The Nowhere Road –Poetry Potluck

My latest poem for Poetry Pot Luck http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com is really depressing. Just warning you. It’s about death, not my usual fare. No, I’m not suicidal,  but if you don’t want to hear something unhappy, really don’t read this.

He went somewhere,

down a road no one mapped.

The road led to nowhere,

but he did not turn back.

It was too late, too tiring,

to look back or think forward.

No one lived there,

it was too dark to see,

and he couldn’t hear anyone

telling him, “come back

would you please?”


Is there a secret side road

where  sunshine reigns,

the dead never die,

and no one is to blame?

Hope so,

but  I’ll  stay here all the same.

OCD Pills Poetry Potluck

This image is a reproduction of two photograph...
Cured! Image via Wikipedia

 

This is my poem for Poetry Potluck this week. Delightful ain’t it? Please visit http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com and see other poets struck by the muse to amuse you or participate!

 

I wasn’t fat when I was little,

in my early teens I wasn’t big in the middle.

But toward the end of age 15,

my anxiety decided to ruin everything.


Maybe it stemmed from my grandfather dying,

maybe it was because my mother started dating.

Or maybe it was the pressure in my head,

something like being alive but already dead.

Who knows? Who even cares?

Down with the psychology of despair!

All that really matters is that it was there.

 

I became deathly afraid of death

for fear it would take my mother,

leaving me with my grandmother,

who could never be pleased.

Who needs the Nervosa sisters,

Bulimia and Anorexia,

when I vomited from intense fear?

Or when I couldn’t sit still.

 

You only can live a certain way for a time

before you’re driven to therapy.

And then a referral to the psychiatrist.

 

Have some Zoloft,”

and I began to eat again,

but my stomach decided that pharmaceutical

wasn’t my friend.

 

OK ,here’s some Paxil.”

Thankfully I achieved a Pax Stomachus.

And the food!

Long lost friend,

let’s make up for lost time.

Edible orgy, I’m on a food bend.

Soon 120 lbs. became 250.

I was ugly before I was fat,

so pass the chocolate.

 

Think you can handle anxiety without drugs?”

Why, yes. Yes I can deal with it fine.

I’m feeling so much better now!

 

I wasn’t though.

Dropping down to 180 in a year is cool.

But when the bottom falls out,

you feel like a fool.

Well, have some Celexa and Wellbutrin then.”

 

“…But wait, Effexor will be better.”

This time I went off of it,

uh pecuniary concerns.

And my Psychiatrist retired.

Have some Lexapro,” said New Psychiatrist.

Look! Clarity for a couple of weeks,

then nothing, lights out

.

Luvox and Wellbutrin together.”

Takes the edge off.

But I need more.

Let’s go 100 more mg,

last resort.”

The best I guess.

Anxiety hangs around 50% of the time,

take 50% off of my brain

and I’d be great.

75% of everything is done via compulsion,

good to always have a plan.

.

Poetry Pot Luck -Love: Original Depressing VS. Trailer Park Remix

Early 20th century Valentine's Day card, showi...
My Wal-Mart Valentine Image via Wikipedia

OK, first poem is depressing, 2nd poem is really vulgar. Just  thought you should know that about the 2nd one in case you aren’t a fan of raunchy humor…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love (original version)

 

Love alone,

Loved by none,

not in that way.

 

You swore not again,

but you lied.

Love like a virus

spread inside.

 

Love alone,

Love quarantined

isn’t contagious.

if contained.

 

Love alone

must exist concealed,

vaulted in a safe.

No rejection, no depression.

Wish the love object

better love than you.

 

Love alone.

Love by none

Must be love undone.

 

 

Love (Trailer Park remix)

 

Screw love!

Loved by none,

If batteries are included,

who needs someone?

 

The Valentine’s aisle at Wal-Mart,

you swore not again,

but chocolate is a demanding lover,

not like any other.

Gotta get some!

 

Screw love!

Love undone is love for one.

Love that won’t be scorned

is love you don’t have to mourn.

 

Love with chocolate,

love with self-love .

No rejection, no depression.

Minimal sin detection.

Screw love!

Seriously though, Happy Valentine’s Day!

Poetry Pot Luck: “Everyday”

Amorous Anathema
Image via Wikipedia "Ooooh a book...Perhaps filled with gems of poesy...Eh, not really.

Quiet quelled by ringing in the ears,

a cat mews,

children’s voices outside play,

Next door a mother yells her dismay.

Upstairs the man has a partner

for amorous pursuits again.

Time ticks away,

the sun sets another day.

Just like everyday.

Every single day.

Poetry Pot Luck: Three Lukewarm, Albeit Symbolic, Poems

Here is a helping of poems for this week’s Poetry Potluck.  http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. Tell me what you really think, will get around to changing “freaking’ on my last Potluck offering and answering everyone too!

 

 

An Ambidextrous Life

 

My interests are like my hands, ambidextrous;

And I have never met anyone else ambidextrous.

I take up my pen with my left hand,

but use my scissors with the right.

I think it’s day but secretly wonder  if it might be  night.

My thoughts make rain in the sunlight,

and stars that  glimmer in a tempest.

 

Sometimes   I’m an old woman,

sometimes I’m a little girl.

The piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle,

the flag that won’t unfurl.


I want to belong to being me,

to not care about the difference,

it will be less lonely,

peace in my mind’s resistance.

 

Wishes

 

Do you ever wonder what happens to the wishes

pinned to pennies

tossed into a fountain?

 

The pennies settle

on the bottom,

do the wishes

settle there too?

Maybe the wishes

float to the top,

hope rising.

Maybe the wishes

turn envy-green,

A variety of low value coins, including a (his...
Image via Wikipedia

corroding like copper coins.

 

If the pennies are stolen,

are the wishes

snatched away too?

Maybe the wishes for love

never come true.

Wishes to restore a life distorted

never again will be whole?

But no.

A penny is just a penny,

you reassure me.

Wishes never really go away.

 

Rapture Not-So-Ready

 

Betty was rapture ready, but Veronica got left behind.

 

 

I  have a confession to make,

as  though my very soul is at stake.

I have to admit,

and hope I  don’t  roast  on a spit,

or, hell,  just throw me into a pit,

where for eternity I will sit;

But I really must admit,

This Rapture thing.

I’m not so ready for it.

 

The Fundies have their bets on 2012,

the Mayans did too,

Someone says this May without delay,

Weeeeee!!!


 

as birds drop from the sky,  FLOP!

I’m not so ready for the Rapture

or those raptors falling down, eww.

 

Blondie sang about the Rapture,

Dante put in his two cents on hell  too,

Will the  Left Behind authors  laugh

when I know not  what to do?

Rapture,  I’m not so ready,

mercy for me  I implore you.

 

Will I really have to watch

as others disappear in the clouds,

knowing that in heaven I’m not allowed?

 

I try to be good,  God.

But I am of the world that you put me in.

I don’t want to be left behind,

but I don’t want to leave yet either.

I want to love someone and be loved ,

I want to matter somehow in the world,

and maybe be an author (eh, why not?).

Alas, I’ve done neither.

I’m not so ready for the rapture yet,

can we postpone it  a bit?

Poetry Pot Luck: The Perfectionist

 

Yay! Another OCD poem!

 

Okay, I will try not to write more  ‘kill a buzz’ poetry next time, though y’all were awesome about the last one. It even got published on http://katemclaughlin.net, a successful author’s mental health blog. Coolest. Thing. Ever. Y’all won’t hold it against me if I break out into a stirring rendition of “Fame! I’m gonna live forever!” Shoot, I even feel as though I’ve got “Bette Davis Eyes” and that “I’m Walking on Sunshine, baby, yeah.”

I’m feeling so magnanimous today that I’m going to share one of the things that OCD does to virtually everyone who has it:  Rabid perfectionism. Cujo-trying-to-attack-style. Just when my mind thinks I’ve figured out a way to do something, that I’ve planned it out perfectly, Nervous Nelly will interject, “Nah girl, you ain’t doing that right. Try harder, loserrr.” If it ain’t Nervous Nelly in my head saying such, my mother is apt to say something that I will misconstrue as a criticism, which will turn me all ‘Sybilish’ and my mom and I end up having words. I want to be perfect and as good as everyone else, but my standards for myself are wayyyyyyyy too high. The really fun part is therapy and antidepressants just dampen it a tad. I can’t seem to stop. Irksome! But anyway, here I drop a rhyme about it for this week’s Poetry Pot Luck at http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com . Tell me the truth if you don’t like it , in a nice way, of course!

 

Some people ask me why do you do such a thing?

Can it really be a comfort, or are you just not listening?

Nah, it's you. Definitely you. Or maybe me.

 

Are you just being difficult?

Are you just trying to make us mad?

 

No, I’m not. Yes, I am.

No. Yes. Maybe.

I’m not sure? I hope not.

I don’t think so…

 

I am difficult  and I am crazy

in my own convoluted way.

Well, you should stop, they say.

 

I don’t think you understand.

All people are driven forward by their minds.

I move forward but I’m three steps behind.

You go your way, but I must stay and listen to my mind.

 

It started around the age of six.

Staring at a piece of paper,

I knew I was in a fix.

Your name. Write your name.

No, no, it has to feel just right.

Instead I just sat there,

and the teacher marveled at how

I could be so dumb.

I didn’t know how to explain,

not to anyone.

 

In religion, I made the decision

to be as perfect as Jesus.

No everlasting flames for me!

But if I prayed once,

soon I’d pray again.

Oh Jesus, too much is a sin!

 

But you know better now, right?

You know you can’t ever be

a freaking deity?

 

Do I?

Yes, but maybe no.

Maybe I always knew,

but I was just a kid.

 

Now I’m an adult.

I only want to be as good as everyone else,

Perfect that without  completely erasing me.

So to myself I say,

Today will be the day I do nothing wrong.

I’ll please everyone, even you.

I might see the forest,

but all those trees are blocking my view.

 

Then tears, screams, I must begin anew.

An Anxious Girlhood: A Poem of Irrational Fears

As a little girl, I had no idea I was mentally ill. I just thought I was of below average intelligence and different. My mother even saw a patient or two at Mental Health with OCD, never thinking I was one too. I think by at least 8, I knew on some level the frightening thoughts weren’t real, but then I would think, “but what if my fears are real?” Anyway, enjoy and please let me know what you think. I know it isn’t my best effort.

 

 

At the age of 3, I look longingly at the sea.

The wet sand is quicksand ready to swallow up me.

 

At age 6, the devil might come up when I flush.

I learn this truth from a teenager,

and teens are like adults,

they never lie.

 

At age 7, everything I eat will cause me to choke to death,

and if not that,

I will die of a heart attack.

 

At age 8, I just know the former owners of  our car were drug dealers

who left their stash hidden inside so we’d go to jail.

The other shoe will somehow drop without fail,

and I’ll be locked up, no bail.

And I am afraid my grandparents will die,

or maybe I’m already dead?

These notions just won’t leave my head.

 

At age 13, I’m afraid of everyone my own age,

so as a hermit I try to fade away.

I think in unwanted blasphemies and ask myself is red the color of the devil?

 

At age 14, I worry that thoughts can cause action,

s and if I’m not careful I will cause people and animals  to die.

I’m afraid of men.

 

At age 15, I think my mom is going to die.

The man she’s dating will kill her somehow I’m sure .

Maybe he’s a rapist, a murderer, or just a bad driver.

I will be left to my grandmother and nothing I ever do will be good enough.

I will be alone.

I’m finally driven into therapy.

 

At age 17, I’m diagnosed with OCD.

Mom had said I’d one day grow out of worrying,

but no, my worries grew with me.

 

Submitted to http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.wordpress.com

Three Christmas Poems: Depressing, Controversial, and Semi-Festive

 

Hi everyone,

Combining http://magpietales.blogspot.com and http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.wordpress.com/ this week. The first poem is right depressing, so if you’re already in a depressed mode you might wish to skip it because it’s pretty dark. The second poem deals with the so-called “War on Christmas,” and I don’t mean to be sacrilegious. The third is my favorite poem, a slice of that tasty ghetto/trailer park-style pie some of y’all seem to like…Anywho, enjoy and comment, trash it, or ask questions about it as you may.

 

A Very Depressing Christmas Poem: Nola Leigh’s Christmas

Mary and Jesus


Nola Leigh, age 43, virtuous virginity.

It is Christmas Eve and she is alone,

She can’t bear to go home.

The Madonna in Sorrow
Madonna in Sorrow Image via Wikipedia

All of her relatives are dead,

So she goes to the church instead.

Open door but no one here,

She looks to the window and sits at the rear,

Thin stain glass, the virgin and her baby as before in the past.

Mary is benevolent, Jesus is sad in his innocence, looking even then for divine penitence.

Nola Leigh, 43, virtuous virginity.

Mother Mary, where were you 40 years ago,

When Nola Leigh needed you so?

Sweet Jesus, did you not see your young servant in desperate need?

While you were in the glass, Nola Leigh just had no chance.

But that’s all in the past.

Nola Leigh, 43, virtuous virginity.

 




A Very Controversial Christmas  Poem: Merry Holidays, Jesus!

 

Is it just me or is the whole "War on Christmas" thing stupid on either side?

 

Dear Jesus,

I think you should know, some of your Father’s creations are a little slow.

Or is it me who’s a bit dense? I’m not sure, but all this to me makes little sense.

It all has to do with a little word called ‘Christmas.’

Apparently there is a war on the word. Have you in heaven heard?

Being a mortal, this I can’t understand,

Did you actually make the demand

to nick-pick on a word not even invented when you walked this earth?

When you were old enough to say it, did you cry out “Merry Christmas!”in Aramaic?

Do you spend time between listening to prayers despairing, perhaps even swearing, that ‘Xmas’ does not bear your last name?

Or are you in on the joke that the Greeks often use the ‘X’ as the abbreviation of Christ?

Is it really a vice to say “Happy Holidays!” a couple of times a year?

Or do you say, “Your inclusiveness should fry with you in the lake of hell?”

Is it bad for me to say “Merry Christmas” too?

Truthfully, Jesus, I’m all in a stew,

so I guess I’ll leave it up to you.

War on Christmas

 

 

A Semi-Festive Christmas Poem: Our Christmas Tree

 

 

Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

 

 

Oh Christmas tree, lovely Christmas tree!

Chopped down in a forest of plastic at a Chinese factory.

That year, 1987, was the first year your blessed bough  hung before us,

Joy to the World and the rest of the chorus.

That first year, do you recall?

We broke your stand and had to nail you to the wall,

tied with festive utilitarian string,

A live tree stand for a metal trunk is an interesting thing.

We Wish You a Merry Christmas and colored lights

Trying to put you up is liable to yoke a fight.

Complicated, lopsided, daring you to fall,

Well, we said, at least you’re tall.

Jingle Bells, dust, and left over tree icing,

Damn I wish it were spring and gifts weren’t so high in the pricing.

But I love your ornaments, indeed I do,

Even if you look like you were decorated by monkeys in the zoo.

Martha Stewart would cry if she saw this tree where ‘Taste’ goes to die,

But two ornaments per limb here means pleasures double,

Memories good and bad, triumph over trouble.

Gold garland and silver star, thoughts happy  do not  tacky mar.

 

 

Merry. Christmas.

 

 

Magpie Tales, Pre-Birthday Depression, and a Conversation with Myself

Image is this past week’s Magpietales.blogspot writing prompt.There’s a door that separates you from them. It is a cold world outside, snow and ice. You want to go inside and you’re trying to turn the doorknob, but the door is locked, turn and pull as you may.  As though  God mocks you, there are glass windowpanes in the door. You see everything going on inside the illuminated room. But they can’t see you. You bang on the door and try to break  the glass, anything to make them hear you. You now feel as though you aren’t real. Are they a figment of your imagination or are you a figment of theirs, a random irksome  thought consigned to the dregs of someone’s mind soon to be forgotten altogether? Look at them, look how the beautiful people reside in there.  They are perfection, they are you if  you could stop being you. If you could have done anything you wanted, if you could have been loved…

 

“Oh sweet and gracious heavens! What is this crap?” asks Nervous Nelly, looking over your shoulder.

Pardon?

“You know what I mean. THIS IS CRAP!”

Well, crap seems a bit harsh. I was  trying for a delicate, sensitive piece about…

“CRAP!”

Um no. So I am feeling a bit down and thought I would impart my sorrows on my blog. That isn’t a crime is it?”

“It is when you write CRAPPP!  And W. T. F. is it with this writing in the second person  shit? You this, you that, YOU CRAP!”

Well, thought it would be different and doused in melancholy it would be poetic and….

Yeah, whatever, Sybil.

 

‘Oh, woe is me, I’m turning 33, and I still haven’t lost my virginity.

My life’s a mess, Oh distress!  Oh distress!

OCD and melancholy  in an ugly dress!

Even Jesus Christ, at age 33 could walk across the sea,

but alas not me, never me,

I haven’t saved anybody.”

I’m not that bad of a poet! You protest, but Nervous Nelly continues to  fuss about addressing yourself as ‘you.’

http://www.bartleby.com/123/62.html

 


Poetry Pot Luck: Great-Grandmother Perfection Game

Mohov Mihail. Grandmother and granddaughter
Image via Wikipedia

Here is my latest post for http:// jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. This week’s theme is emotions. So I began writing this poem, the emotion: frustration, and before I knew it I wrote an extremely depressing version of this poem, superbly self-loathing and terribly annoying. So I took my literary jujitsu knife and cut, cut. Even I hated the emo trash which had sprung forth from my brain’s  murky depths. Hope y’all like this version. My grandma and I didn’t get along so well the last 13 years of her life , which I feel guilty over 9 years later. I was never good enough, and great, I’ve started the violins playing again, but that’s the poem’s back story.

Oh and another thing, I have the final episode of Rumors of My Death finished and just editing and tweaking this masterpiece. Look for it really soon if you’re big into 2500 word tomes on kidney infections in soap opera/melodrama format. Good times!

Oh and one other thing, for those of you doing the honor of visiting me for Poetry Pot Luck, I did a poem last week too but sadly missed the deadline. If you want to read my ‘building’ poem, here’s a link if you’re bored: https://ocdbloggergirl.wordpress.com/2010/11/11/mediocre-poetry-the-apartment-complex/

 

I never knew my great-grandmother, dead at 91.

But I heard of her so many times from Grandma , I can’t think of a sum.

She was perfect, benevolent, and divine,

while I maintained the mien of a swine, laughing too loud for Grandma’s taste,

never sublime.

My great-grandmother was strong, a saint even in times of great duress,

while I go to pieces at the slightest stress.

I wanted to be perfect too, I wanted to be the best.

But my grandmother died before I could pass that damn perfection test.

It wasn’t that I didn’t try,  my urge for perfection will never die.

Mother cried and Jesus wept at my attempts to be perfect,

my anger and prayers co-mingle.

Uh oh, looks like I might remain single,

I’d drive anyone insane,

but it’s OK ’cause I can always pick my own brain,

failing myself at the great-grandmother perfection game.