Night Visions

I cannot trust joy, it will not let me be;
Sorrow in its wake, joy ever drew:
In dreams pleasure you bring me;
In dreams pain is my gift from you.

You who seduced me, ecstasy you brought,
Yet I am only regret ever by experience taught:
I am not permitted to give what I got.
In dreams pleasure you bring me;
In dreams pain is my gift from you.

Like a cat, you are soft but have sharp claws;
You are perfection, including your flaws;
Both silver tongue and sharp teeth in your jaws;
In dreams pleasure you bring me;
In dreams pain is my gift from you.

No matter who, always the rejection -
This is the cost of every transaction.
I wonder if I am better in total isolation?
In dreams pleasure you bring me;
In dreams pain is my gift from you.

Do I prefer to seek pleasure in waking?
Is ever pain only of my own making?
Perhaps I need to be ever more painstaking.
In dreams pleasure you bring me;
In dreams pain is my gift from you.

Cell Sol

The smallest sun:
cell of one, cold;
undone, winter
coming per the
time; blurring together days.

Turmoil

The pain moves in cycles:
I remember,
I contemplate,
I suppress,
I fail

I screw up
three things
before breakfast every day

Is it just PMS
or is it something worse,
some other acronym
(BPD, PTSD, MDD)
or am I just a bad person
?

Does writing and art
help get it out
if there is
no time to create
no time to contemplate
no time to be a person

just a machine
for cleaning
teaching
cooking
serving others
and never myself

What is the point
How can I create meaning for myself
if I cannot even create a shitty poem or painting
much less a child

This is going nowhere
I should just delete this
but like all cries for help
I'll send it out into the ether
and hope
for something to give
because something has got to give

Sick

A headache blooming
against my skull and face burns,
a stinging hot fire;
I cough, choke, sneeze, and suffer,
seeking medicine, comfort.

Sell Soul

I stood in the market with my wares
(I was aware I was selling my soul)
"Hello, how are you,
all prices are negotiable,
let me know if you have any questions!"
(I was aware I was selling my soul)
My paintings were images into my psyche, my soul
on display for all to see, to judge,
to decide whether or not I was worth the value I set,
whether or not these snapshots of my self
were worth one hundred dollars here,
fifty dollars there,
or seven hundred and fifty dollars for a triptych,
three parts of myself on display
(I was aware I was selling my soul)
Prostitution is not a metaphor,
it is real labor
but the value depends on the marketplace
no matter the quality of your labor;
but art is a metaphor
for a kind of display, communication, or emotion
"Love me"
"Buy me"
"Value me"
(I was aware I was selling my soul)
but the value depends on the marketplace
no matter the quality of your soul
no matter the quality of your art
commodification makes no sense
but may make cents;
there is no fortune in selling your soul

Cold Snap

The chill in the air brings back cold memories
of shocking shifts in his personality:
one moment calculated to make heart freeze,
the next, a thawing warmth and sweetness to me.
I am now hypersensitive, cannot trust
my own intuition, what treatment is just;
I feel sometimes I should only be alone,
I only deserve to be cut to the bone.

Falling Down

Leaves are falling all around,
a tempest of foliage swirling about,
raining soft and crisp against the cool, damp earth;

the dying time has come again,
as trees finally shed their green
for festive rich reds, oranges, yellows.

All goes to sleep,
to hold back the rampant growth of earlier times
and hotter climes and fruiting as vegetation primes

for the coming deep cold chill
the frosts and freezes hinted at
on the breeze which causes us to wrap tighter

scarves and sweaters and coats,
while the occasionally emerging sun
sometimes encourages outstretching

(why is this tree budding leaves,
does it not know what is coming?
winter is coming).

I am caught up in a rainbow maelstrom
of dried, dead, dying leaves,
pouring down from the canopy above.