The Ease

I have nothing left but you still want more,

Those threats are as void as a black hole,

Rolling around, destroying with ease,

The place you find yourself in is one of misdeed,

You won’t find me there or anything of light,

The greed seeping with ease,

How easily you part waters, while others bleed,

No need to apologize your apology is coated in hate,

Growing up in a house built of fear & jealousy,

A tendency to bar out love,emotional-abuse.jpg

A cage, a cave, a windowless room,

It was so easy to raise us this way,

Don’t you see? I’m not a little girl anymore, I understand my pain,

Instead of blocking it out in the pouring rain,

I say let the rain pour, let the pouring rain in,

Please, little girl, I want to feel the world.

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Nostalgia

Soaking in the warm tub of memories,

Bubbles, and
the movie clips.

The ones that impress true emotion:

Valleys of lush wisdom,

Mountains of hazed cartoons,

Not the TV, there was no TV.

Us, me, we were exploring the tall grass,

Meandering streambeautiful-deviantart-music-photography-sunshine-technology-Favim.com-41861s, inspecting bright stones and lingering bugs.

Air warmed by the sun filling lungs bringing fresh outlooks,

Hooked on outbursts of surrounding beings,

Freeing, inwardly receiving my life unit.

Output depending on my clockwork,

Do I know what time it is?

I think I do, but I don’t want to worry about that anymore.

The Panic Attack of A Poet: What It’s Like & How I Get To The Other Side

It rises up through vulnerable temples,

Fizzing like a poured soda,

Taking a tour of an endless drop,

An ever darkening ride to a past time.

Shit, I think,

My fingers seething with adrenaline,

A never-ending heart race,

Palpable like heartache.

I know what is to come,

And I am certain this is the uninvited guest.

Nevertheless, a trying defense, my mind mending fences:

If an open sea can carry its waves,

So can I and sleep soundly in graves.

I turn around to meet the fear,

One so dark depth disappears.

I am hurled through this vacuum,

Will it ever end? Desperation then thickly spreads,

Trapped in the pores of uneasing breads.

Just when my thoughts try to transcend,

A river of pain seeps out of my lens.

 

Don’t worry, it will be over soon, a faraway thought suddenly reminds.

 

The words mix like water and oil,

Hopelessly stirring forever and ever.

 

The words mix like water and sugar,

Hopefully stirring for better and better.

 

The words mix like water and syrup,

A seamless stirring of thought and spirit.

 

This is a homecoming. You are here, and you are home.

There isn’t anywhere you need to be, and there isn’t anyone you need to see.

Your source of comfort is simply there, in you, for you, all the time.

It is unlimited, and it is specifically yours.

In no way does it impose on or interfere with your free will.

It is unconditional. It is you. It is love.

 

The Looking Glass

Looking inwards I see a bulb of liquid,

it moves and jiggles yet stands still.

It isn’t like a movie in how it plays, download

but it is a story nevertheless, a twisted one.

It is the perspective of my abusers,

those who took my canvas and painted it in a slant.

Everything in this glassy haze is twisted and deformed,

barely completing one another in form.

It is quite unusual to be on this side,

the outside.

It has been a journey,

one of conditioning and one of glory.

However,

the slanted glass is not my mirror,

I am my own soul reflection,

projecting pent up redemption.

I am my own soul redemption,

projecting pent up reflection.

 

The Expressive Subconscious Puzzle

I swear, half the reason I don’t write is because I reflect all day long. I think all day and I don’t stop. When it comes to expression, it almost seems exhausting. Although considering that statement, I actually think of myself as quite the expressive person. Frequently I interact with people and share myself openly, and in that way I feel as if I have expressed.

“Thank you! I’ve expressed quite enough for today,”

However I am aware of the magic and intimacy held in personal writings, this, an example of the very concept: I am currently tingling with a feeling of ease, the one with which I can type and feel encouraged by the satisfaction of tangibly placing my thoughts.  My brain and body fuzzes the edges of these tingles, blending a sensation of indescribable oneness. It is a phenomenon experienced often by writers and artists, but I shall not discriminate here because I truly feel as if everyone is capable of this feeling.

Now when I say oneness, I don’t mean it solely in a spiritual manner. Instead I would call it self-awareness. Not just self-awareness of our conscious tendencies, but the determination to seek awareness of our subconscious.

Why do you constantly wake up drowning in a pool of anxiety every morning? How come I am never good enough for myself? Where are all these conditioned pathways coming from?

It is endless and everyone’s experience is valid and individual.

I intentionally share my thoughts with you but please let me stress this: I am on my own journey apart from others and in no way should my reflections be taken as factual. I have an intense interest in psychological and anthropological realms, and so I hope to prompt some thought.

I do believe that a lot of our subconscious tension and trauma comes from childhood conditioning. We are not only conditioned in a societal sense, we are also naturally conditioned from our upbringing. Fortunately for some that environment is generally healthy with only the usual family dysfunctions. However for others it is a traumatic, unsettling introduction to the world; rather than an unfolding of beauty and synchronicity as it has the potential to be (in my opinion).

I don’t want to make this a long, drawn out rant about how you can heal your anxiety by attending to childhood trauma……………but wait. Holy crap, that sounds pretty damn good, right?! So if you feel inspired: connect with your inner child, acknowledge the trauma cards dealt, and watch that anxiety lift – at least for a minute or two.

Yours vigorously,

Music Ingrdts.