Sleep with the Angels

I slumber at the wakening,

tasting the luscious licks of the unwrapped

lollipops, sparks of sun settle

through frost-wintered windows,

white toes chilled against red circulation.

Morning cat meows plead of attention,

circling the unchanged litterbox- recognizing

her own beloved stench. Upstairs

the flowers sing like honeydew- “Me

and Bobby McGee” as we drove

to the scorched heat of Pheonix.

Sitting under moonlit tents, sanctuaries

of bodies held together by blazing fires,

conversation blends as easily as baryonic

matter in the cosmos, sparking brilliant neurons.

The night cold wore us like a blanket

of damped packed sand, the piercing

coals of envy and beauty embered

asymmetrically into the stars like soft

epiphanies. I swallowed the wood-burnt

smoke and ingested the amber flames.

Duerme con los angeles, mi amor,

feathered pillows spoke softly in accord

until the honeydew flowers chanted

the confined lullaby.

 

j.f.

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When I am Weary

I heard imaginary ailments-
whirling dervishes dancing
with one hand pointed at the sky
and the other at the ground.
Such dismal feelings however
do not often persist in the clear
light of morning, when
you are young.
Many are the thoughts that come
in lonely musing;
leaving no trace of existence.
I walk home to tranquility-
the trees are still bare, the buds
still hard, cocooned.
Appear- an impressionist scene
of a rainy night.
It accretes in layers under
my skin and knits my pores tight.
A hideous sense of pursuit
sometimes comes chillingly
when I am weary.

Upon the Boutique Sidewalk

Upon the boutique sidewalk, I

stumble upon a man- or

is it a woman? The dark and

defined makeup surrounds the black

pupils set in stone marble eyes.

The perfectly defined Adams apple sits tucked

under the creamy white face adorned

with chiseled cheekbones, contoured

and glowing. I wonder

what he sees sitting on his perch,

unable to move. We bustle and groan,

rush around like spawning salmon-

but you, your plastic skin still reeks

of chemicals produced in assembly

lines, people machines. Your

cheekbones deceive me, your slim,

lean legs lack the delicate fibers that

give legs meaning. You represent facades

and images endorsed, societal projections.

Who gets to decide

what ideal looks like?

 

j.f.

204

Upon opening the door
Lies dirt ridden shovels
amongst red-spined journals
in apartment two-oh-four.

Black lines appear
on white walls forming
mountains and valleys- a timeline
beginning to end, up and down, up and down.

Steam, the tea kettle screeches
an aroma of green tea and coffee,
familiarize the surroundings,
memories of bodies move through the rooms.

Upon the bedside table
lies the book of love, of fictitious
trickery, words written and uttered
left by the sink, forgotten
as the reflection in turn.

What is love? I ask
you point to the book, left
frivolously scratching your mark, locking
the key taken, I cannot enter.

 

j.f.

Spiderwebs

She sits

solemnly at the dining room

table, trying to find a metaphor

for her creative process, is

it the revealing of one’s

eyes, after removing

sunglasses? The dark

shades, black as dilated

pupils, outstretched when accustomed

to night, revealing the

hidden webs

forming dust-

a forgotten bond.

 

j.f.

Empowerment of the Day

My motivation/empowerment/mantra for the day…

I am a fucking badass rock star. I just went through one of the most difficult things anyone will EVER go through, an 18 month confrontational therapy based therapeutic community. I’m deprogramming and getting back into the real world, socializing, contemplating, living, planning, working, breathing, staying sober, praying, laughing, singing, dancing, writing, reading, loving, sharing, bonding, being. It’s all up to me now. I create my destiny, I desire myself and my future, I see myself finally. Sure, sometimes I get anxiety and fear that fills me up to the brim until I start to leak, but I breathe and live through it without destroying myself.

My life is my message, my life is my lesson. I will never cower away from it again. I will never shrink down again. I will stand up and hold my head high. I won’t allow you to be a part of my life or plan unless you have something positive and meaningful to bring to the table. I can be a bitch now, I give myself permission. I won’t allow you to take up space in my life or head if your intentions are to use me, if your intentions are dishonest and below mediocre. I can tell now, and I won’t allow it to move on a stagnant, meaningless level. I’m not ignorant, I’m not stupid, I’m not shallow, I’m not weak, I’m not that girl anymore. I’m a wise young woman with a head full of knowledge and a heart full of pure amazingness. I am beautiful not only on the outside, but on the inside as well. I literally cannot be stopped, and that is the most exhilarating feeling in the universe. I am my own universe. Sometimes I can’t help but let the words flow freely, and share them with the universe, because a little part of myself is transferred and I get positivity transferred back. Thank God I had the courage to make that one decision that would influence the rest of my life, and I am living it.

Vulnerability

What do you do when the anxiety you have for no known reason fills your stomach up to your neck up to your head with an unbearable weight which weighs you down with the sensation of sloth, an inability to move or act and all you can do is just sit there and stare? All you can think about is how anxious you are because that is all you can feel, a mad cycle attached with immense difficulty to escape. Surveillance is a substantial way to be brought out of this. When one is being watched, especially by a superior or boss, one must at least act like they are busy or getting work done. When one is around equals, there is a “fitting in” aspect, a joining of a conversation or activity. Both of these can usually get yourself out of your head full of maddening anxiety. Right now I am sitting at a desk writing about it, which probably looks like I’m working to the naked eye of a passerby. But sometimes writing about it exacerbates the anxiety because you are focusing your mind more in on it, the problem at hand. Yet it does help the understanding of it a little more. “Know thyself.”

Vulnerability scares me. I’m afraid to show people my words. I’m afraid of what they think. Have I put myself on too high of a pedestal? What if I’m not up to par? My words are my vulnerability, a complete expression of me. Maybe I don’t want people to know me. Maybe I like to keep people at a safe distance- not necessarily to keep myself safe from them, but to keep them safe from me.

Little Fixes

Center of the day begins to unfold

Already gone through the marshes and mixes

Alive & full,

Lick our lipses

Do what we can to get our fixes

Skin as oily

as Honeydew

You caught me in a full-on looptiloo

My Journey…

So, I don’t really know who reads this… I don’t advertise this site/blog to barely any of my friends, it seems to intimate for that. But I feel comfortable with the blogging community, maybe because they don’t know me on a personal level. Sometimes it’s easier to share with strangers and fellow writers. And there’s just some things I need to get out/explain. I have not posted anything here for literally 18 months. Why, you ask? I was in an 18 month structured therapeutic community for addiction and alcohol dependency. I went without social media literally for a year and a half. It wasn’t allowed- no facebook, no email, no nothing online.

Now I’m back, and getting online now is almost overwhelming. I want to get back into reading and writing… It’s my passion, it’s who I am… While I was gone it seemed like a lot of my passion and motivation for this creativity dissipated. I did a lot of work on myself, though. Picking back up on this has been a little more difficult than I foresaw. A lot of what I used to write was inspired by fear, hurt, shame, loss…. I feel that when I tap back into that, my creativity flows easier and smoother; it’s more profound. But I also want to be inspired to write when I’m happy, feeling blessed and excited.

I’m still on a journey of finding myself… What do I want? Who am I? Who do I want to be? Right now I’m just going through the motions… making sure I stay sober, making sure my maladaptive thoughts don’t get in my way, making sure I have my priorities right… What a crazy, unexpected, long, and amazing journey this has been and will continue to be.

Getting Right

In attempts to avoid folding within myself
I sit numbly
Your possible rejection of me
Collides into a forgotten, yet nostalgic fear
Creating unforgotten insecurities
Memories of the past start flooding in
But the boulders are too high and sharp
The lack of words become deafening
I just want to cover my ears
And cry out of relief
Over holding in the washed up emotions
That I tried so hard to flee from
Spending countless days and hours
Looking in and Distracting from myself
Getting over someone, and
Getting right with me.