This piece is as heavy as a Chevy and contains potentially triggering subject matter. If you would prefer not to read such poetry, this is your warning to give it a miss.
💧
I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in and found myself in a mess once again.
I wasn't blue this morning, but I am now, in spite of autumnblings and things I love.
I don't mind taking steps down a meandering path, exploring nature in an introspective way; I'm just tired of the blues, the reds, and the pinks, and spending afternoons wrapped in a blanket of melancholy and remorse, my breath swaddled in a stabbing ache that spreads throughout my chest; I haven't a clue as to why I am an icy legend, never as light as a feather.
If I could alleviate this ache in my heart of stone by drinking an effervescent brew and setting a few enchanted candles alight, I would be fine every day.
As a morose teenager, I admonished myself that because my family life didn't consist of daily beatings leaving my body wrapped in a dark rainbow of bruises, and I wasn't being used as a blow-up doll by male relatives, and no one directly called me stupid or untalented or said in so many words that I was damaged goods or a waste of oxygen that I wasn't being abused and was a selfish brat for feeling unhappy when so many people had lives so much worse than mine.
The spectre of sadness, discouragement, and mistreatment unresolved refuses to acknowledge me; I look in the mirror and see a repulsive, broken husk laden with wasted potential.
~ornery owl has spoken~
notes
Once again, the poem is autobiographical. Poetry is cheaper than therapy and I don't have to drive anywhere to do it. I just have to sit my ass down at my workstation, aka on my hard-earned adjustable bed, in front of my computer screen, and bleed from my heart.
Maybe this doesn't happen as much anymore, but there was a trend a few years back for people to begin comments on works such as this one with "I hope this isn't autobiographical..." and it really pissed me off.
Of course, nobody but a sadist wants other people to have experienced awful things. But beginning a comment on a work where the author has poured out their heart and soul with "I hope this isn't autobiographical" comes off as meaning "I hope you aren't going to upset anybody, and by anybody, I mean me, by writing something like this and having it be true." This admonition has the effect of making the author feel guilty for sharing their truth, thus shaming them into silence.
In my opinion, poetry must be allowed to bleed. Sure, I write silly poems and gratitude poems sometimes. But if I can't bleed out the darkness, it remains inside me and festers. It will come out somehow. Hemorrhaging it out through writing allows its release as opposed to self-medicating or self-harm, which was my means of dealing with the trauma within for two decades.
prompts
Prompt: Family life
Prompt: Just Dropped In To See What Condition My Condition Was In
Prompt: Write a (Blank) That poem
Prompt: Write a prose poem
Prompt: Blanket
The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)
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