Wednesday, 16 August 2017

A Small Act Of Defiance (August 16, 2017)

I have travelled
The darkest path
Of one's soul.

Where hope is
A distance shore
Out of reach
To the outstretch hand.

Waking up
And getting dress
Are major achievements
On a daily basis.

Most people take
For granted.

Not for me.

As I sit
Before a library computer
Typing this out.

Struggling against
My fight/flight instinct
To runaway
From here.

To the safety
Of my apartment
With Venus Squeak
And Star.

By surrendering
To that act
Am giving
My anxiety and depression
Another victory
Over my soul.

Keeping me
A hostage
To the mental illnesses
I live with
On a daily basis.

So I ask you
Not to make this
A mountain
Out of a mole hole.

Sit by me
And say
"Good job Therisa".

Nothing more.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Since last November (2016), I have been struggling with my chronic depression, which has refused to leave me, in March. Turning my fall/winter bout of depression, into a 9 month ordeal for me. Over the past weekend, I have started another prose project, which for me, is a huge step forward. Not sure where it will take me, but anywhere is better that staring at a blank screen, like a zombie.

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Early morning Thoughts (August 24, 2012)

Am feeling
History's long fingers
Waking my tired soul.

Another night passes
In the wee hours
Of the coming morn.

Where normal people
Are deep
In their REM sleep.

Except me.

It's 3 am
Sitting on my bed
Pouring my soul
Across the digital divide.

Wanting to turn
The impossible
Into the possible.

Where everything isn't
An unstable liquid
To the touch.

Fueled by
An overactive
And creative mind.

In leaving
These dark memories
In the past.

Not surfacing
In panic attacks
Or prolonged bouts
Of depression.

Am so tired
Having to take
A regimen of pills
To be "normal".

Short term success.

At all.

Therisa © 2012

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue. I wrote this, during a time of severe side effects from one of my numerous anti-depressants that I have taken, over the years. 

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

Speaking An Unspoken Truth (December 20, 2011)

Oh Goddess
Please help me
To understand
Where this anger
Comes from.

This black rage
Fills me
With homicidal
And destructive

I struggle
With PTSD.

My last black rage
Happened two years ago
The threat remains
It will return.

Is not me
To want to
Hurt another person

But it is.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Why Can't I Be You? (August 16, 2012)

Do I have
This need to be

No one is.

It exists.

Echoes of my past
Keep resurfacing
In the present.

I do.

A simple task
Like accepting
Or giving a hug
Is a traumatic experience.

As waves of anxiety
Flood my body.

Forcing friends
Or love ones away
Hurting them
By doing so.

My face lights up
Like a deer caught
In the headlights.

As my frustration
And anger build up

Over my reaction
To their offer
Of support and love.

With each rejection
A part of my soul

Therisa © 2012

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

Friday, 21 July 2017

Letter To My Depression (December 6, 2011)

Old friend
Been awhile
Since our last meeting.

Not sure
Why I'm calling you
A friend.

Our very destructive
Over the years.

More often
Than not
Have seen me
Trying to end
My life.

You realize
I am so tired
Of your presence
In my life.

My life
Upside down.

May surprise you
And accept your offer.

To shut you

Your seductive voice
Inside my head
Once and for all.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

A Night Like This (October 11, 2011)

Hear your voice
Calling me
"Fucking useless
Piece of shit."

Your blows
Rain down
Upon my body.

Thirty-one years
Have past.

As similar dreams
Haunt my troubled soul
With their corrosive

The final remnants
Of my mental walls
In August 2007.

Plaguing my existence

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

PTSD (January 11, 2014)

The sound
One prays for
When the past is screaming
In an unrelenting blast.

Stirring up
Bitter old memories
Best left behind
But can't.
Of times
The body and brain 
Are subjected
To extreme trauma
They weren't designed for.
Memories hidden
And tuck away
Behind mental walls.
So very flimsy
And yet
Incredibly strong.
Until triggered
By something
So innocent
Like a song word
Or a smell.
Leaving you trapped
In that moment
Of time.
Unable to move
Your terror ridden body
Until the moment
Has expired.
And reality resumes
Minus the time
Which you have lost
In the past.
Leaving a hole
In your consciousness
Never to be

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem, from my poetic morgue.

Sunday, 9 July 2017

The Doll...Part 6 (January 22, 2011)

Stacey had decided
To dress up
For her 13th birthday
Wearing the new dress
Mom had given her
As a birthday present.

Running her hands
Down the side of
The pale blue dress
As they waited
For Jane to exit the car.

Yet excited
By being in public
For the first time
As a young girl.

Stacey's hands were sweating
From her nervousness
But it was too late
To back out now.

Linking her right arm
Around mom’s left arm
As the three of them
Entered the restaurant
Where they always
Went for birthday celebrations.

Dad was already there
And had been seated
By one of the serving staff.

At first
He didn’t recognize
His youngest child

As Jane had taken the time
To show her
How to properly apply make-up
Another gift from mom.

Before you get angry
And do something extremely stupid
You need to know
We have two daughters now.”

Mom laid the law
In an icy voice
Brooking no argument
From dad.

“Not in my home
Will I allow my son
To be turned into a sissy
By you and Jane!”

He bitterly retorted
Walking out of the restaurant.

“Am sorry
You had to experience this

Mom placed her arms
Around a sobbing Stacey
Trying to consolidate
Her youngest daughter.

Unknown to Stacey and mom
Jane had brought
A long box
In feminine birthday paper
Into the restaurant.

“Here you go

A huge smile
Was painted
On Jane’s face
Matching Stacey’s.

As she handed Stacey
Her birthday present
One of her porcelain dolls
From her collection.

Knowing full well
The impact her words
And gift
Would have Stacey
And the rest of the family.

But she did not care
As long as Stacey
Was happy.

Who she is:

A young woman
Into her own.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: The sixth part of six, from a poem taken from my poetic morgue.

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