Urge Surfing

Urges are where I write my poems.
Once the Urge is conceived and birthed verbally,
The wave of Distress passes and I’m free again.
Poetry is my favorite form of Urge Surfing.
So I like to make my art at The Edge.

Then again, I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie!
Call me out of practice at having fun!

MAGNUM OPUS: The Last Five

Melting Shame

MAGNUM OPUS:
The Downward Spiral of The Last Five Ends in Joy


When I get out of balance (physical pain + emotional blows with no relief),
I start getting scared.
My perspective gets distorted by my own pain,
And I can’t tell my friends from my enemies.
The problem is, 99% of the time,
I am my Worst Enemy.
So in addition to being in “pain all over,”
My thoughts have no place to land.
This creates a toxic imbalance in my body, resulting in
Me in an Extended Version of the Emotional and Physical Fetal Position,
As if warding off cosmic blows.
It’s not the LEAST BIT comforting, though.

I don’t even know how long these periods last some times.
It finally erupts into a Dark Place,
Both emotionally and physically.
I’ve never written about this before, but I have been diagnosed with a Neurovascular Disorder called Erythromelalgia.
It’s sometimes called “Man on Fire Disease” or “The Suicide Disease.”
And it’s earned its Title!
Sadly, it’s so exceptionally rare, you can’t find a neurologist whose even heard of it,
So there’s very little information out there. Which compounds my anxiety.
That’s the sad case with rare diseases.
With no Big Pharma backing, research dollars can’t be found.
It’s a disorder of the autonomous nervous system.
I “lost” the ability to release heat from my system about 5 years ago.
So, if I combine ambient heat with exertion (it’s extremely hot where I live),
I get heat stroke without realizing it.
Until I’ve got heat stroke.
Which keeps me indoors,
Avoiding life because of my fear of getting violently ill
Should I carry in too-many too-heavy bags of groceries from my car to my apartment.
It’s cooler in there, but it can be dark in there, and alone and scary in there.
Alone to feel shame at not being live like a “normal person,”
And not being able to regulate heat, can’t vent the shame
Without the shame surfacing as blushing fire through the skin
On too many parts of my body.
It’s very humiliating for me to write about,
But since there’s no cure or, in my case, effective treatment for Erythromelalgia,
And because I got off all anti-depressants, and pain meds and anti-anxiety only in emergency
And not for emotional coping,
You can see how my Poems and this blog have been my constant companions over the last year.
This was my last secret to write about,
Because it’s One Thing which has bested me
And nearly ruined me.
What with the limitations it imposes, I felt it made me “unworthy as a companion.”
So that took away my hopes for the happiness I hoped to one day find in the company of a partner.
Which used the be the “safe place where my thoughts would land” as a coping mechanism.
They have no idea how or why I acquired it (again, no research),
So they default to the overdose of highly neurotoxic chemo I had when I was 39 years old,
Fighting breast cancer.
But since I was given no “Why,”
I first switched to “Why Not” in an effort to “embrace the pain.”
That might work for some of you Mental Athletes, but this girl already HAD a frail state to begin!
Like: I was mentally and emotionally fried and too-feeling at the same time to handle “thought mastery!”
So, I decided to “burn the shame out of me,”
So I could at least feel safe inside my head.
I had to find a harbor for my mind or I would give up.
The only way I’ve been able to do this is through writing,
So I mean it when I say this blog has saved me life.
And I have discovered my own voice in the process!
It has been a 3000% net joyful experience for me,
Even if a painful and tearful one.
I’m re-writing a story without a pre-determined ending (see my poem, A Foregone Conclusion – or something like that! It was birthed in MUCHAS LAGRIMAS! Many tears!).
I actually believe in Miracles again.
I had totally forgotten about Miracles, having no recent or long term memory of them.
So anyway, final shame vented,
But I don’t care how anybody prices me!
My price is DOWN TO ME, and I DECIDED I’m PRICELESS.
That’s good enough for me!
So thank you, dear friends, for helping me discover my voice, discover my worth, and to re-grow my jaded belief in Miracles❣️

SEEKING REFUGE


SAFE PLACE TO LAND?

You might not count the costs incurred,
But they won’t erase away.
They were much too great for me;
They show in line upon my face
And well within my eyes
When both are lost in pain.

I know that You can’t erase my costs,
But you COULD kiss my pain away.
At least for another day?
I’d be grateful either way.

The Bitterness of Burned

The bitterness of post-burnt
Feels a lot like toast spurned
After an eternity of tears spilled
Crying out in thirst,
Never being quenched
Parches until too pinched
Beyond all recognition,
Dried and too hurt.

PAINFULLY SO ACQUAINTED

PAINFULLY SO ACQUAINTED

I’m so well acquainted with pain,
It takes longer for an injury to tell my brain I’m in pain than it does tell my brain to tell my stomach to throw up due to the pain I’m currently IN.
I know it sounds like hyperbole, but it’s “just the facts, ma’am.”
Once I’m fully in the throes of pain,
I’m unable to do much of anything.
So if or should I EVER directly ask for help,
And I happen to mention I’m in pain,
I REALLY NEED IT.

Just a PSA.

SCARS IN THE SKY: Beauty Incarnate

Photo location: Home

For record-keeps, my scars
Were formed in response to
Surgical knives with scathing scalpels
Hiding under surgical sleeves
Rather than a purgical need to
Purge Contained Pain
In order to pain-relieve.
(I’m not blaming or shaming;
I’ve known Pain and understand
You simply want Pain to leave).

But Scars all look the same to me,
Therefore, their source isn’t
Significantly significant to me.
So I can be fully free
To neglectfully and insignificantly,
Ignore scar-sources and
Scarce resources because
The WHY of our afflictions
Though it Greatly costed me,
Now matters snot to me.

Clouded by the stars in my eyes,
I STILL consider Scars
Beauty’s heaviest of hitters,
And why I personally believe
Scars rock, roll and rule, too.
In fact and in fiction, I’m SO moved
Each and and every Time I Take
And use to contemplate the issue,
I have to break out a box of Scar Tissue.

TOO CHEAP TO WEEP

TOO CHEAP TO WEEP

You burned me with Hot.
I returned you with Soft;
Yet you torched me down
To ash the ground.
You crushed me there,
Scared me there, but
Never bothered to call me by name
Or stare into my eyes,
Which Cried and Died Me there.
Why? Because you accosted me there
And DEARLY costed me there.

Next, you buried me there,
Which was NO surprise
Since Stupid “I”
FINALLY clued to realize
That Stupid YOU never cared.
You Left me there, and
Forever Hid me there,
So if ANYONE ever loved me HERE,
They’d NEVER find me THERE.

You scooped me and consumed me,
Took my fumes but then refused
My Most-Inner Precious.
Damn! You were so reckless
With my very human’s heart.
It terrifies me to ponder
If you planned it All from the start.

You turned my insides out, and
Like a louse and a lout,
You debased me and
Tried to erase me.
You must have thought me
The most foolish of clowns
To take my full-to-busting
Unrequited-but-trusting self
And cooly shoot Me down
To live in Oblivion,
With all the Other Idiots.

I hope you’re Lost,
Thrown, Turned, Tossed,
Never Touched and Never Held.
It’s MY turn to spitely spurn,
So let ME be The First
To welcome YOU to the
Cold and Callous Illusional Palace
Known as Hell which YOU
So sacrificially and altruistically
Designed and condemned ME to!

It so much more than Disappoints;
It shreds my “Kind And Caring,”
And stamps me “Not Worth
Procuring, Insuring or Sparing.”

In short and with spite,
You diluted my price,
Neglecting and Rejecting
Me as common and cheap.
You confused me, used me,
And if that wasn’t enough,
You left me shattered,
Torn, shorn, and tattered
In an Indifferent and invisibly
Bloody, neglected heap.

So don’t YOU DARE find
YOU mind it’s finally MY time
To judge and send YOU
To your OWN hell;
I hope it whisks you down below
In a fancy stretch limo;
But if not, I wont sweat
Because at least I’M nice enough
To drive you there Myself!

How Much is Too Much?


What sucks about being empathetic is you get jerked in a million different directions, depending on who’s doing the Yanking at the time. This even includes Yankers and Toyers like movies and books. The effect is particularly pronounced when I’m in midst of or on the tail-end of one of my “Protracted Painic Attacks.”

A PPA Cycle requires a Massive Confluence of Multiple Maddening Encounters With People whose opinions aren’t worth caring about, Pain, and a Profound Awareness that nobody hears me or gives half a shit: basically a Cluster of Fuckups and Fuckovers in a relatively short time.

This is a Disastrous Combination for me in the absence of a support system, except for my Mom, but she only visits to bring me junk mail, empty my trash (full of the junk mail she just brought me) and tell me which of her Church Ladies are praying for me. Please forgive me that The Only Person Who Still Loves Me’s most well-intended comfort doesn’t clot when I’m exsanguinating.

To Survive, I’ve evolved into a paranoid and overly-defensive person (at least during these times). If I didn’t, people would, have, and constantly attempt to take advantage of my Easily-Approachable, Easily-Appealable, Easily-Appeasable, Usually-Unsqueaky Nature.

So while I feel like my body is literally wasting from lack of External Comfort, I can’t find anyone I trust with the Job. When that happens, my next course of action is Isolation, which only serves to waste and starve me more.

I think certain parts of me never learned to fish. Maybe THAT’S why I have No Appetite? Maybe a psychologist would know? My Psychiatrist doesn’t know my name, and he doesn’t like it when I ask annoying, superfluous questions.

What does a hungry, bleeding, cyclically-self-agoraphobic do to keep safe in Cyclonic, Typhonic, Emotionally Cataclysmic Clusters of Ominous Weather and Even More Ominous People, waiting to feast on what’s left of her leathery, petrified sinew?

Honestly, I think 3 Chicago-style hotdogs and a giant milkshake, literally and literally, would do the trick. Too bad I’m begging for fuel but can’t stomach the liverworst vending machine sandwiches from the neighborhood gas station.

The Salt From Tears

THE SALT IN TEARS

Tears are important, too.

When I travel down a deep dark tunnel into a fathomless black hole of despair, I rely on my tears to remind me
I’m still a soul,
sitting in a body,
feeling sad right now.

Tears anchor and tether me; both are equally salvationary.

POETRY BY AGE ISN’T POETRY BY NUMBERS


POETRY BY AGE ISN’T POETRY BY NUMBERS

I decided what separates
The poems of the Young
From the poems of the Old
Isn’t the song sung nor story told;
Rather it’s down to The Style
Which captures a Frown or a Smile.

Do You prefer to mentally copulate
With the first prick of fresh heartache,
Or do you prefer the dejection,
Pain and unspared despair
Of often brutally-inflicted
Repeat Rejection?

It’s simply a matter of taste.
A Choice doesn’t have to be made.
We can Break your heart Either Way.

BATTLE SCARS: GBD, Cold Entree

No dessert today; too much time sweating in a hot kitchen.

BATTLE SCARS

I’ve fought in many wars
And I’m deeply scarred;
I’m always decked and hurt
And don’t possess Night Vision
Sharp enough to see nighttime stars.

Yet I Won’t Go Down
Without a Fght;
I’ll be carted off dead
Or walk away with my life.

But should I die and You decide
To take MY Life into YOUR Hands,
Just to later hand It back to Me
(Generous YOU, but Ownership ME),

Should I be Grateful?
Or should I be Hateful?
YOU tell ME what I should be.

I am Both,
Wholly and Equally.
My battle’s were hard,
And so are my scars,
But it’s Magic versus Tragic
When Scars turn to Stars.

“FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF”

“FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF”

Chances are, Most People who feel sorry for Themselves aren’t doing so out of pathological Self-absorption.

Rather, most are probably doing it because Nobody felt sorry for Them when They needed Someone to.

And/Or They didn’t extend the appropriate sorrow to Themselves when They needed Someone to.

HAVE A GIANT PITY PARTY if that’s what you Need to do.

Somebody probably needs to cry for a very reasonable, Age-Appropriate Reason.

CRY, BABY

CRY, BABY

Anyone who says
“You shouldn’t Cry for Yourself”
Is a big fat liar.

You should cry for all ages of Yourself if you need to.
I know it sounds hokey, but it’s actually very freeing once you get past the embarrassment of it.

The thing is: there’s nothing to be embarrassed about!

Welled-but-unshed tears are painful energy with no place to go.

If you don’t allow your body it’s natural response,

Your Body will cry for YOU!
Your soul will weep for you,
People will gnash their teeth at you,
And ultimately,
Your heart won’t beat for you.

I should know;
First-hand experience,
Multiple times,
All counts.

Not Much In Common: Am I Dead inside?

NOT MUCH IN COMMON

The people I have the least in common with are the ones who have no sense of their own mortality.

They always think there’s a better time and place for everything, never realizing they could be dead in an hour.

This realization, once realized, can’t NOT alter one’s entire perspective on life – as well as death.

Sometimes I over-correct with Karaoke, but that’s all it is: Overcorrecting.

Like buying a cheap goldfish
to repopulate the waters of Nagasaki.

Does that mean I’m a zombie?
If so, watch out… because I’ll eat you!
I’m highly opportunistic; as hardy and resourceful as a cockroach!

How do you think I’ve Survived this entire time?