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( photo credit)
Francesca Woodman – White Socks, Providence, Rhode Island, 1976.
( … from the book Francesca Woodman, edited by Corey Keller, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, 2011.)
Never give up!
Nina sang it well: it’s a new dawn, a new day….
When you look at yourself straight on in the mirror – chant his name three times.
The Grim Reaper is more likely to pay a visit and say ‘wassup?
Thinking about all those folk who want to live. Don’t have a cat’s chance or a lucky clover to pray over.
Last night, life became mission impossible. If you read it – I’m free flowing this to say, don’t give up.
Don’t give in.
When it feels like you are at the end of Hangman’s noose, about to kick the bucket from under your feet;
that is the moment where we have the opportunity to reveal our true soul’s pathos.
Don’t you think the cloaked hooded figure has a lot of soul collecting to get on with?
I’m not saying that what we feel at the time we feel it is an illusion.
What I pointing out is that change is the only constant – and that can lead to desperate ,devastating confusion.
Inside me – I’m still trembling, worrying , wondering. What am I going to do? Can I do this?
Questions and questions and questions blowing out fog enough to make any mind spin.
Stop. Hammer time.
No , that is not what I meant to write. 😀
Warped sense of humour.
Effective enough to keep all the rattling bones and bolts inside me, cast a glow over my demeanour.
Hope.
Look around you. Every time you see a flower bloom -despite its brethren humming out sad tunes.
Hope.
That is Life continuing in spite of all the strife.
Hope .
One seed of Hope. Get through this second,hour, evening.
Take the seed, germinate it, nurture it, feed it, love it , talk to it.
Take the time – make it thine.
watch it grow into a mighty oak – proud and on display.
it seems impossible to define.
Plant it. Don’t throw it away.
Keep a hold of it. It may just be the one thing that carries you over the struggle D-day line.
On the surface – flowers. trees, icebergs – all look fantastical – magical even.
Look below the surface. There is a formula – you can build on that too – no magic. no miracles.
Approach thyself with an examining eye.
Make it your number one priority to get to know what makes you tick.
If you stop ticking- make it your priority to know where to go to get a battery replacement or get your heart resuscitated.
Know what makes you well, try things that seem alien, reach out of that comfort zone.
Scream ,yell, type, don’t bottle it up – we have the technology – make a call -pick the phone up.
We have a voice – use it. Listen!
sweet melodic freedom – I am the only one with the key to unlock and escape from my own prison.
Hope.
Never give up.
No matter how difficult and complicated it gets – remember that there is more to this space than a one-dimensional prism.
I know it’s scary – to feel caught up in a schism.
Pieces of the mind caving in -thoughts toppling over, it’s like being a Chilean miner being held hostage underground.
Two months of no light . A sorrowful plight.
It’s dark but you are still breathing. You may be the only one but time is not about to start giving in.
Chin up. Keep looking for a strategy.
An exit route. Use that sombre time to recollect . Hell, get all dramaturgy.
We come into this world kicking, screaming, wondering, possibly even believing. We mustn’t give up unless time says ‘okay enough’.
So, I say go the way you came in . If it is not our time – then fight with every muscle. All the nerve you can summon up.
Truth or dare?
I have truth spilling out of my aura like pennies falling into the slot machine, the one in working order.
Dare to have. slip on your shades if you have to – things might just get a little brighter.
You may levitate – feel lithe and even a little lighter.
Don’t be afraid to succeed and be happy
You don’t need to go to the dentist to get your two front teeth divided so you can look like Mrs Go Lucky Gappy.
*Inspired by my WRAP plan and my recent WRAP facilitator training*
Posted in EXPERIMENTAL WRITING
Tags: Emotions, EXPERIMENTAL WRITING, In Yer Face poetry, motivation, New Beginnings, self expression, stream of consciousness writing, The lyrics to my life, Thoughts, Well being, WRITE TO RECOVER
Inspired by his lyrics – it’s not exactly physics.
Big boy
Little boy
Atomic bomb don’t come across as coy.
Paranoia looms over a shadow with no owner.
Scented thoughts hang outside on the laundry line – drying out, pegged up, sketchy.
Nowt out of the ordinary.
The demise of senseless beatings.
The savage frolic in secret meetings.
Can’t keep these eyes open – Mind is wired to sensor an alert token.
Add a word to the vocabulary list.
Reading made up stories,
Can’t get the gist.
Thinking of the times I’ve reinvented my speech,
Just so folk wouldn’t turn away
Or,
Mistake me for a blast of mist.
Solar plexus
A libran to balance my ails.
If vaccines worked, would I even need this skeleton tail?
I’m proficient in scripted fulminate.
A non- believer has to have a reason to detonate.
Terrorized by bones unhinged, pelvic oddities, a face grappling on the fringes.
Uncertainty – you can do it!
Mascot duty bellows: You blew it.
Everyday the input becomes more,
Ouput audios in a fervescent roar.
Fading into a nebulant place slowed down by brain freezers swimming in a shoal.
No near-empty dregs to fill my soul.
Restricted by self- limitation.
Hear me when I say,
I’m not doing this for inspiration.
What to do in a world knocked into askew?
Nondescript, omniscient eyes
Know when to usher in the seasonal yule.
Nonsense?
no sense.
Prop me up.
Inhale oxygen.
Don’t give up.
Against all better judgment – I implode from the inside.
I had it all figured out until I became a seeker in need of washed out make -overs from dead flotsam at low tide.
*Inspired by internal conflict and the world.* 😀
Posted in EXPERIMENTAL WRITING
Tags: Alternative perspective, Emotions, EXPERIMENTAL WRITING, Good Writing habits, In Yer Face poetry, motivation, self expression, self-awareness, stream of consciousness writing, The lyrics to my life, Vocabulary, word of the day, WRITE TO RECOVER
Oh how did this happen to me
The girl from some other foreign city?
Wiley enough to make a plan
Cunning and soft of heart -all my eggs bled before the start of labour
Before the sun came up.
It hid her pain, all the clots of her smiles.
She would coocoo again
for her soul was of one who couldn’t quit even when they told her she was dead.
