Monday, 22 January 2018

Riding Out The Storm (January 20, 2018)

On those darkest nights
When my blackest memories
Are the stuff
Horror writers dream of.

The tears flow
Like swollen rivers
From my eyes
Drowning my pillows
In their salty wetness.

As I dream
Of a place
Where I'm free
From these memories
And toxic emotions.

As my strength
Bleeds away
In waves of anxiety
Racking my body
Like the incoming tides
On a seaside beach.

Not even
Hypnos’ gift
Can spare me
From this.

Awakening to
A nervous
And drained body.

Poured
Into a foetal mould
By Hephaestus
Covered in lead.

Knowing
It's another 2-3 days
Before I can leave
This enforced confinement
On my bed.

As I retrace my steps
From this slag heap
That covers my soulscape
In toxic waste.

Hoping
Beyond hope
This will be
My last time.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: On January 19th, I visited my doctor’s office, to get some forms filled out for my disability case file review. It felt like I had triggered a PTSD flashback, in the way that my body has been reacting for the past 3 days.

Thursday, 18 January 2018

Moving Beyond Barriers (January 16, 2018)

Can feel it
Coursing through
My body.

Like a nervous energy.
Caustically
It burns my body
With its poisonous touch.

Turning strong muscles
Into piles of rubbery waste
Unable to move.

Battles thought won
Are being fought
Once more
For my mortal soul.

What once was
Taken for granted
And never questioned.

Now
A distant shore
Just beyond
My reach.

Moving steadily downwards
Into the prison cell
My apartment has become.

As anger
And self-hatred flows
Through my body
Like blood.

Dissolving the facade
That the world sees
Upon me.

As the tears flow
Both visible
And invisible
Down my face.

Lingering
Forever
Lingering.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: Just how I'm feeling feeling right now, as I struggle with mental illness.

Untitled (January 17, 2018)

I want to
Let these memories go
Liberating myself
From this haunting darkness
On my soul.

As if
My abusive experience
Are the wrong favour
Of the month.

Just because
I wasn't sexually touched
Or raped
With a penile object
By my abusers.

Although
Numerous times
I have been kicked
Deliberately
In the groin area.

With serious intent
To maim me
In a sexual manner
As they view me
A homosexual male.

Never mind
Some feminists view
My abuse
As a male on male
Crime.

And not
A male on female
Crime.

Thus
They discount me
As another whining male
Seeking attention.

Over battered
And seriously injured women
Attacked by men.

Due to the reality
Of the birth defect
Between my legs
They hold over
All transwomen.

Regardless
Of our status
Pre or post-op.

Bleep you
Too
B*tch.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: Just venting an ugly truth that some people, in the system, don't want to admit its existence.

Cold (January 7, 2018)

Brittle
Fragile life
Breaking
At slightest touch.

Frigid wind blows
Across one's soulscape.

Shivering
Body heat bleeds
Like steam
From boiling kettle.

Frozen corpses
Pale imitation of life.

Stacked
Like woodlot’s
Cords of firewood.

Blithely consumed
By ignorant society.

Waiting next snowfall
To ease
Any collective guilt.

Life spent
So cheaply.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: For much of the past 5 weeks, most of Canada and the United States have been under the grip of an extreme cold air mass. In Toronto, this has resulted in new record lows temperature, for daily highs and overnight lows. As many water mains burst, under the onslaught of these frigid Arctic temperatures.

On a more personal note, this is the first poem that I have written, since November 2017, almost two months ago. As I have past the midway point of the second year for my current bout of depression that started June 2016.

Saturday, 11 November 2017

November's Tears (November 10, 2017)

Once more
November's gray skies
Hover over my soul
Draining me.

A time
Where death comes forth
Like the fiery Santa Ana winds
Claiming it's due.

Find myself
Struggling to keep afloat
As the holocaust threatens
To consume me
In it's embrace.

Knowing
Time isn't 
On my side.

As the growing darkness
Looms larger
Upon the horizon
Before me.

Awaiting
For the coming downpour
That leaves my soul
A frozen shell
In the desolate landscape.

As I have one foot
In this world
With the other 
Straddling the line
Between life and death.

Knowing
That November is
The month of death.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: November 10-20th, is one of my darkest period on the calendar, in which, many somber remembrances and anniversaries are observed. On top of my SAD that usually last from November to mid--March, before I can leave the grip of severe depression. Although, over this past year I have been dealing with a chronic depression, except for brief periods, hasn't left me.

Monday, 18 September 2017

The Reversal of Dorian Grey (September 18, 2017)

We're told
That gray hair is
A symbol of wisdom.

And yet
Why do we make
These same mistakes
Over and over
Again?

Like we're trapped
In an endless loop
That only ends
When the power
Is disrupted.

Is it vainglory
Or a sign
Of our hubris
That we try to hide
Our aging shell?

Viewing it
As a sign of weakness
To be despised
And hated
For our impending
Mortality.

Coating our locks
In a colourful sea 
Of natural
And artificial dyes
Like it never happened.

In a flawed attempt
To deceive ourselves
That the biological clock
Will stop for us.

Regardless
Of one's wealth
Social status
Or income level.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Over the past 6 weeks, I have notice more and more gray strands in my hair, whenever I look into the mirror. I realize having spent almost 5 decades on this plane of existence, this would eventually happen to me, but thought it might be delayed for another year or two. Why I may not like this, I won't be lining up at the local salon or drugstore, to purchase this false sense of youth, in dying my hair to an unnatural shade. Having already tried this, earlier in my life. While I liked the look, it didn't last long, as my hair rejected the dye. So no blue hair rinse for me. 

Saturday, 9 September 2017

Freeing The Gorilla (September 9, 2017)

Once more
We stand
On the brink of madness
As world leaders
Rattle nuclear sabres.

In heroic poses
Like a 19th century statue
Covered in bird droppings
And other waste.

As egos direct
The tilting windmills
Towards North Korea
And Washington, D.C.
With their eternal dance.

Where political dogma
Reigns supreme
Over logic.

Rattling the metal bars
Of the zoo cage
Unrelentingly
By the trapped beast
Inside.

Knowing
To release it
Is utter stupidity
Of the highest order.

And yet
We have done so
In our anger.

May the heavens
Forgive our follies
For doing so.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: I fear the rhetoric of President Donald Trump will inflame the worsening North Korea crisis, to the point, one side or the other will renew the fighting. Thus breaking 64 year truce, between the warring parties. 

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