Broken Cupid

Feral eyes glittering

claws sharp and deadly

she stalks through the night.

Scavenger of broken dreams

looting and thieving what she wants,

lust and loss her domain.

Struggles all around her

ignored for blood thirst.

A revenge that sings to her soul,

calling to her night and day

pulling her forward into the game.

A game that has been in play for eons.

Poised and coiled deadly beauty

a serpent ready to strike.

She takes aim with fatal precision

and boldly strikes at your heart.

Her weapon of choice?

A barbed arrow.

Coated with not love and adoration

but bitterness and strife.

Her desire not to pleasure

but to destroy

for all the harm done to her.

Centuries have passed

and still she rides,

seeking, forever searching.

A broken cupid who has lost her reason,

her life,

and finally her sanity.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

October 21/17

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Days of Yore

In days of yore,

I would find myself at the crossroad

where the devil dances.

Skeletal tree limbs braced by ashen sky,

a gibbet swaying on creaking rope,

filled with the broken pieces

of the thief in chains.

My shattered crown

threaded together with brambles

entwined in gnarled locks of gold

held in place speared through my flesh.

I search for the path that will lead me

back to the sanity,

the truth

that once sheltered me.

My hands blooded as I hold my heart

torn from my breast

and cast aside,

a treat for any passing wolf.

My rage grows knowing no bounds.

No longer am I the sweet princess

but the bitter Queen scorned.

In days of yore,

you would have cast me unto the wilds

letting fate and nature

sway your course.

A kinder,

fairer,

more humane demise

to what was once a love

so deep and true.

In days of yore

I could find another love

another man to hold me.

In days of yore

I could continue the dance

of life and love.

In days of yore……..

I would not feel my heart ripped apart

by the beast that shares your tongue.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Oct. 7/17

 

 

 

 

Anxiety

***Found the picture on the internet.***

Some days are better than others

I become numbed to the pain

to the uncertainty

that weaves its talons into my being.

And there are people,

people everywhere

who stare and point

unaware of my fright.

I don’t mean to scream

vomiting demonic shrieks

into the air;

but he is right there.

Shining, black and desirous of me

twisting sharpened nails within my soul

he sucks the life from my heart

from my body

never leaving me alone.

I wish I had the confidence

the ability to believe

that I will be free of him.

The love he spreads so suffocating

 

tainted with poison and nightmare words

drilling into my brain

my self-worth

for anxiety is always there

standing in my corner.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

September 25/17

 

 

 

 

The Voices Within

***Picture via Pintrest***

With tongue laced in acid

words drip venom down my chest

held deep within your binding spell

unable to tear myself away.

You rip me apart

words laden with bile and hatred

etching everlasting the loathing

that I carry within myself.

Voices dripping with disdain

a roar within my brain

ripping and tearing

the fragile fabric of ego

causing me to crumple in pain.

I raise my head

tears fleeing down my cheeks

defiant in the face of your abuse

pummelled by your voice no more.

 

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

September 16/17

Was he a girl?

This picture is the only one I have of my dad as a child. I once had more but they became water damaged and I had to dispose of them. My dad is the one on the left. With the blonde curls. He kinda looks like a girl.

My Amma (Icelandic for grandma) really wanted a girl. She had my dad and my Uncle. Did she try to hide my dad’s masculinity for the formative years of his life? Or at least some twisted boy-girl version?

The only children my Amma bore were her two sons. And she so desperately wanted a daughter. Ironically my Uncle had two daughters. My dad had me. And my brother.

I have a couple of stories about my Amma from my uncle. My Aunt was not a fan of her mother-in-law. My mom has different stories and me, well I was her favorite so my glasses are rose colored.

Every time I have a thought regarding this character I am building I write it down. Thus far I have only had the two but I am beginning to view my dad differently. Or rather the fictional version I am building of him.

I must not paint my Amma as an evil villianess. I can only speculate as to what happened in her earlier life. We have no real on her.

My Afi (Icelandic for grandpa) is but a shadow to me. He passed away 1 month and 6 days before I was born. Came home drunk and fell down the basement stairs. Broke his back. Died of pneumonia.

My Amma and Afi shaped my dad.

Were one to look at my Uncle, respectable, looked after his family, never abandoning them to fate, you would never guess the family connection.

My dad? He is not an enigma. Not when I take my own reality of him, my mom’s and my brother’s and meld them.

He was a drunk. He left his family to fend for themselves. Never did he think how his actions affected his children. His wife.

Even as I worked to lower my expectations of him I was continually disappointed. The once sympathetic character I saw is now evolving into one you would most likely disdain.

This challenge I have set for myself is intriguing. I originally thought this was going to be a tale of a father who abandoned his children. Who chose alcohol to be his companion.

And with the turn of a phrase I suddenly found sympathy. Today as I wrote I may have had a small pain in my heart because I do believe my Amma may have treated my dad as a girl for the first while. And she babied him.

The great thing about this….I get to make it all up. But at the same time I am going to pluck my mind, my mom’s and my brother’s for memories and stories. For I realize that I need a clearer picture of the man who was my dad.

My dad as a character

My dad was an awful father. I have no love for him. I do not visit his graveside and lament for lost relationships. Most of the time he is barely a blip on my subconscious. 

I imagine that as a younger man he had something to sell.  My mom is a smart woman so she must have seen something in him to have married him and had two adoring and wonderful children.

Once mom chided me for my disgust and dislike of my dad. Feelings which I have harbored within since I was a teenager. She told me that before the age of five my dad and me had been inseparable. I had adored him.

As a child, parents seem infallible. They are godlike and can do no wrong. Until they do. Until a child’s world begins to expand and they are able to assess their situation in relation to others.

I loved my dad until I was a teenager. I attempted to rebuild a relationship with him as an adult. I wanted his approval. Just once I wanted him to see me. Just once I wanted to have a dad.

I fluctuated for a long time with a love-hate relationship with my dad. I would have benefited from Al-Anon that is for sure. I may have been able to let go of the unrealistic hope that he would finally put the bottle down and become a dad.

For an alcoholic he was. My dad loved his rye. An affinity he passed onto both of his children. This is a man who would start the day off with a glass of rye because he could not find the gumption to face his day without it.

Aha!

Do you see what happened there? Suddenly my dad is no longer this disgusting pathetic excuse of a drunken man. There is a glimmer of sympathy possibly shining through.

This revelation hit me as I am driving into the city with a friend. I am writing not driving. My dad would make a great character, everything written above a preface to a back story, to his story.

I began to wonder; how do I write my dad into a sympathetic character when I myself feel so much disdain? And I am going to take a chance. I am going to fictionalize my dad and see where his story takes him. And I hope some of you will come along for the ride.

Love gone awry

Sometimes I go a little crazy
a wee bit mad
making all my castles
with quicksand.
Sometimes I dance little jigs
and you cannot see
where once there was harmony
now we have strife.
Angry words disposed to bite
left me nothing to do
but cry bitter tears
and feel ashes in my mouth.
I have loved you
and hated you.
I have cursed your name
for the damaged touch
while you played your game.
Living beneath a cloud of darkness
wrapped in a shroud of pain
I yearn for the bright sunlight
yet walk alone trapped in anguish
unable to break away.
©Jay-Lyn Doerksen
September 12/17