stranger…
How can I tell what is real?
I fight and flee,
I witness and can do nothing
but shut my eyes,
my only protection in blindness…
But still, to hear the screams!
Oh heavens to hear the screams
rends my heart just as forcefully.
This cannot be good…
My night self,
my day self,
are diametrically opposed.
How can we continue to dwell
in the same flesh
and not come to some argument
along the way!
Dear God, please prevent that day!
A house divided cannot stand,
a mind divided cannot live…

I should have sought help
many years ago,
I told them
there was something wrong,
wrong with me
but they do not believe.
The alpha male
fears psychology
while the matriarch
believes it is bad voodoo.
I am stuck in the spaces between them.
I will suffer much because of it.
I fear it too much, now.
I cannot trust the others,
the ones of knowledge out there-
I cannot trust them with my body,
let alone my mind.
They have the power to do so much harm.
All I long for is peaceful death
and a life full of work
so much work
to push out the darkness
and leave it little space
in my mind.
Very little space.

Tell me this:
can you love me?
What if I get lost
inside myself,
could you find me?
I do not know myself
I awaken to view a new stranger
each morning
in the mirror
my mirror
reflecting back
another “not-me”
but everyone sees it the same
day to day,
oh but night to night
is quite different.
Stark, bleak, hungry.
Dead, white,
death, bright,
first body I see tonight.
oh wish upon an ectoplasm
or some other neurotic delight.
Vibrate, clenching tight,
I feel you within me,
grasping, gasping for air…
It is not fair,
such foul, such taint,
such passionate touching.
Let it go, block it out,
but don’t pretend it isn’t there,
hiding, waiting
watching for the chance,
the chance to take me over, again.
Who will guard my door?
My mind, my logic, my reasoning?
All but vanish in the darkest hour,
my darkest hour,
oh, that death doesn’t catch me sleeping!
I fear what state of mind I’d be in,
what trembling, heavy, burning desire
would be sliding around
on my imaginary bed
of linens white
beside bodies sleek with sweat.
I reek of death already.
Oh, body and soul,
body and soul!
One pushing for truth,
one for desire.
Can a soul quench the fire?
Can the mind temper the flame?
I do fear myself above all things.
Lord, I cry out to you
and hear no one.
I know you are there
and feel nothing.
Do not stand idly by
while the flames lick up
my fragile frame.
Heat consumes me,
the waves will pass me by.
Do not let me be overcome.
Please, dear One, just smile
smile at me
to put out the hurt,
to stop the poison
in my veins
from gushing forth
to my hands.
My hands itch and quake
reaching for something
they must not touch.
Let it pass, O God,
let it pass me by!

but, Fingers…
For the love of tiny,
squirming ones,
clasping the world
in a timid grip
and stroking it
in clean, round lines,
life lines
tracing the embankments
of a clear-headed decision,
cutting out new paths
on a worn treasure map
counting every follicle
to make sure it’s still there.
Back and forth,
securing wishes
from its velvety texture.
Wet silk, wet silk,
red, wet and slippery smooth
pumping out dreams
from the matrix within
repeatedly, unceasingly,
without control.
pulsing, lightening quick,
waves of thrill,
make the mind grow still
open, awake.
Flinch, release
tense, and go
melt into the background
cool, calm and slow.
Longing, aching,
throbbing for the seam
to be rent apart
burst to bloom,
for the scalding to begin.

The nauseous liquid
seeps slowly forth,
putrid, vile, unkind.
For every scar there was a stain
a smell, a hardness, a misery.
Is this not a cancerous thing?
Is it unable to kill?
Perhaps it might be worth it, then.
But fade, disappear,
only to reappear
in the time I need it least
when the rest of me is weary,
sleep dashed, uncomfortable,
bloated, like the tiny lumps-
my penance for looking,
for thinking, for touching,
for being touched.
There. Just there.
Where you alone belong.


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2 thoughts on “I am sitting here and going crazy

  1. opoetoo on said:

    maybe sounds funny coming from me:

  2. dustus on said:

    Wow, that poem was intense. Thanks for sharing it.

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