Poem: The Waiting of My Life

Feeling trapped
time is just passing.
A room, routines,
pissing, pills,
and shopping for food.

A lover, so tough,
she can't even stand
on her own two feet.
Each time I love her
I lend her my shoulder,
dragging me further down
on my very slow climb out.
Up and out
of the dirty prison
The conditions of my Life.

My Health, my Poverty,
my Loneliness, my Pain.
The only answers come from me
She does not offer any.
Just time pleasantly spent
or time tortuously wasted.

She doesn't see
what I see.
Doesn't understand
what I understand.
For all the time I spend with her:
It takes twice as long to recover.

And for all the time
I try to help her,
she tries to help me none.
"So don't try to help me,"
she says in my head,
but that's not my definition
of Love.

For my Life to change
I'm the only one to do it;
No lottery, no family,
no helpers, no miracles.
Just the Power
of my Choices:
Do I work
or go to school?
Or keep sitting on my butt
doing fuck-all,
but get worse.

My life slows down spiraling.
The waiting of my Life.

Poem: Texts, Tears, Tales...

She texts me again.
To tell me she "misses me,"
too.
She has sen the Poem about her
on my Blog;
The one I called
"I Miss Her."

I've told her before
not to mistake my blog
for "Truth."
Explaining it's only "Poetry."
only "Art."
She's never listened.

The last time we communicated
I told her never to email,
write,
or text to me,
ever again.
But she could phone
or visit
if she felt she wanted to.
In fact, I've told her,
asked her,
and begged her
many times
not to text me at all.
She's never listened before.

Against my "instincts",
my "better judgment,"
the advice of others,
my pride and self-esteem.
Pulled by my Blind-Heart,
loneliness,
habit,
and sleeplessness...
I texted her back,
wanting to know
the Only 3 Things
which she could tell me
that would make me Happy:

(1)First, that she had found good Doctors
who were prescribing her good, working, medicines;
for her painful medical problems.

(2)Second,
that she was taking her Medications as prescribed,
that they were enough,
that she no longer needed to go "outside" the Medical System
for relief.

And (3)Third,
the most painful to me personally.
That she had realized how unhealthy
her chronic ex-lover Jason was.
The Jason who she once "Loved more than me."
The Jason she had lied to me for.
The Jason who had abused her
over and over and over:
That she had finally realized he was bad for her.
That she had finally found the power
and self-respect
to cut him out of
her life forever.

The only answer I got was number (3) Three,
ignoring my questions (2) and (1):
"Jason and she are still 'platonic' friends."

The kick to my stomach.

She texts again:
"Can we talk on the phone?"

.
.
.

"If you call, I will answer."
I replied
after praying
after meditating.
(Though I wanted
to hear her voice so badly,
to see her, so badly.
To be inside her,
smell her again!
All of it, so badly).

I prepared myself for her call, waiting for hours.
Finally she texted again:
"I've wanted to call you so badly for the last two months,
that I'm too choked up to call right now...
give me a little time to rest."

Me texting, "OK."

Hours more of painful waiting for her.
Proud that no tears had come.
Amazed, really,
that I wasn't falling apart,
like I used to...

Finally it was nighttine,
time for me to sleep.
She didn't call.
My wish for something New with her was falling apart.
Everything was Old, so Old all over again.
Debating myself to send another text,
realizing I never should have answered the first one.
I went on with our sick, old, game:
"I will be going to bed soon, FYI," I texted,
"After all we've been through,
I don't care if you are crying,
or out of it, just call me please...
if you want to."

Her text came fast back to me:
"I just woke up, I'm still a little tired,
I hope you have a wonderful sleep
and sweet, sweet, dreams.
I love you and miss you,
but you can call me whenever you want,
if you feel like it,
Goodnight."

.
.
.

Illusion shattered in me
like a rock through a stained-glass window.

It had been a trick,
the same old trick,
and I'd fallen for it again.
Just like I'd used to.
She never was going to call me,
just manipulation games
to see how I'd respond.

My Final Text:
"I am not ready to communicate with you again.
I am willing/wanting to talk to you if you call.
Besides that, nothing has changed between us.
Thank you for your texts. My best."

Sadness in the pit of my stomach,
but no tears, no blame, no self pity.
Slightly amazed at the
Serenity and Clarity
I feel toward the incident.
I thought (prayed) that I got away unscathed.

But lying in bed, sleep did not come.
Eventually getting back up, puttering around,
meditating and praying for hours,
doing rituals I hadn't done in years;
Anything to keep me from the old pain
she brings.

Finally collapsing, fully dressed, on my bed,
Around 5:AM; I wake up again at 9:AM,
surprised by my pleasant dreams.
I still hope she finds the Courage to call.
I still pray, if she does, that I have the Security,
to Forgive her for everything past,
That my words to her will be filled
only with Truth and Love,
not with Resentment.
Praying that she will hear me.

I cannot force her to understand.
I cannot make her to respect my wishes and boundaries.
I cannot, though I want to so badly,
make her choose her friends wisely.
Rather than just accepting, whoever sticks to her.

All I can do is to wait and to work.
Wait to see if she get's better,
work on making myself better
in the meantime.
The proof of these words
is the Love I still have for her,
manifesting not in Tears and Self-Pity,
but in Patience,
and Acceptance,
of Reality.

Poem: Our Stew

The Stew is Stirred;
it's not ready, yet.
The meat still pink and raw.
The chef refuses
to clean the shrimp,
throw away their shells,
clear their intestinal tracts
of Shit.
Though we are both hungry,
now,
some would say starving.
I know better than to eat
raw stew.
Having wretched it before,
broken-hearted and puking
for months.
Stirring the Stew;
Smelling what wafts to the surface.
Looking for an excuse to eat it,
to taste it even.
But no, I'm too Old for that.
Damn Old.
And this Old Body can't afford
any more sickness.
Starving or hungry,
it matters not.
Bitterly Old; I know too much.
Keep cooking,
young chef,
keep cooking.
Let me know
when you're done
with our Stew.

Poem: I Miss Her Still

I Miss Her Still;
Maybe I Always Will.
Out of Nowhere
I Burst
into Tears.

Though it's been Half a Year
It's my still deepest Fear
that we'll Never
be Together
again.

I Remember Eight Months,
with My Throat Full of Lumps;
When She Wouldn't
or Couldn't
See Me.
And Despite All the Others,
my numerous lovers,
it was Her
I Most Wanted
to See.

Then There was The Year
That I Ran From my Fear
And a Dollar Each Tear,
I'd Be Rich.

But the Truth Still Remains
That Together We're Pains;
While I act a Prick,
She's a Bitch.

So I'll Dream in My Soul,
That Before We Grow Old:
She'll Be Selfless,
I'll Be Healthy,
We'll Be Married,
We'll Be Wealthy.
And I Pray
My Tears Turn
Into Gold.

Poem: Lovers and Parents Gone

She's a soft and hollow memory,
Every breath further away.
My Missing unchanged,
but farther,
distant.
The Love hasn't changed,
but the Absence
makes it Bearable.
Somehow my heart's
Missing
of old Lovers
is intertwined with the pain
of my Parents;
Their past and present
Abuse
still Unforgiven.
This lack of Forgiveness
causes me Pain,
no matter how Justifiable
their Guilt.
Perhaps my Lovers need Forgiveness, too.
The Pain of their Absence,
The Pain of their...
Not Understanding Me Enough,
The Pain of their Not...
Loving
Me Enough.
In the end it seems
the Crime's the same;
Lover and Parent.
Not Enough Love.
The Answer?
The healing ointment balm,
Forgiveness.
Such an easy word to say,
Not always an easy thing to do.
Gods know I've been trying for years.
But blotting it out
only makes the Pain stronger,
while Facing It brings me to tears.
So tears it will be
and tears it will stay.
Until the rains of my salty waters
turn into healing.
And the Pain
recedes
into dust.

Poem: An Ending

A strange kind of Clarity descends;
a Peace, an Emptiness, Silence.
Passionate Love,
is far off in the distance.
Sex is so foreign,
It's unknown.
The Simple Ending.
No more puzzles,
now the movie is over.
It's all well to argue
about what happens after,
but the Author get's control
of His End.
Is this True Feeling
or yet another Illusory Mask,
passing Phantom of Allure,
Debonair.
Cruelty or Crassness,
Abasement or Freedom,
the Answer to a Question,
hereto never asked before.

And though I didn't want It,
now that I am Here,
I feel the urge to pursue
the Emptiness that I've found.
It speaks to me of
Peaceful Bliss,
though filled with many Bores.
She spoke to me of all my Faults,
as I lay there
on Her floor.

Poeem: Anatomy of a Relationship

What is a relationship,
if not the uniting of two people,
into one?
"Making the beast with two backs,"
it's called.
Unity.
And Love.

Once United thus:
To harm one,
is to harm both.
To steal from one,
is to steal from both.
To make love to one...
Well...
To make love to one,
is to destroy the Union,
which existed beforehand.
To add to the Union,
creating a Trinity.
Or to siphon from the Union,
secretly, poisonously.
Stealing from the Love,
the Union
created.

The spoiled children of today
know little
of Unity.
Selfish;
They care only for Self-Pleasure.
Two people, together, both
"getting their rocks off."
This, they call "love."
"Sick," is what I call it.
Diseased, immature.

True Union
is a blessed thing.
Where the sum
of it's parts
are far greater
than the whole.
A power,
created from the Love,
as if from Nowhere,
which blesses the two Lovers.
Protecting them,
making them to feel
the whole world
is at their command.
Simply there,
for their pleasure.
And it is.

For the Vampires,
there is never enough.
Their sex is not fulfilling.
What they do in private
"should not matter"
to their lover.
Always viewing themselves
as alone, apart.
They need more, more,
more.
More attention,
more people,
more friends,
more affection.
It will never be enough.

Goddess let me be
as a Lover in your Garden.
The snake is always reveled
in it's secretive, selfish, bite.

Poem: Self-Pity Opera

A Master of Heart-Ache;
It's me, that I dub so.
Sadness, depression,
the depths of despair.
These have I known
and invoked
in my years.
The opposite too,
the warmth of sweet Love...
But only too briefly,
compared to above.

The last love I had,
who I'm now in despair for.
Christian,
her name,
in this life.
I loved her so much,
that I offered her marriage.
Not joking,
I offered,
my life.
She thought I was kidding,
(or maybe she wished so)
for she loved her Ex
more than me.
And needing to leave her,
I just couldn't stand it,
her sleeping with him,
not with me.

My current depression,
the heart-ache, the lonely.
I know it
from feelings
before.
Before there was Christian,
was six years of Sadness.
From Ruby,
my lover,
before.

And during that Darkness
were many
fine people.
Who offered
their love
up to me.
But all I could see
was my own dark Depression,
it was,
the one way,
I could be.

Before there was Ruby,
was Natalie,
too,
and the Sadness,
which came,
with her flight.
Drinking
and crying
and writing her letters;
Night after night,
after night.

Yet still before that,
was the loss of my Mother,
my House, my Inheritance,
my All.
She gave up my Future,
to some new Abuser,
who cared about me,
not at all.

Even before that,
I cried from confusion,
from the pain,
that was crippling,
my spine.
Anger supreme
at my filthy rich Father,
who refused
to help
make it fine.

But before my back,
came a series
of Lovers:
Older, and sexy,
refined.
All of those beauties
with one thing
in common;
they used me,
but just,
for one time.

When too young to date,
I suffered in silence,
Abused by my father,
and Ma.
I always imagined,
the day I'd be grown up,
and not have to deal
with it all.

And now that I'm grown up,
those dreams are unrealized;
At thirty
I feel
like a child.
And all of those joys,
that I knew in my life;
Compared to the pain,
are quite mild.

Poem: The Ugly Butterfly

Please vent
somewhere else;
I am your
whipping boy,
no more.

You picked another,
slept in his bed.
Now pick on me,
no more.

You've lashed at me,
injected your poison.
As long
as I can take.

And now there's nothing
left of you;
Just pages
filled
with hate.

I send you love,
you send me shit.
You're just too blind
to see.

The person who has left
is you.
I've always
just been
me.

Poem: Mascha

My Russian Princess
who gave
without asking.
The Dream
in my time
of Darkness.

I see you again.

Last night I prayed
to be sent a Lover
like you.
The Angels outdid themselves,
and there you are:
Causing me to shake
and panic,
a flood of memories
washing over me
like the Ocean.

Repeating your name
out loud,
"Mascha."
I don't know why.
Reminded of
Frank Sinatra,
somehow;
Your memory
lovely
and loud.

I was in bad straights
when I last saw you,
though you never
judged me
for it.

In later years
I tried to find you.
Invisible,
it was not time.
"Mascha."
Repeating your name,
"Mascha."
Letting the tide of emotions
flow over me.
You are a powerful Drug,
to this Addict,
My Russian Princess.

I must take this slow...
like a Potter,
I would not like to break it
into shards.

Poem: The Things I've Loved

The first thing I ever loved was a pet;
It died before I ever realized.

The second thing I ever loved
was a man;
He left me for a woman,
before I knew
our time was up.

The third thing I ever loved
was a pain-killing drug;
It hurt me more,
than I'd ever
have guessed.
I left it before
it killed me.

The fourth thing I ever loved
was a young woman;
I hurt her more
than I'd ever
have guessed.
She left because
I told her to.

The fifth thing I ever loved
was Coffee;
It's hurting my stomach
so much
I'll have to quit.

The sixth thing I ever loved
was Tobacco;
It's hurting my lungs
so much
I'll have to quit.

The seventh thing I ever loved
was a woman;
She loved herself
more
than she loved me.

The things I love
haven't treated me well;

I guess I'll just stop

and rest

a spell.

Poem: Rhibald Othello

The Selfish Swine
I love all the time
cares not
for my sleep
or my food.

Her only concern
is her cigarettes burn
and the swell of her
all-changing mood.

My pain doesn't move her,
my words come out silent.
Continuing hubris
that strikes me
like violence.

While owning the World,
she spits on this bum.
Distorting my heart-ache
and sucking her thumb.

Poem: This Little Earing

I wear this earring
in remembrance
of a young woman
who claimed
she loved me.
And I her.

I always will love her
and this Golden Circle
is a fine symbol.

I was young,
but she was younger.
She was sick,
but I was sicker.
We were both addicts,
but I was legit.
We argued about it for years,
but she'd never get a Doctor.

And I...
I ran out of waiting.
Got raw from her whippings,
all of which came
from her lack of medicine,
which she refused to get.

She blamed me for our
"failure of a relationship."
I blamed her addiction.
We were both right.

I wear this earring in
remembrance
of a young woman
I loved.

May it never happen
again.

Poem: Depressive is Pain

I am a Depressive;
Most of my life is pain.
My physical health is pain.
My mental/emotional health is pain.
My dysfunctional family is pain.
My deeply troubled lover is pain.

Though I love her,
am often happy to see her,
get fleeting moments
of happiness and warmth,
sometimes,
when we are together.

It's not enough.
My life still hurts.

I don't cry, like she does.
I get real quiet instead.
Slowly losing the ability to speak,
until I'm an unmoving, silent, human,
in pain.
So much pain that any word
seems pointless.

So she leaves me to my silence.
When I need her most.
To hold me.
To talk to me.
She doesn't.

I'm alone in my pain,
like I guess we all are.
She is not good enough
to make my life good.
(Though when she tries
she makes it better).

But no matter what she does:
I'll still be a depressive.
For the pain in my body,
for the pain in my soul.
I wish she could accept that,
accept Me
the way that I am.

And still continue
to love me.

Poem: Why, why, why.

Why don't you love me,
like I think you should?
When you say that you love me,
but I can't feel it,
or see it.
And you wont hold me.

I'm always there for your tears,
but you're never there for mine.
You just make it worse.

My needs are so simple.
My wants are so pure:
Stay with me,
Look at me,
think about me.
hold me when I'm sad.
Listen to my words,
do not twist around my meanings.

If I can't even talk,
then it's really time to try.
Tell me that you love me.
Lie with me until I say
"stop."
Dedicate your time to me,
as I dedicate mine to yours.

When thinking about you only hurts.
And there is no medicine for me,
but to be alone...

After enough time alone,
anyone seems like an Angel.
I just want to be loved.
Something you are no good at.

Oh, you can talk.
But when it comes to shutting up
and just holding me,
well,
forget it.
Like it is not your job to support,
because you're a female.
All you can do is cry,
which makes me feel worse.

God, baby, I love you.
But when it comes to compassion
and just plain healing...

you suck.

Poem: Love Is...

Love is:
Letting someone go,
if it is best for them.

Forgiveness,
for any
and all
actions.

Love is not hate,
hateful,
jealous,
greedy,
needy,
angry,
or short.

Love is permanent;
Infinite,
It does not end.

There are no
conditions to be met,
no expectations to live up to,
no rules,
laws,
words,
clauses,
or traps.

Love exists,
It's around us all the time.

Feeling Love
can be a transitory
experience.
Felt for a moment
while eating,
fucking,
falling asleep,
smelling flowers,
giving birth,
and more.

When it passes,
there can be a terrible hole,
a racking,
a sucking,
a painful,
gap.

What will you fill it with?
But Love?

Poem: Balance

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder..."
Leaving her I feel a glowing joy;
a shine; a star; a Luck.

Seeing her seeing me leave,
I see a misery; damp-rot;
sadness; mourning.

"That the pain of division
is as nothing...
and the joy of dissolution
all."

The sorrow of leaving
should be overcome
by the joy of meeting again.

For me, this is true.
For her, it is not.

Is this balance?

Poem: Waiting for Her (#3?)

just waiting by the phone,
waiting for that special someone
to call
and say
they are on their way.

It doesn't happen.

Hours go by,
with nothing.

Still nothing.

I know this waiting.

I've been doing it
since I first
fell in Love.

It seems to get
more painful
every year,
though,
sometimes
they don't even show up.

Hours of…
Hope, I guess…
dreams of love.

I fly to her
at a moments notice,
fast as I can,
I love her.

For her I can wait.
Oh yes,
I can wait.

Poem: Another Sad Day

Another sad day.
There is no hope for her.
Anger and Pride
Burn in my heart
like lasers.
She should not have
such a powerful effect
on me.
She does.
Heart aching;
I never want to see her again.
Teach her a lesson about
hurt and loneliness.
It will probably pass,
it usually does.
For now a sad day
and nothing to say to her.
I came,
bringing her love
and chocolate ice cream.
I leave,
full of pain, tears,
sadness and ache.
Another poem to say
"I wont go back to her,
not _this_ time. She has finally
abused and disrespected me
for the last time.

*sigh*

Yet even as I write this,
I know it's probably false.
Like a million other Oaths,
this too, will vanish into the air.

Can I be happy without Her?
Goddess I wish it were so.
Tried recently an failed,
maybe the time just wasn't right,
maybe I'll get to try again soon…

But today is a sad day.

Poem: Nails of the Crucifix

She dangles my heart on a string,
plucks it,
plays with it.
Stretches the line taught,
then lets it slack again.
She is Secrecy like Nepthys,
The Egyptian Godess
of Night-Magick unashamed.
The darkest powers-female
were hers.
The ways to control a man.
For Her just a test, perhaps.
A dream, drawing,
or conscious sigil.

I bend to her time and again.
Sometimes out of Love,
sometimes out of loneliness,
sometimes, i wonder, as a puppet,
obeying it's Master.
By masochism,
through confusion,
repeated pains.
Together again.

My wits are not about me
with her.
Salome, and her seven veils.
Oh, yes.
She will have the head
of John the Baptist.
No matter what.

Though I Love her like Laudanum,
I know the Dark Secret;
She is just another person.
Like my last girlfriend.
Like my next girlfriend.
Like my Mother, like my Father,
like Me.
Like so many people I Love,
who don't get what they
want in Life.

Why grieve for her
more than the rest?
For the World is sadly
not all diamonds.
Do not blame me,
for the nails
of the Crucifix.