An Untitled Disturbing Poem

Woohoo! 2 postings in one day! Aren’t you all so lucky? Here is a poem a wrote in the height of my depression days. That’s the thing about unmedicated bi-polarism. You end up with poems like this. Enjoy!

Shitty black days with the sun beating down,

my brain screams in agony

and sneering smiles are all around.

All I want is to tear those smiles up.

Coming down from a high

when there was no substance abuse

The thought slams into my mind,

How can I be of so little use?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

It hails down on my heart

the realization of never having made a mark.

It matters not if They say

“You matter. We care.”

Doesn’t matter. Not today.

Say what you want.

it don’t mean a thing.

Piece of shit. Sinner. Cunt.

In my ears,my true names ring.

Sick, twisted anger.

Rage. Despair.

These are what is left.

The only feelings there.

Maybe if for one split second

I could feel the warmth of God’s face;

but all I feel is the lick of Devil’s tongue.

And hate has taken loves place.

“Fuck him!” the furies of my head scream.

Satan’s whore. They know what I am.

But I’ll make it a dream.

I’ll don a mask of perfect peace and smile,

though I feel his teeth ripping my guts;

exquisite pain,

til a Bleeding. Broken. Heart.

is the only thing that remains.

Betty Crocker: a Tough Act to Follow

Good ole’ Saturday. A day to kick back, relax, start drinking at noon… or so it WOULD be if I didn’t have to be at work. Do you ever find it strange that the Bosses of the world- the ones who are supposed to be in charge of the workplaces- are the first individuals to be gone on a holiday weekend? And no, it does NOT make me feel better when my manager words it, “We will be away with our families.” Now, if my manager’s wife actually LIKED her hubby, I would say “Good for him”, and mean it. But since every minute I am with my boss is filled with his whiney voice telling me how badly he is neglected at home and how having 4 kids is so hard, I would say to him, “Dude! Work a fucking Saturday so I can hang with people who actually like me.” At least I just got to witness an altercation between a mall cop suffering from Short Man Syndrome and a Somalian.

Ay, me. So I tried to cook Italian last night. It was not completely disastrous, but neither did it have my Beloveds rushing back for seconds. Last week it was caramel cinnamon rolls, which surprisingly rose to the occasion. (HAHA)I sometimes get a recipe in my head that I simply must try, but most of the time, I pretty much despise cooking. This being because I’m not super-great at it, due to the fact that my private school hadn’t a home-ec class and the only thing my mother excelled at in front of the stove was frying home-made french fries without a deep-frier. (Yay you, Momma.) I spent the first decade of my life away from home not needing to know how to cook; I ate at work- the mom-n-pop restaraunt. So when I started dating my Rockstar and found he could make biscuits and gravy when I could hardly fry an egg, I was slightly embarrassed. Being the stubborn personthat I am, I said to myself, “Self! I can be just as good as Betty Crocker, and cuter too!” I would just like to point out- that bitch ain’t real! After numerous failed attempts at gourmet cooking, one of which included me chucking a gravy spoon at my boyfriend, I was ready to throw in the skillet.

But damn it! I realized I DO want to be an excellent cook. Perhaps it’s because when I think about it, I personally do not know one person my age who can cook well, from scratch. I shall be one of the elite few in the year 2061 who actually knows how to knead dough (while wearing 5 inch heels and glitter). As I have learned with sex, what makes a woman good in bed is passion. So I shall passionately persevere at stirring and mixing and sifting, and maybe after 20 or 30 tries, my breadsticks may actually be edible.