Demons smoking dreams
Angels playing poker
green felted table
hookahs filled with fantasy
cards laid and played
moans of ecstasy
cries of defeat.
This is the wonder of Heavell.
for sin and virtue.
Not all Angels are virtuous.
Not all Demons are Sinners.
Photo by Radu Florin on Unsplash
***The picture is from FB by Treeowl
The song has stopped
the melody no longer found
as I stand here
hands raised to the morning sun.
gossemere strands clutching
pulling and plucking
as I struggle to break free.
Into the darkness I have gone
to face all my demons
to finally put them to rest
so that I can be free.
Strangled by the threads of expectation
pushed on one’s self
until they are choking
unable to articulate their screams,
because today nobody cares.
Pushed into the rubber room,
walls plush with velvet padding
tormented screams rent the air
as demons play games.
Games of love,
only to be shown that love is not for them.
Games of torture,
voices grinding in their ears
until they can take it no more.
Strangled by the threads of expectation
unable to bear
this less than perfect image.
***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.
Walking within the cold dark night
dancing in the liquid moonlight
playing games with the demons in my head.
They taunt and scream
nails on a chalkboard
a deadly screech.
I chose to ignore
refuse to bow
I will show them now
I won’t be their whore.
The demons shatter
slayed with silver shards
images split asunder
as the mirror crashes to the floor.
Today is August 28th. In slightly more than 24 hours I will be 45 years old. I did not actually arrive in the world until 8:20 p.m. so am not “really” 45 ’til than.
I am looking forward to turning 45. I am not the same woman I was when I turned 44 last year. I am by far a much better and stronger version of her. I have taken my life and where I could have continued along the path of destruction I was on I changed. Slowly at first. But as the changes became good changes, as my outlook and feelings became harmonized and less disjointed I welcomed the changes.
I have documented my cycle of depression and how I had to claw my way back. I have an amazing support group who have been with me since I started on the new journey to me.
A journey that has seen me rise high enough to realize I was in an unhappy marriage and find the strength to leave. To my mistakenly believing all my problems were solved by the dissolution of my marriage and I went off my meds. I began to rely on alcohol to get me through the days.
My crash, which scared me so badly because I had allowed myself to be tricked into believing I was okay. Our brains are wicked when presenting one with deceptive illusions.
Even after I resumed taking my meds I still continued to self-medicate with alcohol. Finally July 1st I decided to stop. I went six weeks without drinking. And when I did, I woke the next morning disappointed in myself.
I have had some again but there is a difference. One that I can see and feel. It is no longer a need. There is no desire to negate the feelings I did not want to face.
So tomorrow I am turning 45.
I am eating better. I am sleeping better. I am exercising. I have quit drinking to self-medicate and find that I do not miss it.
Best of all I am writing again. I am more secure in the voice I have. I am letting those wonderful words combine and emerge like a waterfall from my finger tips. I believe in magic again.
At 45 I am beginning to emerge from the cocoon of the past. I can see my present but the future….that is a dream still waiting to be dreamed.