Joy Of Being Examined (March 11, 2017)

Oh boy

What joy

Not!

In a few years

I get to be prodded

And poked

In the most clinical

Of way.

In the search

For possible cancers.

Uniquely

That only trans-women

Get both.

As my breasts

Are mashed 

And filmed

Like movie stars

They are.

Only thing missing

Frantic fans screaming

For autographs

And selfies.

Hoping

No phone call/letter

Is needed

For more tests.

Never mind

As my doctor's office

Becomes

A one stop

Jiffy Lube location

(I hope).

A latex-free gloved hand

Enters my lubed anus

Like an oil dipstick

Feeling the prostate gland

For any irregularity.

An examination

I so detest

Feeling violated

By it.

Am

So not looking forward 

To my fiftieth birthday

As these presents

Await me. 

Sigh.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: In Ontario, women (breast) and men (prostate gland) are screened, at regular intervals, for signs of possible cancerous growth. Or sooner, if there's a family history of these cancers.

As a teenager, I had several prostate examinations, as it was feared, I might have testicular cancer, on my right teste. During the biopsy, the lump was discovered, as a hydrocele, which the surgeon drain. Had it been a cancerous growth, the first line of treatment would've been, to surgically remove my teste, replacing it, with a plastic prosthetic. 

Ironically, this is covered, by Ontario's taxpayers, while an orchiectomy, is deemed cosmetic surgery, and I must pay for it, myself. For many poor trans-women, we can't afford to fully become ourselves, due to the high cost of the various surgeries, without taking out outrageous bank loans, that will cripple us, financially, for the rest of our lives. 

Those Awkward Moments (April 28, 2016)

Like a child

She ask questions

Of those

Around her.

Which

Leaves them

Feeling uncomfortable

And totally confused

In the manner

How to respond.

A few simple words

That challenges

Their world view

To the core.

As they wait

For her

To leave.

Before

Feeling safe

To release

Their held breath.

Falling back

Into their comfortable

Daily rut.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Not sure, where this poem originated, but we all know someone, who fits this description of them.

November 13-15, 1998 (March 30, 2016)

Never

Shall I forget

That last weekend

Of your life

With me.

Of holding

Your clammy hand

Within mine

That one last time.

Gone is

The rock

That anchored

Throughout

Those depressive storms.

Never more

Shall your voice

Reach me

Over the telephone

In my time

Of need.

As darkness

Surrounds me

In its strangling web

Over my soul.

Gone is

The rock

That anchored

Throughout

Those depressive storms.

Knowing

Never was

Your favourite child.

Whom

You cried yourself

To sleep over

Dad.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Over the Labour Day weekend of 1998, I helped my parents, to clean up, the inhuman mess that my younger brother had created, in his basement apartment unit. For everything reeked of human waste, as we piled up, the garbage bags, several high. As my dad cried, at the destroyed antique red maple bed set, he had restored, for him. My parents left, with heavy hearts and piles of soiled clothing, which took multiple washings, to get rid of the smell.

For every night, until November 13th, my dad cried himself, to sleep, repeating my brother's name. On that fateful Friday morning, my dad had his last heart attack, as he prepared, to get dressed, for the long car ride, to University Hospital, in London, Ontario, for an appointment, with a heart specialist. One, he never made.

Paramedics tried, in vain, to revive my unconscious dad, but their efforts, were too late. For too long, his brain had been without oxygen, and only machines kept him, alive, which we removed, as per his wishes.  And yet, his body survived, almost 36 hours later, before the last breathe, at  9:50 pm, on Sunday, November 15, 1998.

Thus, marking my seven years of my mom's attempting to make me, into a clone, of my dad. As I had to submerge my own grieving process, to become, the "man" around the house. Even though, I lived a 3 hour drive away, from her, and had my own life, to live. As I sunk even deeper, into depression and resentment, towards her. As I worked long hours, so I didn't have to face her, every weekend.

I ask, anyone who reads this, doesn't leave any comments, as I won't be approving them, rather, be deleting them. This is, as far as, I feel comfortable, in sharing, this private moment, in my personal life.

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.

Just Another Brick, In The Wall (February 27, 2016)

www.123rf.com

Before me

One of my writing books

Lays open

With three stanzas

Written out.

As I struggle

With a learning disability

That locks away

My thoughts

Behind

A mental wall.

(One of several

I have been diagnosed

So long ago

In grade seven.)

Which makes

The Great Wall of China

Appear like

A backyard fence

Between neighbours.

My pen lays

Beside the book

As one of the cats

Gives friendly swats

At it.

Driving me

Nuts

As I know

What I want to write.

For I can

Describe it

To you

In full detail

But

Can't transcribe it

Onto the written page

Or computer screen.

Is it

Any wonder

My exam times.

Whether

At high school

Or university

Were very anxious periods

For me.

Never mind

My small cramp writing

That I had

A high school teacher

Tell me:

"Type it

Or else."

Implying

It wouldn't be

Looked at

By him.

Thus

A failing mark

For me.

Know

I should place this

Aside

For now.

But

Can feel it.

So close

To be

Bursting out

From this mental prison

Of mine.

As it

Slips away

From me.

With

A frustrated sigh

I walk away.

Hoping

Next time

The wall been removed.

Allowing me

To finish

This poem.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Since, I started kindergarten (1975), until I got my B.A.(1994), I have been, in and out, of special education classes, for various reasons, but only, got tested for learning disabilities, during the school year of 1983-84. The results showed, I was an above average student, at the second deviation for I.Q, reading level of first year university, with a reading comprehension, at grade 11, and spelling level, at the 25th percentile (which means, 75 % of my age cohort is ahead of me.).


Never mind, my grades were C's and D's, on the report card. Or that my grade one teacher failed me, for being "lazy", on my final report card. Ironically, they told my parents, not to show me, this learning assessment, as if, I would develop a huge ego, from reading this. When, the opposite is true, as I have low self-esteem and self-confidence.  Something, the report failed to discover.

Throwing Away The Key (February 20, 2016)

www.express.co.uk

Been told

I have travelled far

In this healing journey

Of mine.

And yet

Find myself

Clawing

At the walls

Trying to maintain

My equilibrium.

In being triggered

By the slightest thing

These past few weeks.

Questioning

My grasp

Upon sanity.

In my struggle

With PTSD

And chronic depression.

As if

They're imaginary friends

I have invented

As hold overs

From my childhood.

Wondering.

Is this

The new me

That I have

The pleasure of

Looking forward

To?

Of being

A virtual prisoner

Within my mind.

Never

To experience

What parole means.

Or

Able to remove

These burdensome shackles

Of my hyper-vigilant senses

That bind me

To this plane of existence.

Isn't

A lifetime

Long enough

To punished?

Even

The most dangerous

Of prisoners 

Who are serving

Life sentences

Have a faint hope

Of parole.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: My first exposure to PTSD, occurred, after my electrical burn, to my mouth, in November 1974. Have been told, I was lucky, to have survived, with my mouth being blown out, and not being buried, as a result of this event. Even now, over four decades later, I still experience sensory flashbacks, to that November night. Never had any formal therapy, for this traumatic injury, over the years. Unlike, the visual and auditory flashbacks, I have experienced, from my abusive past, as a child and an adult.

Over the past 9 years, I have had some counselling, but it has been focused, primarily, upon my chronic depression and various anxiety problems. And pharmacological therapy is, a "no go", for me, given my chemical sensitivity, and the side-effects that it generates, in my body.

A Friday Afternoon (February 19, 2016)

www.braincoretherapy.com

Around me

The chaos of life

Bubbles forth

Like a babbling brook.

As I struggle

To stay connected

With myself.

Despite

My rising levels

Of anxiety

Reaching towards

A panic attack.

Leaving me

Feeling

Extremely vulnerable.

As people walk by

In the library.

In knowing

It's just my body

Extending

Its hyper-vigilance.

A by-product

Of an abuse past

I'm trying to

Overcome.

Fighting

This growing urge

To runaway

And hide

Inside my apartment.

To do so

Would be admitting

Once again

I have failed.

Refusing

To allow

Any tears of frustration

To grace my face.

As I beat back

The growing sense

Of being

A worthless failure.

Trying to control

My trembling hands

While

Typing this

Out.

In claiming

One small victory

At a steep price.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Have been diagnosed, as having living, with chronic depression, various anxiety disorders and PTSD, (I refuse to say, suffering, as I know, these conditions, will be, with me, for the rest of my life) as the result of a very abusive past, growing up, as a child, and later on, as an adult. As part of my healing process, I have taken Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT), at a local hospital, near my apartment. Never realizing, until afterwards, a lot of the stuff, I having doing, on my own, has been CBT techniques, to distract myself, in triggering situations, like the above poem. To analyze, what is causing this reaction, while, in the library.

The Dream Has Grown (February 11, 2016)

"A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members." ~ Mahatma Ghandi


Have you

Ever have a dream

That you're willing

To pay the ultimate price

Like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr?

Knowing

Your dream is

Bigger than

Any one person

Or organization.

Radically challenging

Society's paradigm

With its simple message

Of love and equality.

For many transpeople

Our very existence

Is a testament

To our community's dream

Of acceptance and equality.

Just stepping

Into a public space

Is truly

An act of courage.

Aware

In doing this

May mean

A death sentence.

As Canada

And the United States

Celebrate Black History Month

Throughout February.

The struggle

For human rights

Isn't just limited

To ones:

Skin colour

Religious observation

Gender

Or sexual orientation.

Rather

Involves everyone

For no one

Is truly free.

If one person

Remains repressed

In any manner.

And you

Dr. King

Your dreams

Still

Lives on.

Only

It's shared

By a wider community.

Who's hearts

Are filled

With its vision.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Although, I was born, into a white, middle class Canadian family, I have known, what it means, to live your life, in abject poverty. Having spent time, in the Toronto women homeless shelter system. Not a place, I want to go back to, again.


Like the Afro communities, of Canada and the United States, the Trans community knows, all too well, what the phrase, "strange fruit", which Billie Holiday sang about. Having your application rejected for housing, because, the landlord wasn't comfortable, with having "one of those tenants". As if, all trans-people work the street or use drugs. Never mind, the hidden crisis of mental heath problems that remain largely unaddressed, by society, at large. One need to hold onto a dream of hope, if they want to grow and heal, as a community, as a whole.

The Doll And The Beast (February 8, 2016)

www.talexior.deviantart.com

Can feel

The Beast howling

At the soul's gate

Demanding entrance

Right away.

Hastily

It tossed aside

My mental defences.

As if

Cotton candy.

It's razor-sharp talons

Tearing away

My mental walls.

Constructed

Over the years

Hiding away

My dark memories

Of abuse.

Leaving me

To feel like

A rag doll

Being tossed aside

In whatever direction

It wants.

Covered

In various rent

And tears

Across my cloth body.

My stuffing

Leaking out

Like dark blood

Upon the tile floor.

Various shades

Of stitching

Enveloping

My doll's body

Like scar tissue.

Highlighting

The previous attacks

Over the years

By this furious Beast.

Although

Not all stitching

Is visible

To the naked eye.

As invisible thread

Marks

The harsh damage done

To my doll's heart

Over the years.

In wishing

This living nightmare

A bad dream

That would disappear

Upon awaking.

And

The Beast

My loving brother

I never knew.

Alas

Faerie tales like this

Is the stuff

That fantasies

Are made of.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Used to think, I was responsible for my younger brother's action, toward me and my mom. Especially, during the Summer of 1985, when my dad had his first serious heart attack, at the age of 49. Being the oldest, almost of the responsibility of the yard duties, where transferred to my teenage shoulders. While, my younger brother got to live his life, as before, being 12 years old, at the time. As if, I was doing something wrong, to attract his anger, given his past and future history, of unprovoked attacks, upon me.


Ironically, I was told, by my parents, to grow up and not let his antics, trigger me, into a violent reaction, on my part, against him. As my complaints fell upon, the deaf ears of my parents. Thus, he escaped, from any responsibility for his actions against my mom and I, for the Summer of '85. As I relive these days, in my dreams and flashbacks


This August will mark the 9th anniversary, since I told him, to his face that he's dead to me, and the next time, I'll see him, will be, when he's buried 6 feet under. Until then, I won't have anything to do, with him. Having told my mom, this, six years ago, when I reminded her, of the violence that he committed against both of us.

That Unattainable Itch (February 3, 2014)

www.lifetasteswell.com

Within my soul

I feel

A stirring.

Or

An itch

If you prefer.

Calling out

In a language

I don't fully understand.

But

It feels

So familiar.

As If

I have heard it

Being spoken

Before.

In a distant dream

Or long forgotten memory

From my childhood.

Teasing me

With its familiarity.

As it rolls

Around my head

Driving me

Insane.

Leading me

In an unknown direction

That only

It knows.

Don't feel

Any sense of malice

Or darkness

From it.

Beyond

My frustration

Of being led

Blindly.

Wondering

If I shall ever learn

What this message

Is being offered

To me.

As I have

Little to no patience

For jigsaw puzzles

Like this.

As this thought

Floats

Through my mind:

"Patience

Grasshopper

Patience."

Making me

Want to clench

My teeth

In frustration.

Knowing

Full well

Only time

Can provide

Those answers

I seek.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Am just old enough, to remember watch Kung Fu, in reruns, as a child, which the quote: "Patience, Grasshopper, Patience", is taken from.

A Soul's Wish (February 4, 2016)

www.yogawithtali.wordpress.com

Silence.

Only

A soul can hear

And understand.

Is what

I seek.

In muzzling

My inner critic

Permanently.

Reclaiming

What's every child's

Birthright:

Self-confidence

And self-esteem.

By undoing

A lifetime

Of destructive comments

And brutal body blows

To the soul.

At times

My psychic pain

Is too much.

As I shrink

Ever smaller

Into a space

Of lost hope.

As the words

Logic and sanity

Are only found

In a dictionary.

Depression

And extreme anxiety

Sink their talons 

Deep

Into my soul.

Simple act

Of opening and exiting

My apartment door

Takes on

Heroic measures.

As I cower

In my bedroom.

Shedding tears

Of frustration

And shame.

Knowing

Only last week

I could do so

With the greatest

Of ease.

Wondering

How long

My jail sentence

Will be

This time.

Before

The cycle changes

In granting me

Parole.

Until

The next time

I'm held hostage

Within my apartment.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: My last bout of agoraphobia, occurred, during the summer of 2014, lasting 3 months, before I was able to leave my apartment, without any assistance. Marking my second cycle of agoraphobia, within the past 6 years.

Caught Between Two Worlds (February 3, 2016)

www.forward.com

Can feel

My emotions

Pushing forth

Beyond the barriers

I have built.

Wondering

As I question myself

For thinking

This way.

Am I

Delusional?

In my challenging

The status quo

That society has

So rigidly imposed

On those

Who are different.

In my wanting

And needing

To fully embrace

This change.

On the physical

And spiritual level.

Knowing

By doing so

I have become

A leper.

For those people

Who fear

And avoid me.

To do otherwise

Would mean

Continuing living

My life

As a ghost.

Moving through life

Unable to connect

With people

On a meaningful level.

Beyond

Being seen

As a pale shade

Of myself.

Neither

Fully alive

Nor

Truly dead.

Sadly

My own answer

To this question.

Is a shrug

Of my shoulders

And a frustrated sigh

As I move on.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Not exactly sure, why I wrote this, beyond this driving need, to do so. In having done so, I do feel, a tad lighter physically and spiritually. Either way, this probably, my most spiritual poem, in a long time.

The Waiting Game (February 2, 2016)

www.healthdefine.com

An anxious sigh

Escapes my lips

As I chew on

One of my fingernails

On my right hand.

Know

It's a bad habit

That I should stop.

But

I don't care.

As I face

Another three days

Before I face

My doctor

And the latest A1C result.

Will admit

Am scared witless.

In facing

The strong possibility

Of having to start

Injecting myself

With Insulin.

Not sure

How I should read

My nurse practitioner's

Response.

When

She says

The results are better

Than last time.

Given

Prior to that test

I had been off

All of my meds

For about 4 months.

And yeah

The results were

Disastrous.

That's putting it

Mildly.

Any result

Would be better.

Given

I'm back

On my meds

(HRT and diabetic).

But

Is it enough

To avoid

The need for injections?

That's

The million dollar question.

One way

Or another

Will be answered

At my Friday morning

Appointment.

Can only hope

It's good news

Until my next A1C test

In late April.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: By nature, I'm not the most patience of people, as you can tell, with this poem. I just want the results back, so I can move forward with my life, regardless, if I need to start using Insulin. And yes, this waiting is killing me.

The Jagged Wound (February 1, 2016)

www.williamtollefsonvalues.blogspot.ca

Don't understand

Why I'm being triggered

By these images

Right now.

When

I thought

These memories

Had been dealt

With.

In a safe

And constructive way.

And yet

Tears are streaming

As I find myself

Being transported back

To another place

And time.

Wanting to curl up

Into a foetal position

Hoping to disappear.

Even now

Two days later

Am still

Emotionally

Ripped wide open.

Wondering

How long

Will I need

For these emotional wounds

To scab over.

And for

The healing process

To complete itself

Once more.

This time

Completely.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: On Saturday, January 30, 2016, while looking for images to use with another poem, about identity, I found myself, being triggered by these images. I know these images can't hurt me, but still, I had a very emotional response to them, leaving me, feeling like, a PTSD flashback had occurred. Even now, three days later, am still feeling the residue of that occurrence, as my soul, slowly recovers.

Why Can't I Be You? (January 26, 2016)

www.motherjones.com

Courage:

[kur-ij, kuhr-]

noun

1.

the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.

2.

Obsolete. the heart as the source of emotion.

Idioms

3.

have the courage of one's convictions, to act in accordance with one's beliefs, especially in spite of criticism.

source: www.dictionary.com

A gentle

But sad sigh

Escapes my lips

As tears roll down

My face.

In trying

To find

That inner strength.

That you say

Shines like a beacon

Through the darkness

I have walked

In my journey

To here.

Having lost

Everything of value

To my body and soul.

For this need

Of mine.

Correcting

A genetic birth defect

Being born

Within the wrong body

Of a male.

Which

Society views

As normal.

Despite

Viewing myself

As a woman trapped

Within a male shell

Of a body.

Won't burden you

With the years

Of abuse and bullying

That has marked my life.

Since

I realized

This inner truth

At the tender age

Of four.

Within my head

The voices

Of my abusers

Ringing out.

Cursing me

With such crude

And hurtful language.

No child should

Ever know.

Fuelling their need

For power

And control.

By expressing

Their fear

At that

Which

Is different.

Sadly

As adults

These children

Haven't learnt their lessons.

As the fire

Of transphobia

And homophobia

Burns brightly

In their souls.

Consuming

Whatever remains

Of their logic centre

In a Gray hateful ash.

And yes

There times

I have felt

My life

At risk.

In spite

Of this fact

I move forward

In my healing pilgrimage.

Uniting my body

With the feminine soul

I was born

Within.

Thus

Completing

This cycle.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: By the age of twelve, I had attempted, at least 3 different times, to end my life, which I have never told my parents, about. My last 3 years of high school, was marked, by a nightly visit to the kitchen, where I tried to pierce my chest, with one of the meat knives, but I lack the strength to push it, into my chest cavity.


After coming out, accidently, to my mom, over the 2006 Canada Day long weekend, she told me:


"Hell would have to freeze over, and I would have to, come crawling on my hands and knees, begging her, for forgiveness, before she would think about it."


Needless, to say, I was thrown for a dark suicidal depression that lasted, the entire month of July. Nearly costing my job, as a result. With the help and support of a very special friend, I wouldn't be here, to share this, with the world. Thank you, Z.


The title of this poem, is a reference to the British Goth group, The Cure, who's dark and melodic tunes have helped me, during my bout of dark depression. Also, refers to my needing to live my life, as a woman, who is...simply elegance.

Just The Way, It Is (January 23, 2016)

www.susans.org

Hello

My name is

Therisa.

Does this

Bother you?

As you say:

"Male".

As if

It was

The most vilest

Curse word

You know.

Correct me

If I'm wrong.

But didn't

Your religious belief

Teach you.

To treat others

As you want them

To treated you?

Especially

Volunteering

At a food/clothing bank

For disadvantaged "women"

And families?

I write this

Not to embarrass you.

Rather

Trying to understand

Why you harbour

Such ill will

Towards me.

Honestly

I wish

It was possible.

For you

To experience

The "Hells"

I have travelled

Through.

Just to reach

This stage

Of my life.

Actively

Attempting to

Correct

This genetic mistake.

Of being born

In the wrong gendered

Body.

Is this

Asking

Too much?

For compassion

And a helping hand

Towards

A fellow human being.

For some

It is.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: On January 19th, I walked up, to a nearby food/clothing bank, ran by, a local Christian organization, in Toronto. For the first time, in 13 months, I was made to feel like, I didn't belong there, by one particular volunteer, there. Guess, I shouldn't be surprised, given my past experienced, with "religious" people and their gross intolerance, towards those, who challenge their perception of "what is right and wrong". In their quoting verses, from the Talmud and the New Testament, at me, saying my soul is, eternally damned, for being a trans-lesbian.


I didn't feel right, in challenge this person, outright, rather tried to pass it, by saying, I'm transitioning, which is true. Maybe, the next time, if I see her, I will ask, if we can go to a separate room, and try to enlighten her, about her rudeness and ignorance. If she is willing, to keep an open mind, while we talk.


For the record, I'm not, a practicing Jew, Christian, or Muslim. Rather, find myself, leaning towards Animism, which some "People of the Book" would view me, as being Pagan.  Never mind, I was forced by my mom, to attend various Protestant churches, until my mid-teens, when I said, "enough". Never have felt comfortable, in any of these churches. In fact, one church made me feel, like I was walking over the graves of dead.

The Mountain Of Life (January 20, 2016)

www.agreekadventure.com

It stands

Before me

Like K2

Or Mount Everest.

Taunting me

To assault

Its steep slopes.

My hands

Searching for

That elusive grip

To propel me

Upwards.

Having spent

What seems

Like an eternity

On this rocky outcrop.

Scared

To look down

Where I've climbed

Over the past decade.

Afraid

I'll lose my footing

As vertigo

Over takes me.

(My fear of heights

Is second

To that

Of needles.)

Having

Already fallen

Backwards.

Losing several meters

(And years)

As a result.

Forced

To restart

From the base

Up.

Without

The same margin

Of error.

I

Once

Had.

Knowing

My future health

And any possibility

Of SRS.

Hang

In the balance.

Regaining control

Over my Type II diabetes

And mental health.

As I retrace

My steps

Upon the rock cliff.

Hoping

Of reaching

My dream's summit.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Yesterday (January 19, 2016), I had an appointment, with my diabetic nurse and dietitian, at their downtown Toronto office, as part of the follow-up, to my starting a new med, just before Christmas, last year. At the time, my glucose reading were dangerously high, in the low to mid-20s mmol/L. In Canada, a healthy person, should readings between 4 and 6 mmol/L, during a blood test. A diabetic is considered, within acceptable levels, if they test, between 4 and 7 mmol/L, before eating or drinking any food. At two hours afterwards, it increases between 5 and 10 mmol/L, for diabetics.


Lucky me, I get to see my family doctor and have fasting blood work done, tomorrow morning. A task, I'm not looking forward to, in having, to go and see the vampires, in the lab. Sigh.

Mt. Melancholy (Janaury 18, 2016)

www.emaze.com

Today

I find myself

Walking

Under the shadow

Of darkness.

As old memories

Spring forth

Like an avalanche.

Cascading down

The snow covered

Mountainside.

As if

I have taken

The wrong trail

Into a forbidden area

With my ignorance.

Burying me

So deep

In the memories

Of a darker time.

Each passing second

The burden grows heavier

Upon my soul.

Am struggling

To find up

From down

With little avail.

Feeling

My inner spark

Growing dimmer

As the tears fall

Down my face.

Knowing

How easy

It would be

To surrender myself

And let everything

Go.

In my wanting

To remain

In the foetal position.

Until

My oxygen runs out

Fading out

Into the night

Forever.

But

I know

These feeling

Shall pass.

As I dig

My way out

Into the light

Once more.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Not exactly sure, what triggered the events of last Monday, January 18, 2016, when I found myself, buried, under a sudden wave of dark memories. Almost 36 hours later, am still struggling with the aftermath of this, as emotionally, I feel numb, and have lost all contact, with my poetic muse. If I was, to describe this, it feels like a PTSD flashback, without any of the visible images, normally, would have experienced, with one. In being, a total sensory overload of my emotions, in a three hour period, on Monday. Much like the type, I would associate, around my electrical burn, to my mouth, as a four year old.

Prepping For Soul Soup (January 13, 2016)

Photo from http://www.hubpages.com

Sitting down

With a paring knife

And a cooking onion

In my hands.

Taking my time

To ensure

No fingers are nicked

By the slicing blade.

Pruning back

The dry and crumbly

Dead layers

Into the garbage bag.

As if

I'm paring back

My life

Before me.

Trying not

To rub

My burning eyes.

Whose tear ducts

Are overflowing

With sadness

From past memories.

With each layer

I have removed

Before placing it

On the cutting board.

All the time

Wishing

I was handling

Its milder cousin

The Leek.

For the soup pot.

As a stray hand

Starts rubbing

An eye or two.

Trying to ease

The stinging

I feel.

Knowing

It's a task

I have to face.

As crying

Is cathartic

For ones soul.

In removing

The dead memories

We have gathered

Over our life.

Allowing us

To move on.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: This poem is, my 2500th written one, since I started writing poetry, on March 31, 2007, as suggested to me, by the group moderator, of my M2F support group, at the 519, in Toronto.

Opening Up One's Eyes (November 7, 2015)

Courtesy of www.newwayministery.wordpress.com

In my mind

The old Negro gospel

"We shall overcome"

Is being sung

Before my eyes.

Looking back

More than 60 years

In the struggle

For Civil Rights

And true equality.

Of the many senseless deaths

Which mark

Our journey forward

From the darkness

Of hate and fear.

Despite

The many legal battles

Fought and won.

Still

I feel like

A third class citizen

In the country

I was born

In.

With it's rigid hierarchy

That places

Anyone

Who is different

On the outside

Looking in.

Tolerating us

Like a boorish family member

They want

To disappear.

I wish

You could experience

A week

In my shoes.

Confronting

The societal

And institutional barriers

You've erected

Over the centuries.

In keeping

Yourself

Safe

From the reality

Of my life.

Realizing

Your position of power

Is paid.

At a heavy price

By people

Like myself.


Therisa © 2015

Author's note: This is, one of two poems that I wrote for Day of Trans-Remembrance, November 20, 2015. The other one, titled, "The Crater", is in the process of having a clay ceramic statue being created, as I write this. Am hoping, I can have it painted and done, its second and final firing. Thus, being able to post together, here.


For those, who are just discovering me, I have survived numerous attempts on my life, from a family member, whom I have broken off, all ties with, since August 2007. Also, have threatened, by various individuals, who have chased me, on foot or by rode the back of my legs, with their car, while laughing, about it. As if, it was one huge joke, with me, being the punch line, to it.


And sadly, I have tried, on numerous occasions, to take my life, when my depression has reached, such dark levels, the bottom of the Black Sea is a brilliantly lit walk, in the park, by comparison. With my last attempt occurring, during the holiday season of 2010-11.