What Colour?

Mocking Bird Down

Paint me a picture of my blistering shame.
What colours would you choose to show the pain?
Would your hand be steady and heavy and meticulously planned,
or would you just tip and pour and not even use your hands?
Paint me a picture of the torture in anguish I feel.
What colours would you use to make it all real?
Will you stare at me first and ask me to wait, to concede?
Or maybe you want me to lean over the canvas and bleed?
Paint me a picture of what you really think of me.
Maybe then you can sell it for your freedom and leave me be.

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Let Go, Please.

Mocking Bird Down

Escape from me, I beg.
You’re skulking about like swine
in my late noon shadows.
Let go of my coat,
and give me the silence
I have longed for from the
moment I first heard your voice.
I am so tired,
of being the strongest.
Underneath the electric facade,
that you think gives you life,
is a tearful carrier of
bad news;
You can not be saved.

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Angel of Shame.

Americana Injustica

Sunny outside and seventy degrees…
Mother Earth’s butterfly kisses fluttering…
I am barricaded deep within bloody memories…
can’t I just be normal and somehow just feel happy? …
Another season’s campouts come and go again…
another click added between Life and the Wasteland…
the older I get, the less I relate to my once closest friends…
it’s just me and CPTSD – not much else worth any mention…
no matter the efforts always made in true vain…
I’ve carved years out of Life with just trying to stay sane…
after so many times of being burdened by false blame…
and being kicked in the face by the Angel of Shame…
it comes to a place where I’ve got nothing to give…
where each day is painful through grace that I live…
and each moment is nearly impossible to perceive…
where the only thing left is hope in which to believe.

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