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.

A Fate Worse Than Death (February 9, 2016)

www.forums.sega.com

Upon the wings

Of midnight black

I soak

The night's sky.

Seeking

My true love

Whom I lost.

As a murder of Crows

Scrawls Heaven

And Earth.

Where

I can't go.

As punishment

For dealing

In the darker arts.

By pursuing

Forbidden knowledge.

In the hope

Of curing

What was killing you

My wife.

Never realizing

In healing you

I was condemning us

To a fiery fate.

As that ignorant fool

Of a priest

Led the lynch mob

Against us.

With murder

In his heart.

Even now

On these dark

And lonely nights

A single blood red tear

Is sled.

As I remember

How I abandoned you

To your doom

On the pyre.

By invoking

My dark Masters

In a single moment

Of weakness

On my part.

For which

I was rewarded

By having my body

Transformed

Into dark sex siren.

Condemned

To roam

The nightly sex dreams

Of men.

Until

I find you

Once more

My dear  heart.

And earn

Your forgiveness

For my sins.


Therisa © 2016


Author's note: Every so often, I like to search, through the gothic images, and see, if there are anyone that pique my curiosity, to write a poem, about it. Sadly, I can't think of a gothic tune, which would compliment this event. Maybe, next time.

Citylife (February 6, 2016)

www.thepolyman.com

Frozen

White tears

From the Heavens

Fall.

Covering

The barren grey landscape

Temporary

In a blanket

Before melting away.

Hiding

The countless kilometres

Of asphalt ribbon.

That scars

The landscape

As far as

One can see.

Surrounded by

Tall sterile towers

Popping up

Haphazardly

Like mushrooms

On the street's edge.

As people scurry

To and fro

From these modern ant colonies

Without knowing

Their next store neighbour's

Name.

City planners

Tell us

It's the way

Of the future.

As cities need

To get more

And more denser.

In reversing

Their philosophy

Of the last 50 years

Where urban sprawl

Reign supreme.

Not having a car

Marked you

As being poor.

Public transit was

A distant afterthought

For the politicians.

Now

Cities and towns

Are playing catch-up

In correcting

Their narrowed mindedness

As the billions flow

Into these massive projects.

Never mind

These endless roads

Are approaching

Their best before date.

Thus

Requiring billions more

To keep them

At peak efficiency

For the growing economy.

Ever conscious

Of voters' volatile mood

Politicians refuse

To raise taxes

Needed to cover

These growing expenses.

Forgetting

We elected them

For bold and decisive

Leadership.

(Well

Leadership

At least.)

And not

This political waffling.

Scared to make

A firm stand

On anything

That might raise taxes.

As the city

Crumbles

Around their council chairs.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Originally inspired, by the light flurries that flew, on Friday morning (February 5, 2016), as I scurried, to make it, to a 10 am doctor appointment, about my future need to inject myself, with Insulin. Around the way, I have to travel through, a very densely populated area, called St Jamestown, which is getting even higher level of density, with the construction of luxury apartments, in this high priority needs area. In which, a local supermarket was closed, for this construction, leaving the area bare, for this necessity, without having to travelling a long distance of transit, to find food.

Thus Speaks, Depression, (February 6, 2016)

www.asknormen.co.uk

My story is

But

One voice

In the wilderness

Seeking acknowledgement.

Of the struggle

To find

Self-acceptance

And self-worth.

Knowing

My own journey

Hasn't been

The hardest

Or the easiest.

To reach

This point of my life.

As a dark cloud

Looms large

Over my horizon.

Feeling myself

Shrinking

Into nothingness.

Except

A bubbling cauldron

Of negative emotions

And empty space

That once housed

My physical body.

In wondering

What difference

In my presence

Making.

Other than

A space filler

Most people don't see.

Even if

I'm standing

Before them

On the sidewalk.

Unless

They stumble

Over my feet.

Maybe

If I'm lucky

Tonight

I won't wake up

On the morrow.

Rather

Will find

That sacred gift 

Of true peace.

For my body

and soul.


Therisa © 2016



Author's note: If you asked me, at the moment, what my level of suicidal ideation is, would have to tell you, it's about 5-5.25, an increase, from Friday's levels of 4.5-5. As I find myself, in the balance, between being passively and actively suicidal. For most of my life that I can remember, these thoughts have always been a part of my life. Existing, most of the time, as a background static, like a radio, just out of tune, for that particular station, you're trying to tune in.


Right now, I am, in no danger of committing suicide, beyond the radio, is getting tuned in.

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.

This Is Me (February 2, 2016)

www.quotesgram.com

Identity

noun, plural identities.

1. the state or fact of remaining the same one or ones, as under varying aspects or conditions:

The identity of the fingerprints on the gun with those on file provided evidence that he was the killer.

2. the condition of being oneself or itself, and not another:

He began to doubt his own identity.

3. condition or character as to who a person or what a thing is; the qualities, beliefs, etc., that distinguish or identify a person or thing:

a case of mistaken identity; a male gender identity; immigrants with strong ethnic identities.

4. the state or fact of being the same one as described.

5. the sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time and sometimes disturbed in mental illnesses, as schizophrenia.

6. exact likeness in nature or qualities:

an identity of interests.

7. an instance or point of sameness or likeness:

to mistake resemblances for identities.

source: www.dictionary.com

November 15, 2016

Will mark

My 11th anniversary

Of my acceptance

For whom

I am.

Having spent

Over 28 years

In hiding.

Filled with shame

Fear and self-loathing

Since August 1977.

(As my family live

In a small rural

Ontario village

At the time.)

A vain attempt

To protect myself

From the other kids

Who sought

To attack me.

Both verbally

And physically.

Turning

Their negative energy

Inwards

In a corrosive manner.

Where

Life has no meaning

Beyond death

And release.

Until

One day

In early 2005

I stopped suppressing

Myself.

Letting out

This timid child

Into the light.

Offering her

A chance to grow

And heal.

In realizing

After a few months

Of cross dressing

This wasn't me.

I need more

In my life.

To fill

This huge hole

In my soul.

Standing over

My dad's grave

On November 15, 2005.

I found myself

Able to release

This 10 tonne elephant

From my shoulders.

As tears of relief

Streaked my face

In  the late morning mist

On an unusually mild

Mid-November day.

As I shared

With my dad's ashes

My true self.

By taking 

The first steps

In my journey

Of real healing

As a woman.

With small steps

Towards the ending

Of my abusive

And destructive past.

In the rebirth

Of myself

As Therisa.

Regardless

What others think

Whom I am.

I'm

A

Woman.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The hardest journey, one will ever undertake, is to look deeply, into ones soul and make the necessary changes, for true healing to occur. Even if, this means, you must go against the flow that Society views, as normal. Knowing, you'll face fierce opposition, based upon, fear fuelled ignorance around anything that's different.

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.