It’s been quite a while since I did any poetry or artwork, so, here’s some new stuff. I call this one Ache in the Bones
Ache in the Bones
Aching Bones
My bones ache,
And it’s something I can barely take.
But I look at myself and try to break from the heartaches and earthquakes of those woes and worries that I just can’t seem to shake.
Do I enjoy them?
Do I employ my messes to solve my problems and downplay the stresses?
Or do I conjure up more problems and conundrums, unsolvable riddles and endless questions
Do I ignore the suggestions?
See?
I see.
I see what I do,
I know what I’ve been through and am starting to understand the things that I do
To increase my own suffering and the karma that I accrue
Programmed
It’s the underlying program at work,
It’s the ways that I was a jerk,
Or the way that I lurked around my own blindspots to ignore to rot
Most of my life I followed the toxic attitudes I was taught,
Never letting myself see the light,
Instead, I fight
I fight for the right to bury my head in the sand, rather than expand
My mind, or maybe find the things that I hide behind
You just gotta move forward?
What’s forward is back,
How can you choose to move forward when you’re stuck on the wrong track?
You gotta attack those toxic flashbacks if you wanna bounce back from the blackest night
If you ever want to be alright
What happened to me wasn’t my fault
But that doesn’t mean I have to keep pouring salt, on the wounds from the assault
If I just live in default mode and lock it in a vault, how can I ever erode the pain or decode this heavy load?
Healing’s a lot of guesswork,
Like I’m not even supposed to be here, I’m just an innocent clerk
But That’s my party pity, my last attempt being witty
Before I deal with the pain…
But trauma? Trauma is like an oncoming train, and you can’t refrain from standing on the tracks that live deep inside your brain
But it’s just a game, just some lame excuse to frame my history in an event to pretend like some of it was a mystery
Things happen to us.
But we happen to others too.
Recovery from trauma might make you feel pretty blue, maybe you can barely stand the things you went through or the debts you accrued
But that doesn’t mean I can take it out on others,
Others are my sisters and brothers
On the path
And can you do the math? If we keep walking this path, we’ll face the wrath
Of our actions, of our overreactions and we will find ourselves making factions, rather than taking the course that leads to the best actions for all beings
I just launched a new serial story on my Patreon page. For those of you who don’t know already, some of my stories are either exclusive to Patreon or early access for Patreon Subscribers.
My new serial, titled Strange Reflections, departs a bit from science fiction and delves into a world of horror and mystery.
A short blurb:
A reoccurring nightmare, a library full of occult books, and a strange underground passage, for Amanda it’s only the beginning.
Car stalls.
Stillness in the early morning.
No sun yet.
Fog and cloud mingle with the full moon like tendrils grasping for possession.
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The moon devoured.
A sky bound feeding frenzy.
Deep darkness.
Car stalls.
5 miles to go
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The moon escapes the maw.
It makes a dash for freedom.
The tendrils lose their grip.
Moon slides behind a mountain.
I am jealous.
No reprieve for me.
Car stalls.
2 miles to go
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The sun paints the sky with its morning yawn.
Color at war with the vast armies of the night.
A reliable cycle.
A predictable outcome.
Car Stalls.
A half mile to go.
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The sun douses me with its first light.
I am radiant.
I am blinded.
I am almost there.
50 feet to go.
Car stalls.
There are moments in our lives when we feel the fire of rage.
All is in a fog, all is unclear, all is distorted. Yet in the center of that rage, we believe that there is clarity, that we know what the right course of action is.
We confirm our truth.
We allow our preconceptions to build on perception and solidify. It becomes tangible. To us, there is a kind of beauty in that anger. We lust for it.
Like a flower, it seems to have bloomed from some place righteous, some place justified. And those who will be the victims of our rage will receive their just reward.
Yet after, what does it make? How was it of benefit? Did the flame burn truth into the brow of our enemy?
Most often, anger burns the one who wields it, like one who lit a match and held it too long. Scorched fingers.
Patience douses the fire with water.
Sit in the center of the flame and watch it. Let it burn but do not feed it.
Sit in the center and whisper the sacred syllable, Hung.
