This is Where I Drown

The last two years I have been trying to outrun a tsunami. It has caught a second wind, but my legs are broken. Time to lay down. No sense in holding my final breath.

© 2020 RB

My Story – Succinct

The very beginning I do not recall. I feel the remnants of the memories of not being alone. I am a twin. He was taken away when we were seven. We have an older brother. He is the only one that remained with our mother. I love both of my brothers more than they know and I am so proud of them and what they’ve accomplished. We were poor. We are all disabled. I had an imaginary family with an imaginary home. I remember it still to this day. I would stay up at night, under my blanket, and daydream about my secret life – imagining eating turkey dinners. I could taste it as my stomach rumbled – keeping me from falling asleep. My abusive father was gone by the time I was nine. He did not always pay child support. We did not always have electricity and we seldom had enough to eat. He did take us out, though, later on. My mother and I did not get along. We did when I was a toddler – I vaguely remember some bonding moments. I was never given a set of keys to my home and she kicked me out regularly. I moved in with my father when I was 11 – until I entered a group home at 14 after spending time in shelters and on the street, hiding for my own safety. I was a high-achieving, talented child with many accolades and awards. From where the motivation came, I can not say; possibly to feel a sense of control over my life, to aim for better things, the thought that one day I may learn what happiness feels like. The early years that I do remember were terrifying, violent, unstable, lonely. Middle childhood up until early adulthood seemed like an endless stream of suicidal ideations and assaults; verbal, physical, sexual. I almost died when I was twenty. I moved to another state. Despite everything, I had attended the single top high school in the country, skipped a grade, and earned a MS Ed. in Psychology. It gave me insight. It made me feel hopeless. Although I found love in high school with someone amazing, I sabotaged it and I have been paying karmically ever since. People are programmed to be self-serving; self-persevering. I learned what depressive realism is. My 20s consisted of a string of toxic relationships. Got into a bad car accident. Forever disabled. I spent my 30s in complete solitude. I wanted a family. I wanted love. I could have – should have – died.

For what did I survive?

This is my story. Succinct.

© 2020 RB

Erase Me

You treat me like a criminal.
Unworthy,
Deserving of solitary confinement,
Not fit for society.
Serving a life sentence.
Death is my only way out,
To be burried without a service,
In an unmarked grave.
Erased.

© 2020 RB

A Harsh Reality

You don’t determine your own value in this world – other people assign it to you.

It doesn’t matter if one loves themself. It matters if they are loved by others.

A harsh reality.

© 2020 RB

Enough

I will not be bullied or silent anymore. I will defend what is right even if it is often a losing battle. Ignorant people are everywhere. Some of us need to be teachers and we all have listening and learning to do. I will not be the last pillar to fall before this structure collapses entirely.

© 2020 RB

An Unrealistic Expectation

I live in a world that I do not understand. I feel disconnected – like a missing link – not quite human but some type of intelligent, unknown hominid deserving of personhood. Evolved in some ways – yet, some kind of mutant. The first, the last, the only one of my kind. Not quite a person but still a primate that requires love and friendship; a sensitive, misunderstood, sentient being with a wide range of emotions who is terrible at making small talk, cannot physically tolerate loud noises and pungent odors, and occasionally writes run-on sentences.

Inconsequential things do not interest me. Ask me a simple question and I will respond as thoroughly – and often unnecessarily and sometimes contextually inappropriately – as I can. I will tell you everything I know about the subject. I like to understand the way things work. I read a lot. I do not notice – nor do I understand – why people do not like this behavior. Unecessary time consumption? Why ask if you are not interested? I just say, “tell me more”. I am invested. I am learning something.

I like picking up new skills: changing a tire, fixing a garbage disposal, plant grafting, going to a boxing class. I want to know everything. However, I am limited. My mental and physical capacity is insufficient – so is yours – so is everyone’s; the tools and resources do not exist – they have not yet been invented.

Shakespeare was right: we are all just actors on a stage. I am a performer with no theatre or audience, standing in the spotlight, nervously looking at a world full of nothing but empty chairs. My performance is irrelevant – no one is present to see or hear. There are no eyes or ears. I am invisible. I am alone. Still, I feel the pressure to be liked and accepted. An impossible feat. An unrealistic expectation.

© 2020 RB

A Hero

Is a hero still a hero if they have long rested their head?
Is a hero still a hero when that hero is dead?

© 2020 RB

Lonely, Empty Museum Wings

I know you’re out there and I do hope we meet,
Or meet again.

We can love eachother and not be alone anymore.

Lonely,
Empty Museums Wings.

Do you look to the moon the same time as I?
Do you like to watch the ball drop on NYE?
Do you still believe in romance?

There are parts of me I never knew were taken,
Until I realized they may never return.

How much are these pieces worth,
Parts of me,
If you had to assign a monetary value?

Should I be sold for scraps?
Am I totaled?
Will this ride survive?

Mobility is key.

© 2020 RB

A Woman’s Voice

It isn’t that easy.
You don’t understand.
One day you’ll realize:
You’re lucky to be a man.

Things may come easy –
For you,
Not for me.
I’m lonely and terrified.
You just don’t see.

© 2020 RB

1996

I am my own prisoner,
A flighting soul trapped in a surrendered mind, A victim of my life’s own living.

© 1996 RB

Shameless

For this season’s premiere,
You were not there,
You were six feet underground.

I imagined you in your chair,
With disheveled hair,
I forgot that you were gone.

You purchased burial plots,
For all of your kids,
Everyone but me.

Now you are dead,
And I am in bed,
Watching our favorite TV.

© 2019 RB

The Heart Cannot See

With much to consume and little to do,
I’ve flattered and faltered to benefit you.
This preposterous infatuation has lead me to believe,
When it is the eyes that are watching,
The heart cannot see.

© 2001 RB

This Painful Queue

I see the truth,
I look away,
Pain better suited for another day. 
That time never comes and it all piles on,
Hopefully,
Eventually,
One day it is gone. 

© 2019 RB

5:59 AM

A cellophane wrapper,
Not recycled.

A new baby’s hamper,
Full.

A tearful dollop,
Salty and wasteful.

Soiling.

© 2019 RB

October 30th, 2018

The end is near and that’s okay,
I don’t want to see another day.
The birds will still sing and people will dance.
As if I never happened,
I never stood a chance.

© 2018 RB

The Sincerely, True You

You laugh at others and their imperfections –
While blindly staring at your own reflection.

You’re liked by others,
A fact so true.

But nobody knows the sincerely,
True you.

© 2011 RB

Anti-Love Potion

I am what you made me –
Some say strong and some say crazy.

When I’m all alone with nothing to do,
Lonely,
I realize,
It’s not me,
It’s you.

The world has lost the bulk of it’s sparkle.

What seemed like love actually feels awful.

Now I isolate myself and my emotions,
Until I discover an anti-love potion.

© 2012 RB

Damn My Fears

Damn my fears of falling down with people staring as I frown.

In pain I feel I’m all alone,
The only place that’s safe is home.

I try not to think of the way that I’m feeling.

I use humor,
As laughter assists with the healing.

© 2012 RB

As She Molded Back Into the Tub of Wax

As she molded back into the tub of wax,
The medley that she came from,
She often thought it to be hard to maintain the shape she desired:

A little bird of yellow feathers with polka-dots of red,
Who sang a dark,
Blue song the whole night long and this is what she said:

Although I’d rather be a yellow bird than anything that’s grander,
I often find it all too hard to eat when life is bitter.

It’s easier this way you see,
To blend with all the others,
As broken wings and solemn things die slowly in the winter.

© 2001 RB

I Don’t Want to be Your Rag Doll Anymore

I don’t want to be your rag doll anymore.

My threads have worn thin and I barely recognize myself.

Once an item of adoration,
No one wants to play with me anymore.

I’m tired of sitting in your junk drawer with my eyes drawn open.

Reluctantly smiling hurts my tired,
Drunk jaw.

It will take some crafty stitching to keep this baby doll from falling apart.

© 2007 RB

A March Without a Beat

Walking towards the music to the sounds of my despair,
If only I could better listen to the true rhythm that is there.
I dance solemnly without a partner,
To a march without a beat,
This chaotic twisting pattern has proved to be too much for my feet.
The pain that once was centered has traveled up and down my spine.
It has made me clumsy in my steps and foolish in my mind.
As I stumble out of these inconsistencies,
I hope to fall into my place.
But I only land inside a different song with a faster,
More painful pace.

© 2002 RB

Looking to the Shadows

The past is a familiar juxtaposition of dreadful memories.
An existentialist’s nightmare is to not understand themself.
They do not comprehend what they have been through,
However,
Fear to go back.
They no longer wish for death because they have already degraded to their minimal reality.
At the climax of depression they feel as though loneliness is enough to kill them.
Once resilient,
They are disappointed by their inability to render reason –
Alone in a cave looking to the shadows to lead them to the light.

© 2002 RB

In Late November

In late November a leaf falls from a tree and is swept by the wind. Although beautiful, in the grand scheme of life she is rather insignificant and much like the others who came before her; their fate to decompose and become a source of energy for those who follow. Although she is slightly wilted and rough around the edges, a passerby notices her and finds her both unique and beautiful, possessing a perfect medley of characteristics that could never be again. He picks her up and places her in his favored journal, where he cherishes her forever as his gift from the wind.

© 2000 RB