Wednesday, 26 July 2017

Speaking An Unspoken Truth (December 20, 2011)

Oh Goddess
Please help me
To understand
Where this anger
Comes from.

This black rage
Fills me
With homicidal
And destructive

I struggle
With PTSD.

My last black rage
Happened two years ago
The threat remains
It will return.

Is not me
To want to
Hurt another person

But it is.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Why Can't I Be You? (August 16, 2012)

Do I have
This need to be

No one is.

It exists.

Echoes of my past
Keep resurfacing
In the present.

I do.

A simple task
Like accepting
Or giving a hug
Is a traumatic experience.

As waves of anxiety
Flood my body.

Forcing friends
Or love ones away
Hurting them
By doing so.

My face lights up
Like a deer caught
In the headlights.

As my frustration
And anger build up

Over my reaction
To their offer
Of support and love.

With each rejection
A part of my soul

Therisa © 2012

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

Friday, 21 July 2017

Letter To My Depression (December 6, 2011)

Old friend
Been awhile
Since our last meeting.

Not sure
Why I'm calling you
A friend.

Our very destructive
Over the years.

More often
Than not
Have seen me
Trying to end
My life.

You realize
I am so tired
Of your presence
In my life.

My life
Upside down.

May surprise you
And accept your offer.

To shut you

Your seductive voice
Inside my head
Once and for all.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

A Night Like This (October 11, 2011)

Hear your voice
Calling me
"Fucking useless
Piece of shit."

Your blows
Rain down
Upon my body.

Thirty-one years
Have past.

As similar dreams
Haunt my troubled soul
With their corrosive

The final remnants
Of my mental walls
In August 2007.

Plaguing my existence

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: Another poem from my poetic morgue.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

PTSD (January 11, 2014)

The sound
One prays for
When the past is screaming
In an unrelenting blast.

Stirring up
Bitter old memories
Best left behind
But can't.
Of times
The body and brain 
Are subjected
To extreme trauma
They weren't designed for.
Memories hidden
And tuck away
Behind mental walls.
So very flimsy
And yet
Incredibly strong.
Until triggered
By something
So innocent
Like a song word
Or a smell.
Leaving you trapped
In that moment
Of time.
Unable to move
Your terror ridden body
Until the moment
Has expired.
And reality resumes
Minus the time
Which you have lost
In the past.
Leaving a hole
In your consciousness
Never to be

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem, from my poetic morgue.

Wednesday, 12 July 2017

Patchwork Girl (January 28, 2008) Part 1 of 4

A small patchwork doll
Placed with love and care
Upon the top shelf.
Easily overlooked
By most people.
What chance does
A stuffed cloth doll
With red yarn hair
Have against
A fine porcelain doll
With real human hair.
In the latest
Haute cloture fashion
In sharp contrast
To her plain cotton shift.
So easy
To picture
A small girl clutching
This patchwork doll
Everywhere she went.
Her joys and sorrows
More importantly
Her heart's dreams.
A younger sister
She never had
Though wished for.
Just her
And a younger brother
Polar opposites.
The porcelain dolls.
Her mom
Only permitted her
To touch
On special occasions.
She would break
She didn't like them.
In her mind's eye
They were too pretty
To play with.
When placed
Onto the shelves

Therisa © 2008

Author's note: The first part of four, from a poem taken from my poetic morgue.

Sunday, 9 July 2017

The Doll...Part 6 (January 22, 2011)

Stacey had decided
To dress up
For her 13th birthday
Wearing the new dress
Mom had given her
As a birthday present.

Running her hands
Down the side of
The pale blue dress
As they waited
For Jane to exit the car.

Yet excited
By being in public
For the first time
As a young girl.

Stacey's hands were sweating
From her nervousness
But it was too late
To back out now.

Linking her right arm
Around mom’s left arm
As the three of them
Entered the restaurant
Where they always
Went for birthday celebrations.

Dad was already there
And had been seated
By one of the serving staff.

At first
He didn’t recognize
His youngest child

As Jane had taken the time
To show her
How to properly apply make-up
Another gift from mom.

Before you get angry
And do something extremely stupid
You need to know
We have two daughters now.”

Mom laid the law
In an icy voice
Brooking no argument
From dad.

“Not in my home
Will I allow my son
To be turned into a sissy
By you and Jane!”

He bitterly retorted
Walking out of the restaurant.

“Am sorry
You had to experience this

Mom placed her arms
Around a sobbing Stacey
Trying to consolidate
Her youngest daughter.

Unknown to Stacey and mom
Jane had brought
A long box
In feminine birthday paper
Into the restaurant.

“Here you go

A huge smile
Was painted
On Jane’s face
Matching Stacey’s.

As she handed Stacey
Her birthday present
One of her porcelain dolls
From her collection.

Knowing full well
The impact her words
And gift
Would have Stacey
And the rest of the family.

But she did not care
As long as Stacey
Was happy.

Who she is:

A young woman
Into her own.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: The sixth part of six, from a poem taken from my poetic morgue.

Featured post

Chance Encounter (March 13, 2017)

July 21, 2006. A date Forever etched Into my memory. As if Done by A laser. By mistake And pure chance. I enter...