A poetic journey through my mind

Weirdness

Me and my Shadow

Sorry folks, I’ve tried to warn Mia about words…they can turn and bite when you try to make them march in line. ¬†ūüėČ


The puppy who never grew up, by Mia Sloan

His name is duke because that’s a good name for a big dog but he’s not a real dog he only lives in my head. ¬†He used to be real, but then he wasn’t mine, and now he’s just mine and nobody elses. ¬†When he was real he was a puppy and I saw him in the store and I got to hold him and he loved me and I loved him but he costed too much money so I had to leave him and I cried. ¬†And then I heard him crying too, outside, and it was dark but I ¬†snuck out anyway and looked and looked but I couldn’t find him. ¬†The next time, I checked at the store and they said he was still there, it must have been another puppy but I knew better. ¬†So that night I heard him again, and ¬†I ¬†couldn’t find him, so I was sad and went home, and he was there! ¬†He was in my room! ¬†I ran and hugged him but my arms went right through him, so I knew he wasn’t real, but I asked him to stay with me and he slept on my pillow and in the morning he was gone again. ¬†I cried and I called the store and they said he wasn’t for sale anymore, because he was sick. ¬†He didn’t look sick when he was with me, so I waited for night and he came back and I cuddled him all night and gave him kisses and when he tried to leave again I held him and he just curled on my lap and went to sleep. ¬†And then I called the store and they said he was gone, and I tried to tell them he was with me but they didn’t understand. ¬†So now he is the puppy who lives in my head and I love him forever and ever, and he loves me. ¬†The End.


The Dance

Liminal, the place between, between the seen and the unseen, the corner view, the edge of sight, the distance between wrong and right, the gap that lies between the worlds, where all the dragons sleep, tight-curled, from page to page, from left to right, in and out and day and night, all the spaces in between, where the tricksters dance unseen, in whirling steps of green and blue, and dancing, make the world anew, in colors of the brightest sheen, to decorate the place between.


Collages

 

So these are my new toys, made from licensed images¬†from my all time favorite artist, Jasmine Beckett Griffith, manipulated for my personal use and enjoyment with a combo of iPhone apps…in no particular order:

Bazaart, Exacto, ColorSplash, Waterlogue, and Distressed FX.

I generally suck at ¬†“visual art” so I thought I’d check and see what y’all thought. ¬†ūüėä


Puzzle

bright and quick or dark and scary, ¬†she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below. ¬†Try to catch her, beam of sunlight, or at night a falling star, laughter ringing, high voice singing, soon you won’t know where you are. ¬†bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below. ¬†Follow her through shifting shadows, bright and dark at once is she, as she leads you, you will follow, and your home you’ll never see. ¬†bright and quick or dark and scary, she’s the woodlands favorite faery, flitting from her treetop aerie to the forest floor below.


Mirrorrim

 

Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?

See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.

My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.

Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.

Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.

Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.

Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.

The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.

By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.

From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.

And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.

There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.


Perspective

On the bright side, he loves me,
On the bright side, he’s home,
On the bright side, I’m with him,
not here in the dark on my own.

In the light of the bright side the darkness seems endless, the patterns repeating again and again, and the glare of the bright side is searing and deadly, pinpointing where the light ends.

On the bright side, he loves me,
On the bright side, she’s gone,
On the bright side, I’m with him,
not here in the dark all alone.

On the bright side (where is it?) I’m with him (I miss you) not here in the dark all alone…


Blue Streak

Alice in blue jeans, my rabbit-hole child,
blue hair and blonde eyes and an icicle smile,
how in the world did you steal my heart, while constantly staying that one step apart?
Alice in blue jeans, my looking glass girl,
here in a flash and gone in a whirl.
Always arriving, but never to stay,
time after time you must be on your way,
how do I catch you and hold you so tight that your icicle smile melts into delight?


Death and the Cheese Sandwich, a ramble in realtime.

The hardest thing for anyone with -any- “invisible” disability, mental or physical, seems to me to be that no one really believes it. As long as you are doing badly, dark days, physical issues, pain…it’s fine. But just as soon as you manage to drag yourself up from the bottom, it all of a sudden becomes a commonplace. Not a struggle well rewarded, but merely “Why didn’t you do that before?”.
They hold “normal people” up to you as if they were some goal that you are supposed to aspire to. “Normal people take daily showers. Normal people are social. Normal people…” Normal people can kiss my ass. I can’t think of anything I’d less rather be than “normal”. Normal people watch politics, reality shows, commercial/cable tv…and -enjoy- it! Normal people are “too old for cartoons”, even anime. Normal people believe everything someone posts on FaceBook, even when the same picture has been used a thousand times to solicit help for so many different causes no one can even remember what the original was. Normal people watch sports…well, the guy half, anyway. Normal people don’t take medications unless they have a cold, or they’re over 50. Normal people don’t collect “toys” from their favorite series or books. Normal people don’t read speculative fiction, unless it’s romantic, and then it’s ok.
Let’s pause on that one for a second…never mind that, as the quote almost said “it’s like having an affair with a cheese sandwich”…never mind the uber-teen-angst aspect…never mind all that. Since when did the paranormal/supernatural turn into todays fantasy romance? Not dissing the goth thing. Far from it. Full-fledged Fairy Goth right here. But seriously, people? Vampires and Werewolves in love triangles with poor confused women…notice that it’s almost -never- a human -male- having to choose between the woodsy, outdoorsy, sexy-feral wolf-chick and the sophisticated, refined, sexy-dangerous vamp-chick. Hmm. Maybe I should write one. Or mix it up. Gay vampire is a thing…and lord knows that Were’s and Bears would hit it off…so a confused young queer boy who doesn’t understand why both sides are attractive to him? *giggle* No, luckily for the world of Para-Romance I have more self-respect than that. ;p ¬†Besides, according to “rule whatever-it-is” it’s bound to be already out there. ¬†>.>
Ok, Wild Tangent exercised, now back to the original rant. It’s just frustrating to be the only one telling me how well I’m doing, and having to lift myself by my own bootstraps, figuratively speaking. And it’s downright painful to have people accuse me of not being sick, now that I’m doing better. Hard enough swimming upstream without the folks around me pouring poison in the water and strengthening the current by weakening me. I know all the explanations: “They’re jealous. They’re afraid you won’t need them. They need to be needed, so they sabotage.” Bull. In my case, while the first might be barely possible, it’s accompanied by so much straight out hate and paranoia that “unintentional sabotage” isn’t an operative phrase…it’s closer to “deliberate malfeasance”. Frustrating? Try infuriating, especially since there’s not a blessed thing I can do about it, not having that sort of temperament, little say the physical, psychological or emotional -ability- for that sort of nonsense. *shrug*
So yeah. It’s almost 5 in the morning, I haven’t written a word in weeks, haven’t even opened my laptop to play games…why should I, I have my phone for that? And so my brain rots slowly away, and my “curious appetites” get…well, curiouser and curiouser, if you’ll excuse the misquote. ;p So I get on tonight, for various reasons, and start looking at craft things. >.< Doh. Sooo many new toys!!! I need all the pretties and shinies! Mia and I are in a constant tug-of-war over all the bright beads and moldable plastics and jello-molds (No, dear heart, we need to actually -use- the ones we’ve bought before we can -maybe- justify buying more…no, not even the 100 count silicone gummi bear mold with the special dropper, I’m sorry. ;p) and so on, until I’m left to wonder…how in all the special hells of Hel do “normal folks” manage to keep from going insane and running ferret-shock through the internetz screaming “Shut up and take my money!”?
Also, is insanity different from creativity, and if so, how? Discuss. ;p
This is now over 700 words long, in case anyone is interested, and since I love you all to distraction…I’m gonna go and stop distracting you. Don’t worry, though…I’ll be back with more whinging and complaining and maybe, possibly, although don’t count on it, some actual creative work. Like a poem or story or something. Not just me/us rambling. Oh, and just in case it isn’t clear or you’re just tuning in to the Kyotzeta Channel…there’s only one of me. Promise. I’m BPD (or whatever new buzz-word they’re calling it now…;p) not MPD/DD. I just happen to have unusually talkative inner voices that refuse to stay inner, and since I’m my own best company, why the Hel not?
TTYL, my internetz!
KC, Mia, et al.


Through the Looking Glass…Again.

The mirror me has other eyes,
I meet them, not from vanity,
Dark they are, and umber hued,
The color of insanity.

Pinned like a butterfly I stand,
Meeting that endless gaze,
Till terrified I wrench away,
And dash into the maze.

The path before me twists and turns,
All distance an illusion,
At every bend another choice,
Each step ends in confusion.

The Sound of Madness watches me,
Her mocking gaze surrounds me,
Laughing as I stumble past,
And walls of glass confound me.