I feel like I had hit some kind of wall. Or perhaps some glass ceiling had fallen on me.

Tash boosted

'The Trick Is To Keep Feeling'

Living and dying
are the same, though
the former is sometimes a choice.

Will you walk with me,
chide my memory?

Some days, I am as
entangled as in a dream,
and speak without a voice.

Deep within my chest
I've been told,
is a heart that roars

but when I listen in the absence
of our conversations,
I hear and feel nothing...
An absence of living,
perhaps muted by choice.

Tash boosted

'Taniwha (Monster)'

Circadian colours
bleed into themselves,
saturate to sanguine.

'Here, here.'
The gulls decry,
drifting higher

while we drift deeper,
slipping from the warmth
like sullen taniwha
into the dwelling darkness,

an escape from
the sun day noose.

Tash boosted

The taxi was still, and we
had yet to move, akinetic

while my hand on your back
seemed as disconnected
as a youthful dream.

I heard your voice,
like an undercurrent
over the radio melody

and I knew my heart
was no longer free.

'The Trick Is To Keep Feeling'

Living and dying
are the same, though
the former is sometimes a choice.

Will you walk with me,
chide my memory?

Some days, I am as
entangled as in a dream,
and speak without a voice.

Deep within my chest
I've been told,
is a heart that roars

but when I listen in the absence
of our conversations,
I hear and feel nothing...
An absence of living,
perhaps muted by choice.

The taxi was still, and we
had yet to move, akinetic

while my hand on your back
seemed as disconnected
as a youthful dream.

I heard your voice,
like an undercurrent
over the radio melody

and I knew my heart
was no longer free.

'Taniwha (Monster)'

Circadian colours
bleed into themselves,
saturate to sanguine.

'Here, here.'
The gulls decry,
drifting higher

while we drift deeper,
slipping from the warmth
like sullen taniwha
into the dwelling darkness,

an escape from
the sun day noose.

Tash boosted

'Mórrígan'

I can bathe, as a maiden thief,
under the cascade of your rage and sin;
steal the heart from your house.

I can wash, as the crone,
launder and rinse
the colour of death
from your clothes.

I was once the mother,
now womb-dead, and hollowed
in all my forms.

I am the shade and horror
of a midnight-sky raven.

I, Mórrígan.

'Mórrígan'

I can bathe, as a maiden thief,
under the cascade of your rage and sin;
steal the heart from your house.

I can wash, as the crone,
launder and rinse
the colour of death
from your clothes.

I was once the mother,
now womb-dead, and hollowed
in all my forms.

I am the shade and horror
of a midnight-sky raven.

I, Mórrígan.

Tash boosted

'Trace'

I hurt, ache today
and the shower was diffuse;
unable to define my substance.

I am
not my own soma,

lines of data,
introspective stanza,
a conscience poem.

Reform, regather, retrace;
remember once more.

My resistance and vehemence
dissolve, my emotions
drained of warmth.

'Trace'

I hurt, ache today
and the shower was diffuse;
unable to define my substance.

I am
not my own soma,

lines of data,
introspective stanza,
a conscience poem.

Reform, regather, retrace;
remember once more.

My resistance and vehemence
dissolve, my emotions
drained of warmth.

Tash boosted

'An Ear To Lend' (Part 3/3)

I thought that I was rid of
my contrite genuflections;
starved the air from my blue reflections...
Stopped my frantic, mid-slumber defensive motions.

But the mirror lingered
outside its frame just the same.
It hung askew - all I saw
was an unbalanced head
clutched on a scarecrow's imperfect frame.

Show thread
Tash boosted

'An Ear To Lend' (Part 2/3)

II.
The doctor pushed a needle
through my ear yesterday.

The contaminated humors, like worms,
boiled forth as though exorcised by faith.
A bruised lobe like an outsized earring
or a mangled antenna,
that suddenly brought back
the voice and the static.

It's not so bad, the doctor had said.
Just try to look at it.

Another gaping hole in my head;
another mainline into pain.
Hand over mouth to keep it all in.

Show thread
Tash boosted

'An Ear To Lend'

I.
Sometimes I hear her voice
with all its own distortions;
the nakedness of her anger
that birthed its own static.

Why can't you try harder
you stupid, lazy fucker...
Why can't you be perfect?

The sound and the fury...
My ears, so well boxed
I was not smarter,
but bleeding; begging
gut heaving
trying to carve a reprieve.

Tinnitus was the bees in her mouth,
waiting for her arm to weary.

'An Ear To Lend' was quite a challenge to post. On paper, it is a two part poem, but I had to divide it here into 3 sections due to the word limit.

The content is, surprisingly, autobiographical.

'An Ear To Lend' (Part 3/3)

I thought that I was rid of
my contrite genuflections;
starved the air from my blue reflections...
Stopped my frantic, mid-slumber defensive motions.

But the mirror lingered
outside its frame just the same.
It hung askew - all I saw
was an unbalanced head
clutched on a scarecrow's imperfect frame.

Show thread

'An Ear To Lend' (Part 2/3)

II.
The doctor pushed a needle
through my ear yesterday.

The contaminated humors, like worms,
boiled forth as though exorcised by faith.
A bruised lobe like an outsized earring
or a mangled antenna,
that suddenly brought back
the voice and the static.

It's not so bad, the doctor had said.
Just try to look at it.

Another gaping hole in my head;
another mainline into pain.
Hand over mouth to keep it all in.

Show thread

'An Ear To Lend'

I.
Sometimes I hear her voice
with all its own distortions;
the nakedness of her anger
that birthed its own static.

Why can't you try harder
you stupid, lazy fucker...
Why can't you be perfect?

The sound and the fury...
My ears, so well boxed
I was not smarter,
but bleeding; begging
gut heaving
trying to carve a reprieve.

Tinnitus was the bees in her mouth,
waiting for her arm to weary.

Tash boosted

'Catch The Ride'

I catch Time like an errant bus...
I'm often at the wrong stop.
On Tuesday, I woke to see
I've missed Sunday and Monday —
days lost, like steam
drifting from the blacktop.

Climb aboard, settle in.
I do not see him, but he,
the other passenger
always sli d es across,
pins me in my seat.

I watch the window, not his hands.
The landscape fades to grey.

What is it? What did you say?
Oh, it's Tuesday.
I have to go.
I have to catch the bus.

My perception of time is, let us say skewed, due to my dissociative episodes. So if I disappear for a few days, you will know why.

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