Just a Girl Lost 2

Just a girl lost~ Here I share bits & pieces of me, in poetry, prose, music & posts from writers who inspire me.


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Obama’s Poetry

Although Barack Obama is one of my least favorite humans on this planet, I found this article about his poetry quite fascinating.  His two poems are very different in style.  The poem ‘Pop’ definitely seems autobiographical and I felt it to be a bit disturbing also, some people may not see it that way.

I hope you enjoy this post of an article by Dr. Eowyn of The D. C. Clothesline and that you find it as interesting as I did.

@justagirllost2

~

Obama’s disturbing poem on man-boy relationship

When Barack Obama was a 19-year-old student at Occidental College, he published two poems in the Spring 1982 issue of Occidental’s literary magazine, Feast. One is the cringe-worthy “Underground” about “apes that eat figs.” The other poem, “Pop,” is much more interesting, biographical, and disturbing.

“Pop”

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.

The poem reads autobiographical — about a young Obama’s relationship with a much older man whom he calls Pop. In his article for WND on March 7, 2012, Dr. Jack Cashill singles out this passage from the poem:

“Pop takes another shot, neat/ Points out the same amber/ Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and/ Makes me smell his smell, coming/ From me;”

Cashill writes that the most innocent explanation for the “amber stain” on the shorts of Pop and young Obama or “his smell, coming/ From me” is that Pop got the teenaged Obama drunk, and they both spilled whiskey (Seagrams) on themselves. But that interpretation does not explain why the spill is specifically on their shorts and not on their shirts or how Pop’s smell is also on (“from”) Obama.

 

Obama_Occidental

A marriage and family therapist who blogs under the tag “Neo-Neocon” senses a darker relationship. She writes:

“The lines that begin ‘points out the same amber stain…Makes me smell his smell, coming/From me’ may be describing outright sexual abuse. But perhaps not; we don’t know, and we’ll never know. But there is no question that the poem is describing a boundary violation on several levels: this child feels invaded—perhaps even taken over—by this man, and is fighting against that sensation.

[…] The poem describes a boundary violation that is both physical and mental.The physical is obvious: he is forced to hug the man who repels him, and as he does so he feels himself shrinking. But the violation is mental, too; earlier in the poem, Obama has described “Pop” as a person who has actually gotten into his brain, and whom he wishes to eliminate from it:

as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a 
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.

This mental and emotional usurpation of the young Obama is echoed in the last image of the poem, in which the boy sees his own tiny image framed in ‘Pop’s’ eyeglasses.
 The poem describes a struggle against an attempt at identity takeover, a rejection of being reduced to a reflection in the eyes of the stronger, older, more experienced mentor, who has tried to make Obama over in his own image:

I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses…

The sight is chilling to Obama, who is trying to break free. One wonders if he ever fully succeeded.”

So who was Pop?

There were two older men in teen Obama’s life:

  1. His maternal grandfather, Stanley Armour Dunham, with whom Obama had lived from age 10 to 18 in Honolulu. When Obama was ten years old, his mom, Stanley Ann Dunham, had sent him back to Hawaii to live with her parents while she remained in Indonesia.

2. Frank Marshall Davis, a black long-time friend of Stanley Armour Dunham, whom Dunham had introduced to young Obama to be the latter’s African-American mentor. Davis was a member of the American Communist Party, a writer of poetry and books, including the pornographic novel, Sex Rebel: Black, using the pseudonym “Bob Greene.” Cashill states that there is no doubt Davis wrote Sex Rebel because Davis admitted as much in his memoir, Livin’ the Blues: “I could not then truthfully deny that this book, which came out in 1968 as a Greenleaf Classic, was mine.”

During the presidential campaign season in 2008, I read Sex Rebel, which is out of print, by borrowing the book from the library of the University of California, Berkeley. I therefore can testify from having read the book that Sex Rebel is an account of the unorthodox sexual exploits of a black man “Bob Greene”. Those sexual exploits included marrying a white woman (just as Davis himself did, which was uncommon in the 1960s); “swinging” or wife-swapping with other couples; picking up prospective couples in public parks; sexual orgies; voyeurism; exhibitionism; bisexualism (Greene wrote that “under certain circumstances I am bisexual”); and the seduction by “Greene” and his white wife of a 13-year-old girl named Anne.

(It is the pedophilia that has prompted increasing speculation on the net that “Anne” was actually Stanley Ann Dunham, Obama’s mother; and that Frank Marshall Davis had sired Obama. That’s the reason why Obama conceals his birth certificate. This is the subject of a documentary movie that will come out this summer. For more information, go here.)

Joel Gilbert, the maker of the documentary “Dreams From My Real Father,” has uncovered handwritten letters by Davis to Margaret Burroughs, the well-known African-American artist, in which Davis refers to his book “Sex Rebel: Black” as his “thoroughly erotic autobiography.” Davis had a sexual affair with Burroughs which, Davis explains, was included in the novel autobiography. [Read more,here.]

In the introduction to Sex Rebel, an alleged Ph.D. named Dale Gordon goes further. He describes the pseudonymous author, Bob Greene, as having “strong homosexual tendencies in his personality.”

There are those, like Rebecca Mead of The New Yorker, who say “Pop” is a “loving if slightly jaded portrait of Obama’s maternal grandfather.”

But both Jack Cashill and Neo-Neocon point out that Obama, in his memoirDreams From My Father, called Stanley Armour Dunham not “Pop” but “Gramps.”

There are other reasons pointing to Frank Marshall Davis as “Pop”:

1. “Pop” wrote poetry: Dunham was a life-long furniture salesman whose literary efforts, if any, were confined to making up dirty limericks. In contrast, Davis had written several books of poetry — Black Man’s Verse (1935), I Am the American Negro (1937), Through Sepia Eyes (1938), 47th Street (1948), Awakening and Other Poems (1978).

2. A line in Obama’s poem “he switches channels, recites an old poem/ He wrote before his mother died” also points to Davis as “Pop”. Dunham’s mother died when he was 8 years old, whereas Davis’ mother died when he was 20 and already established as a poet of promise.

READ MORE  Patriots Protest Obama’s Nevada Land Grab near Bundy Ranch

3. In his memoir Dreams From My FatherObama’s description of a seedy and dissipated older man named Frank is strikingly similar to “Pop” in his poem:

“…by the time I met Frank [Obama was around nine years old] he must have been pushing eighty, with a big dewlapped face and an ill-kempt gray Afro that made him look like an old, shaggy-maned lion. He would read us his poetry whenever we stopped by his house, sharing whiskey with gramps out of an emptied jelly jar. As the night wore on, the two of them would solicit my help in composing dirty limericks. Eventually, the conservation would turn to laments about women.

“They’ll drive you to drink, boy,” Frank would tell me soberly. “And if you let ‘em, they’ll drive you into your grave.”

I was intrigued by the old Frank, with his books and whiskey breath and the hint of hard-earned knowledge behind the hooded eyes. The visits to his house always left me feeling vaguely uncomfortable, though, as if I were witnessing some complicated, unspoken transaction between the two men, a transaction I couldn’t fully understand….”

4. Davis fits the “seedy old man” description more than Dunham:Born in 1905, Davis was 56 years older than Obama and would be 66 years old when Obama was ten. Born in 1918, Dunham was 43 years older than Obama and would be a youngish 53 years old when Obama was ten.

Here are some photos I’ve found of Stanley Armour Dunham and Frank Marshall Davis. Decide for yourself which man better fits the physical description of Pop in Obama’s poem: “dark watery eyes”; “ears that hang with heavy lobes”; “thick, oily neck”; “broad back”; “black-framed glasses”.

Stanley Armour Dunham with child Obama (l); Dunham with 19-year-old Obama (r)

Frank Marshall Davis as a young man (l); as an old man (r)

Whether Pop was Davis or Dunham, this much is certain: His relationship with young Obama, as the latter described it in the poem “Pop,” was creepy and disturbingly suggestive of pederasty.

~Eowyn

Dr. Eowyn is a regular contributor to The D.C. Clothesline and the Editor of Fellowship of the Minds.

*Links below to more articles about Obama’s poetry.

The first is from PBS.org., the second from The New Yorker and the third from the Huffington Post.

I always try to present other sources when one source leans more left or right politically.

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/government-elections-politics/choice-2012/artifact-one-barack-obamas-pop/

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2007/07/02/obama-poet

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/steven-barrieanthony/obamas-poetry_b_44271.html

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In These Grey Days

A re post, but still very relevant. 

A family matter, an upheaval, a disruption, a tyranny

that’s been ongoing 2 years now

and

very soon the clouds will disappear, very, very soon.

I hope and pray all comes to the good and that finally

the weight will be lifted off of my and my family’s shoulders

and we’ll once again be able to breathe.

Niki

image (4)

In these grey days filled with tears and sadness

Fear, now my master

taunting me as I am kissed by Judas

Handed over to my accuser

Betrayer of her own, of ALL preyed upon

ruthless her kindness, relentless her cruelty

Shuffling papers = attack mode- ON

Going down her Hit List of Total Bullshit

all HIS LIES and her side show

Eye-rollin’ sarcasm when she gets called out as a Liar.

Rude and unprofessional with ZERO class

or decorum.

She sits there & LIES & DISTORTS

& MANIPULATES the TRUTH.

It’s beyond hypocrisy.  It is beyond injustice.

It is EVIL, pure & simple

and, the mask of being ‘Civilized’

is grafted down to her bone.  There is nothing

‘real’ left within her to be shown

Not an ounce of empathy, compassion or

humanity.

I feel like Daniel thrown to the Lions…

I sit there alone.  

Completely, utterly alone.

Watching her moods swing from snarky law bitch

to a soft-spoken,  jovial, chubby Aunt Bee

with really bad hair.

She has her shtick down pat.

Sharing  little stories and anecdotes

of bad guys ALWAYS getting caught

trying to beat the drug test.

Remember?

Remember that one woman…STAB …

she tested negative with the pee test, but

that hair test  was off the charts positive

she had SO much crack …

STICK… in her system!!!

(here it comes)… STABSTABSTAB

“See? don’t be a stupid crack whore

you clueless peasant”, her soulless eyes

tell you.

and

All I feel is sad.  So sad…

This wasn’t just a crack whore,

another notch on your scratching post!

This was a HUMAN BEING, a woman

who wasn’t born a criminal.

This is a daughter, a mother

Long ago her innocence lost, and now

her child’s is being lost…

broken home, broken heart, broken lives

So much suffering, generations

affected and it’s all laughed away

’cause

“People are stupid, useless, ignorant anyway.”

She loves to stick those pins

I feel so cold and sick, as if I’m going to 

crawl out of my skin.

I get it now.  Most of it.  Need more time

to process.  I’m far from ok.  I’m in a zone

of stress .  I need to get my composure back

I need to act oblivious.  I’m numb.

Frozen in this strange dread and confusion 

My thoughts, flatlined… dead.

Is this what hell feels like?

Her demented giggle never quite reaching

her squinty little eyes,

she’s watching me across the table.

“Eyes are the windows of the soul.”,

keeps running through my head.

Curiosity gets the best of me

I look straight up at her, not past her.

I SEE her.

I see a sad excuse for a human being.

I feel surprised, shocked actually,

at this slovenly mess across from me.

“How in the hell can that woman NOT have

a zillion issues? How OLD is she? She can’t be

that much older than me, 10-15 years? She looks

like a bag lady who just rolled out of bed.

Good Lord. Hasn’t she heard of Maybelline?

I bet she has about 5 cats already ’cause

they don’t know ‘Heil’ from ‘Here, kitty kitty'”

I  SEE her.

A bitter, hate-filled, unkempt, insecure,

vicious woman who is out to annihilate me.

She HATES women. She HATES me.

She has found the PERFECT client in HIM.

She’s a paid abuser.

Hired by the man who abused & is still abusing me.

She is beneath contempt.

I feel disdain, rage, & offense beyond belief.  

Seeing into eyes of a woman

who looks old

tired

Two dirty, cracked windows to

a soul like a rat grey, listless & fat

and a heart like a shriveled husk

dead, cold & black

I SEE her.

A desolate wad of dark energy

Nothing resembling happiness exudes from her.

She is a slave to pride & the intellect of man.

She is dead in spirit,

nothing but an animal, flesh & bone.

She is one of THEM

They are the Undead among us

Beady eyes always calculating

Greedy maws always salivating

Monsters created by shallow minds

The hunt is all they crave

To rise the ranks & win a worthless game

against the other locusts who feed

on the misery of society.

Power, Lust, Envy and Hate

Living for esteem from those they despise

To be worshiped & feared

To corrupt all that is good is their delight

To destroy Love, & make wrong right

Slimy things

Born again in primordial swamps

of corruption and poison

they breed the ancient disease

of fallen Eden

Desperate to be ‘seen’

Ego fuels their vapid lives

Slaves to base passions

the animals speak as civilizations die

They are the worst of humanity

I cannot bear to breathe the same air they breathe

I feel dirty, stained

I can’t wash off the foul stench

of Putrid decay they leave in their wake

I’m contaminated by filth

Drowning in a sea of hate

Caught in a trap

well-laid for years

by Him

Me, gullible, and naive

in my ignorance deceived

Now I see a darkness I’ve never known

Ugliness I thought I was privy to

Books I read, scars received, nothing prepared

me for these assaults on my sanity

Anger unreal, hate hidden, nothing revealed

until the fangs sink in, withdraw, smile, rip again

as if I’m just some plaything

a rag doll eviscerated invisibly

a puppet hanging by bloody strings of flesh

I am soul shocked

I am mind raped

stripped

flayed alive by demons

wearing suits of skin

Strangers paid to hate, not another

human, I am nothing but a

sad specimen below their pay grade

yet,

I refuse to die

My blessing and curse my belief in the Afterlife

so, I stay

In these so often colorless days & nights

filled with prayers and pleas & begging

to a celestial Being I now struggle to believe in

Nothing sates me

Nothing takes me away from

nothing but pain & panic

I am crushed on all sides

I am only living for one thing

My Children’s Lives and Sanity

the rest of me is in limbo

Lost in a fog of protecting those I love

Sleep sucks me into tormented dreams

I fight and claw myself awake

Slipping away is my faith,

yet

I hang on,

for some strange reason

without desire or contemplation,

I hang on

I feel a longing for a distant song

I reach across the abyss and grasp

I find you, I feel you

image (6)VSunCentury

 

You vibrate through me

your existence blankets me

your thoughts enfold me

in the warmth of knowing

I am never alone

You are the flame always burning

Calling out to me as my own draws

new life from you

My horizon, my sun

you always

no matter how foul my mood

your words surround, hold

comfort, enfold

Your soul shines

as I wander in mists of purgatory

Lost until I feel you again

You are a guiding star, always near

though I fall and falter

though I run in fear

Your light burns midnight alive

I smile in the storm

I smile past the pain,

if only for a little while,

I smile

Your words remind me

there is hope and beauty

there is love and magic

there is joy surrounding me

in every seeming tragedy

that I am blessed beyond belief

that I have strength from He who created me

that I have souls who depend upon and need me

that I am loved unconditionally

 

Your words spin webs of tranquility

as they engage my heart to beat again

Your inner strength unbinds me

and reminds me, ‘This too shall pass’

 

I see you, I see into your heart

It’s a mystery, yet I know you

feel it too

I see your faith in me

I see that I need to rise to

truth and nobility existing

within and around me

I see myself

in a mirror untainted

I see myself in you

You see me through eyes of beauty

You accept me with impunity

I smile

I whisper your name

in thanks I praise your existence

in this world, in my world

 

I pray you feel my kisses I send

upon gentle winds, across infinity

my lips curved in a soft smile

in wordless joy for your gift to me

Your soul

your poetry

washes me new

I feel clean

I feel free

I feel redeemed

on these grey days touched by you

 

~

 *And though the darkness has deepened, the Light was and is unchanging and I refuse to let myself become consumed by evil souls.  God IS my salvation and He WILL protect my family.  My children’s well-being, happiness and safety are my priority.

I still find moments to breathe.  I still find moments to reflect and see the good God ALWAYS brings out of seemingly insurmountable obstacles and betrayals. 

Thank you all for reading me, truly and thank you for your posts

I always gain insight, inspiration and beauty from all I read and follow in this blogging community. 

Peace xo

©justagirllost2

*photos mine

 


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The King of Lies

image

 

My Love obscene
Condemned to die
by a court of One
a King of Lies

Thief of my thoughts
this Judas Priest
Blackmailer punk
My soul sold cheap
carried his cross
Led on his leash

A genius of insanity
With gifts of dirt
& blasphemies
he buried me
he clipped my wings
Rabid for
a special treat

In recompense for my sin
I lay upon
stripped to skin

His Holy Grail
my bed of nails
His every pain
I bled for him

and

Oh,

how he loved
to watch me die

~

©justagirllost2 

* image by Lithuanian photographer Algis Griškevičius.

*in honor of #arielpoets  I’m reposting this.  The theme @arielpoets this month of January is Betrayal 


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I am a poet

36244e67edf5d298b7f01176f7ca29af

They say

that all poets

at some point in time

possess and express

in overabundance

one or two or three or four

of the traits listed below:

Moodiness

Instability

Insanity

Eccentricty

and are very

Selfish

Idealistic

Intense

Impulsive

Cynical

Morose

Emotional

and

LoveWithEveryFiberOfTheirBeingNoMatterTheConsequenceComeHellOrHighWater

and

if it’s true

you have these traits

and all poets have these traits

you might be a poet

Depending upon

the interpretation,

it’s not a bad thing

and

I might be a poet, too

though

I live in the same world as you

Poetry is my favorite addiction/meditation/recreation/Re-Creation

I adore exploring every beautiful place

in a poet’s universe

I am a poet,

but only in spirit

I’m not like you

You are one of the chosen few

Whose words speak to my heart’s most hidden parts

I cannot pen my adoration to the ones I adore

as elegantly as you do

So, I carry you with me

I invite you into my most secret place

beneath an ancient oak

whose massive branches hang like arms

forming a cradle covered by a canopy of leaves

It’s my secret room I want to share with you

I gently lay you down on a bed of of grass

next to me as I sit in the sacred silence

I open your pages

I read your poems

Your magic is who you are

You paint in colors

that never existed before

Yes, you are a poet

You often lie between the pages

of Sylvia Plath

and Rossetti

or Robert Frost,

as Bukowski

flutters in the wind,

waiting impatiently

for me to finish

I read your last word

I let you slip away into the pages of places

I can only see in the dreams you write for me

I wait to once again taste your poetry

for I am a poet too, in spirit

and

I’m in love

with every poet and poem

whose kindred words

have touched my shore

~

©justagirllost2


8 Comments

CHRISTY

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~

The past is always present ~ Immortality in ink

bleeds from the heart of Love

beyond the reach of time in ebbings and flowings

sweptaway keptaway sinking thinking

what if this is all there is
what if there is so much more?

the present

my words always true untainted by reason

as constant as the tides heavenly sun rising high

always true ~ as constant as the tides

no rhyme or reason ~ no longer my own

owned by the one who holds my heart

my every thought eternally bound to only you

Dance with the Angels, my beautiful Christy

You were an angel over all of us

You swept us ‘neath your wings

dusklightmemory

Always with love we’ll remember you,

Always your love will pull us thru

you’re forever in our hearts

and forever in our dreams

~

I miss you and I love you, my sweet Christy ❤

I pray that you are resting gently at peace

RIP ~ 05/13/2017  ~ Christina Gigliotti

~

There’s

so much i wanna say

about how she influenced and affected me and others

ripples on an ocean

she was like a star falling into a sea

touching so many

in ways we didn’t know we needed,

but

this is all I have for now…

prayers for her and her family

prayers for us all

amen

~

©justagirllost2


4 Comments

I’m New

 

151e52b24facca41ba6603c87e89840b

I’ve changed

the old me is in the rearview

I’ve changed

the new me drags no chains

my heart ~ my thoughts

my decisions rearranged

I’m new

everyday,

from this day thru

I’m new

~

©justagirllost2

A new song I love and I hope you will love it as much as I do ~ xo

~


19 Comments

Happiness

image

If Happiness is simply a chemical released in the brain

I want to figure out how to release that elusive little bit of bliss

To have the certainty of being able to pull that magical daisy chain

of only always sunshine, again & again & again.

No more to be deluged by storms of life

that every season drown my sorry heart

in tears of endless rain

So,

I always often pray, “FIX ME! Now Now Now, please!”

I beg to be miraculously healed of all my weaknesses and flaws.

I beg to become completely whole, healthy, productive and serene.

“I NEED to be the me I am meant to be and somehow make up for ALL my selfish,

thoughtless, destructive, behaviors of the past.

Make me who I’m meant to be, please please please.”

I plead over and over.

A noble mantra (to my narcissistic mind)

prayed with the utmost contrition, angst and sincerity.

“I KNOW that You just have to answer, don’t You??

I mean,You’ve healed so many people

way worse off and way more screwed up than me, and I BELIEVE!

See, God, I believe!  So, c’mon, I’m ready now, I’m so ready now to be healed.”

I plead and plead, waiting to be freed, waiting to be transformed miraculously.

It’s not working!  I’m still the messed up, old me.

I bet I’m being ignored because I’m not determined enough!

I just need to beg and whine with more sincerity.

NOTHING … NOTHING, but the buzzing voices of my own vanity.

“I must be unfixable.  I must be too weak.  

What was I thinking?

I’m beyond healing.  

Even He can’t fix me.”

I Sink

deeper and deeper into myself & my selfishness

“MY way must be the ONLY way out of this daily abyss of discontent.

This life is all there is & so I’ll make the best of it

until I can figure out how to fix myself.”

It’s so much easier to believe in the god of Me.  

I may be doomed to mediocrity, but at least I’m ‘home’

within the familiar confines of my darkened,

broken mind.

I will always be my own place to hide. (that’s called Pride)

I’ll make sure I always have a retreat

where I can pretend be leading a ‘normal’, fulfilling happy life.

Keeping my dirty little secrets hidden inside.

Retreating into a fantasy world to forget the real world around me.

“I am a martyr, don’t they see?  Nobody understands me!  I have NEEDS!

I DESERVE to be free to be worshiped by others in my kingdom of ME.”

A place where selfishness, fear, apathy,

resentment, blame, anger, negativity & endless self-pity

are justified.

Where ‘escape’ isn’t being weak, it’s being ‘happy’.

Where I’m in control because only I know what’s best for me.

Life should be PLEASING me.

Pleasure and  Control, insidious beasts eating me up alive.

My passions & desires own me.

A me I create in the image of what I want others to see.

Emotions & feelings drive my insatiable need to be happy.

A blank page desperate for a saviour’s ink.

I’m not real unless they SEE me.

My stubborn pride, my petulant need,

my childish mind keeps me blind to all other’s reality.

“FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME because you NEED me!”

I’m dying inside. I’ve become a parasite of heart, soul & mind.

~

And then, through the miracle of Grace,

little by little, day by day, I begin to FEEL so DEEPLY

the pain, sadness & need for love of those around me.

Their feelings begin to matter more than my own

I am filled with longing for something

I cannot define or explain.

A warmth flows thru me.

My cold heart is melting to Love

completely.  

I’m healing.

Life won’t let me declare myself neutral

in this war anymore.

I have to decide whether to fly or fight.

I no longer find surcease in my usual distractions

I’m not able to ‘delete’ & bury my conscience & justify

my infantile dissolute vanities.

I used to be able to run away with impunity

seeking out those like me.

Things are different now.

I who always arrogantly thought myself

so brave & so much stronger than others.

I see I am only a paper tiger.

A coward afraid to

face the truth.  I am words, not actions.

A fool.

Something inside of me cries out.

I’m ready to be free.

I’m ready to let the emptiness

& dark silence wash over and consume me.

I am defiant. I am tired.

I have decided with every fiber of my being that

Fear will no longer rule me.

I choose to be truly happy, joyful & free.

I walk through the valley of humble defeat.

I’m a prisoner of true Love.

I throw myself into His arms in complete, terrified,

childlike, loving trust.

I’m finally ready to let Him Be

& work through me.

I know I have no strength.

I’ve failed miserably.

I know I have to let go of the past.

I have to hold on to now and all that will be.

I’m going in blind, hands tied, Letting Him lead.

I’m dying to Me.   It’s not easy.   Not at first.

I still grieve the old me.

I have to drag myself across that bridge of doubt & lack of faith.

Without humility & complete honesty, I can’t bear to cross it.

It isn’t exactly how I’d pictured it to be, once I’d waved the

white flag,  I’d expected Him to carry me!

So tempting to slide back down that hill into my old ways.

I wanna run & hide again, but I don’t.

I stay and I run, I run, towards & unknown Fate.

I run over that bridge.  From night to day.

From comatose to wide awake.   No longer lost.

I’ve finally found my way.

And somehow I’ve changed.

I am ready to live the truth I’ve always believed,

yet was too afraid to seek.

That ‘suffering’ of this life will bring understanding,

growth & healing and will lead to a happiness

far beyond what my human nature can ever dare to imagine.

That ‘fixing’ means changing & becoming unbroken

into a divine, unique creation of me as part of the human family.

For, how can we know true peace if we only think of

our own wants and needs?

So, now I pray for wisdom & patience

for hope & fortitude

I pray for humility and gratitude

I pray to let go of all fear and control

I pray for the strength to leap into the abyss

of complete and utter trust, always.

To never falter again.  To step out over the precipice

of my fallen, miserable comfort zone

into the arms of an unimaginable

mystical, unthinkable, beautiful

and all possible unknown.

It’s a never ending journey of self-discovery

Self-inflicted tortures of silence & reflection

Looking in mirrors of past pains soul deep

Breaking off dirty, bloody pieces until, suddenly,

like a dandelion in the wind, my soul flies beyond me

no longer imprisoned ready to rise higher.

Uncaged, unfettered, uncovered & free

to allow in a deeper, more perfect level of

all that is truly good & beautiful.

To Love unconditionally my children & my family

To see the divinity in others

To see the exquisite perfection & magic in mundane things

And no matter what trials, disappointments & pain

this life brings, I’ll be able to dance in the rain

I’ve forever changed.

I’ll still mess up again

and slip back and lose my peace, but

I will always know & believe

that Happiness lives

in my Loving the world

outside & inside of me.

~

 

©justagirllost2

*photo mine.  St. Peter’s Catholic Church Cemetery in Carencro, Louisiana