Kryptonite, Mental Health

Rupture

Rupture

Feels like an eternity chill on the rank,
As a rook passes through my heart
The forget-me-nots decay
The white elephant just fades,
To that room
Filled with regretfully sandblasted sculptures
The opportunities never fully-opened
Like fallen snowflakes on shoes,
Melting and evaporating
Sinking truth broken
Particle by particle
Pressure released
Downpour to the deep

 

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Earthly voids & Spiritual quest, Echo Muses

A Shading Response

After the subsiding of the color shock,
granite grey spills into my day
As liquid rock passes through these lens,
and up to mercury,
to surge the cerebellum bay

Panic flutters in my hearth of garnet consumption
Held a mudra to feel the rhythm
Within that upper mantle โ€” a wild outcry
Some bottled up words burn brighter

You possess the flood
Let’s interrupt our patterns
For we our interdependent

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Mental Health

E.C.T. BEE FREE

She’s a lovable bundle of anxiety.
Thoughts like a cluttered
Chelsea Hotel room.
Awkward with a sizzle.
What is this divine activity?
Her buzzing daemons chattering above.
They’re winding her up.
Building in her an electrical current;
To feed her thoughts
That seldomly go array.
She needs to transcend out of this.
Needs a renewing mantra.
To dive into the alpha.
And awaken back into earthly arms.

Poem and Drawing: Naomi Ruth

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Mine Na 12.

Night of Plight

 

In September’s chambers
Where I stretch out
Cry out
Choke on life’s droplets
Feel the stabs across my chest
Of unquiet love, burned down to sorrow’s howl

Search for reasons in piled books
To be pulled up by fish hooks
Reclaim the joucned amygdala

But Lowell’s ungoverned course
Clings like black iron to my knife

I’m to blame
I sent the invite
And they dance around me
But never kindly touch me
They use magnets to pull from me
What they want
To spin it for their own glory dust
But tonight my back is turned
From these warm hosts
To lay once more with my little ghost

Photograph: Francesca Woodman ย ย I could no longer play

Poem: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt

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Mine Na Poem 8.

Hannah Rae Lark

Hannah, you always soared higher than the skylark. Your dawn song, the loudest, banishing all the darkness of our childhood days.

I often tried to mimic the way you caught their attention, your energy, your beauty, your unshattered confidenceโ€”how you sought more life then the day could bring.

You showed me how to be brave through all our youthful escapades. Held my hand when we jumped into that crystal dusk lake.                                                              It’s okay, the fish will only caress your legs. 

When we climbed out on that roof, it mattered not what season…The country midnight fields echoed our laughter. Your voice booming the loudest and aliveness for the both of us.

When did you start banishing the day? Throwing fire at the sun?                                                      You’re battling against your strengths.

Yes, there is time to lie under the grieving rock, but the moss has begun to grow on top. And the air pockets are closing in on your withdrawal. It must be hot!? 

In the stark night, you pour poison down your throat, but you’re not meant for this bitterness. Even so you broke your wing, the dawn still misses your summoning.

I’m only your little sister, but I’ll fly and sing out…Tell the sun you’re just under the shade. That your song will shimmer in the reflective morning again. Once your done being the Nova of the night.

Poem and Photo by : Naomi Ruth S. W.

Video: Heather Nova – Throwing Fire At The Sun

 

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Kryptonite, Uncategorized

The Ache of February

In the days of February,                      A walk on muddy ground.                By the drowned trees.           Feelings of estrangement,                  A white fog….                                        A dismissal on the lips.                     In consequence, arced collarbone’s of males,                                     Always shaped in lust.

For Moonskittles’s cruelest month challenge.                                         Why February is the cruelest month? First of all, the month of February in the Midwest is ugly. The trees have been dead all winter, you’re over the snow by then, and when it melts over and over…the ground is soggy and nasty. Everything is brown and muddy. *Sigh*  Secondly, you’re coming down from the high of a new year…just want to sleep. And lastly, love is not in the air personally for me.  Valentines Day a trick holiday. February has been a curse for me, but don’t get me started on Doom December. That’s a different poem and more hellish.

Poem: Naomi Ruth S. W.         Image: appropriated- Pinterest

 

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