Through The Heart Of Darkness (April 24, 2019)

Warning: The following poem contains mentioning of suicidal thoughts/attempt, depression and death. Please stop, if this triggers you.

There are times

I lay in bed

Staring at

My soul’s darkest places.

Pill bottles

All lined up

Ready to open

For that blackest moment.

As wave

After wave of despair

Pulls me

Ever deeper

Into the abyss

Of no return.

Like a forgotten lover

Asking for

One last dance

Rekindling a lost love

For the final time.

As I refuse

Your need/want.

Nine years

Since our last embrace

Around the yuletide log ablaze

Upon the computer screen.

Having since dealt

With 2 prolong bouts

Of agoraphobia.

Which held me

A virtual prisoner

Within my apartment walls

For several months

At a time.

Even

My most recent

Transphobic scare

Won’t deter me

From continuing

My healing journey.

Surrendering means

You win

With your brutist nature

And hate.

Like I did

Almost 42 years ago

In the rural village

Of Erin, Ontario.

Hiding away

Within myself

Until November 15, 2005.

When I emerged

As my true self

Standing over

My dad’s grave.

On the anniversary date

Of his physical release

From mortal pain and suffering

Seven years previously.

So Death

You’ve no hold

Over me.

Having watched

My Oma (cancer)

And dad (heart attack-brain dead)

Fight you

With dignity.

Rather

It is life

I struggle with.

Therisa © 2019

Author’s note: I started writing this poem, on Easter Sunday, the first dry day of the Easter long weekend, in Toronto. Needing a way, to vent the darkness that was building up, within me. Hopefully, my last suicide attempt, occurred during the holiday season of 2010-11, when I did have several containers filled with prescription drugs, to OD on. For some reason, I couldn’t do it.

Although, should the need arise, I would choose to end my life, with the dignity of assisted death.

The Call (July 11, 2016)

A soul drowning

In psychic tears

Threatening

To consume all

Body and soul.

Outside

Desperate wail

Of a fire engine's siren

Scream by.

Barely

Able to keep afloat

As "arms" grow weaker

By the second.

Rushing off

To an emergency call

That's life and death

For someone.

Thoughts 

Of surrendering

Grow stronger

To the tears.

Trucks weaves

In and out

Of the holiday traffic.

Gathering darkness

Closes in

One last time

Before

The final silence.

Practiced precision

They stormed up

The apartment stairs

In their mercy quest.

Distance voices

Are heard

Before

They fade away

Slowly.

Loud crash

Announces

The door's opening.

Greeting

The Angel of Death

As She claims

Her latest companion.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The wail of fire engine's siren, past the cyber-cafe, on July 1st, was the inspiration for this dark poem. By the time, I had walked home, the first two stanza were already written, in my head. The rest of the poem would take 10 days, to complete. 

It's true, I suffer from chronic depression that claims me, for several months, throughout the year, I'm not actively suicidal, in seeking my death. Although, i do entertain thoughts of not awaking up, from the previous night sleep. Each morning that I do wake up, a sense of sadness, fills me, in having survived another night, and to having to face another day, as a result.

Tears Of A Dreamer (July 9, 2016)

Is it possible

To pardon me

For my crime

Of hubris.

In believing

The United States had

Turned the corner

On its tortured history

Of race relations.

Between

The Afro-American

And "white" communities.

By electing 

Barrack Obama

As president

Twice.

The bitter wounds

From slavery 

And civil rights struggle

Would finally

Have a chance

To heal.

How could I

Be so 

Incredibly wrong?

As the past week

Bleeds out

On the Internet.

Covering me

In the warm blood

Of innocent victims.

Reviving

My own violent experiences

At the hands 

Of total strangers.

Knowing.

Nothing can.

Ever erase.

This shame.

Or guilt.

I live

With.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: As I am writing this, am forced, to take several breaks, as my eyes, are blinded, by the falling tears. May the families, of the innocent victims, be able to find closure, on their tragic lost, this past week.

The Day, The World Changed (May 25, 2016)

Every June

The family
Used to gathered

Into one spot.

A hundred or so

Of us.

Celebrating

The anniversary

Of our (1952) arrival

In Canada

From The Nederland.

Ranging

From toddlers
To senior citizens

And every age

Inbetween.

Never 

A shortage

Of eyes

To look after

The smaller children.

As various games

And activities

Were planned

For everyone.

Until

February 2, 1984.

Forever

Marking the day

The laughter died

With my opa's death.

Opa loved

To play jokes

On us

Grandchildren

And great grandchildren.

His face

Would light up

Like a Canada Day

Fireworks display

With his toothless smile.

Now

It's all faded away

Into memories.

Like the fall leaves

In a brisk October breeze

The family drifted

In its own way.

Lost

Within this grief

Was my birthday

I never had.

And

The unwanted present

Of a prolong depression

I struggle with

As a result.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: One of the biggest lessons, I learnt, as a child growing up, surrounded around the family, and how it came first. Sadly, with opa's death (1984 )and oma's death (1996), the extended family broke down and drifted apart. Only gathering together, for deaths and weddings.

Truthfully, I never really felt comfortable, during these annual gathering, and never knew why, until now. They triggered, within me, a mild anxiety attack, with so many people, in a small space.

Until Next Time, We Meet (May 24, 2016)

'Tis

The night before

We chatted

Over the phone

You and I

Dad.

Never realizing

On the morn

We'd be rushing

Helter shelter

To your bedside.

Through

A mid-November

Ontario snowstorm

On unplowed

Rural gravel roads.

Your voice

Filled with joy

As your beloved Leafs

Were victorious

Over the Chicago Blackhawks.

By your bedside

I grasp

Your cold clammy hand

In mine.

Inane things

We did chatter

Finding comfort

In the sound

Of your voice.

As the hour

Approach 1 am

And bed

For me.

The doctor said

You had irreversible

Brain damage

At the Saturday morning

Meeting.

All

I could think

Were the final words

That I said

Before hanging up.

Giving us

The medical options

To furthering

Dad's care.

"Good-bye Dad

I love you."

To which

We responded:

"Remove the machines

It's his wish

For this."

As I gave him

One final kiss

Of good-bye

Upon the cheek.

Never seeing

His live body

Again.

Until

The family viewing

At the funeral home

Before the funeral.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: I was returning a phone call that my mom had made earlier, in the evening, while I was still, working my afternoon shift, for an electronic firm's distribution centre, in Mississauga, Ontario. The sound of my dad's voice surprised me, as he was suppose to be, still hospitalized, before his long trip, to London, Ontario, to see the heart specialist, at University of Western Ontario.

A day doesn't go by, which I wish, I had said more, to him, over the phone. Despite the fact, I was the last person, for whom, he talked to, before his fatal heart attack, the next morning, on November 13th (a Friday). Only, to be revived, by local paramedic, but the damage was, already done. At 21:50, on Sunday, November 15, 1998, my dad was declared dead.

A Day To Mark Ignorance, Of Others (May 17, 2016)

Know

I am

A Technicolour dreamer

For believing.

One day

Homophobia transphobia

And biphobia

Will end.

Having

On more than

One occasion

Been on

The receiving end

Of ignorance filled hate.

But

I have to.

Otherwise

My bitter tears

Of sorrow

Will never end.

As I reflect

Upon my memories

Of brutality

That I've survived.

Unlike those

Who's names

Are called out

On Day of Trans-Remembrance.

Hoping

They have found

What was denied

To them

In their lifetime.

Rest

My brothers

And sisters.

For your suffering

Will never be

Forgotten.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written for International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia. In hoping, each year, is the last year, we have to mark this,

The Good-bye (March 1, 2016)

www.brands-list.com

A flower was
Offered to me
With a "Dear Joan" letter.

The flower
A single white rose.

Laying

Beside it

On the kitchen table.

You may think

I'm being selfish

For writing these words

To you.

But

I don't care

Anymore.

For I have

Given you

My best years.

Without

A second thought.

Only

To have you

Repay me

In this way.

Why

Didn't you tell me

About your struggles?

Did you think

I couldn't handle this?

Given

The Hell

We have walked

Through

Together.

Oh

My love.

You know

I would never

Shower you

In pity.

But

Offer you

A shoulder or two

To cry upon

When needed.

Now

Only memories

Are left.

As I see

Your solution

To your problem

Before me.

Needing

To call

911.

Good bye

My love.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Yeah, I know, this poem is a downer, but right now, am feeling very depressed. And is, reflective of my mood.


Am sorry, if I have caused any concerns about me, in regards, to this fictional poem. I have never found myself, in such, a situation.

When Cassandra Spoke (February 24, 2016)

www.walking-on-eggshellz.blogspot.com

Outside

A hospital parking lot

She spoke

Those fateful words

About her grandma's health.

In pronouncing

Her doom

No one wanted to say

Or talk about.

Family

Or medical staff.

"Grandma has cancer."

Never expecting

The sudden swing

To the head

By her dad

That missed.

A man

Who rarely shared

His strongest emotions

Publicly

With others.

As he fled

Crying

To the car

His world

Rocked.

A month

Or so

Later.

They buried

Her grandma.

Unable

To hide

The tumours

Upon her body.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: In June 1996, my oma breathed her last breathe, as cancer claimed her body. I was, one of three sets of sibling grandchildren, who acted, as her pallbearers. I so dearly miss her, and the way, she greet all grandchildren and great grandchildren, by calling us, little ones, in broken English and Dutch. No matter, how tall, we have gave grown, over the years.


The above poem, is my recount of that fateful day, in May 1996. Dad, if you can hear me, I didn't mean to hurt you, by speaking the truth, like I did. I forgive you, for your actions.