messed up

if i identify
as broken
if my narrative
is
what a mess
i am…
what then?

just trying to work the feelings out. that fucked up self-talk can really do a number on you.
i really don’t know what i would do without my being able to ink it out.
art therapy, y’all.

little tart

i miss little tart me
when my otherwise
insecure heart
was so bold & hopeful
looking for love
in all
all
the wrong places
sad enough at
twenty-two
i am not willing to revisit
at fifty-two
though
i do miss her
miss that bold
& hopeful
little tart
& do
imagine
some of her magic
must still live
on
inside
me.

this is a re-occurring thought i have been having. i was such a little tart when i was in my twenties. some might think i should be ashamed & keep that hidden…but fuck me that little tart was awesome. no shame. none.

spilled ink

last year i thought it was a bad thing
to have a hair trigger
on the drawbridge
to my heart
this year i am looking at it differently
i am trusting myself
to know
when
& when not
to pull the lever that will send you
sailing
away.

this inking was made last night in an effort to use spilled ink… i do like to try to keep my accidents happy.

“eve”
up top: “drawbridge”
9X12 inking on watercolor paper
$45 plust $5 shipping

a fool’s game

i’m already ready
to jump
it would be a bad idea
to push me
don’t bet on me
the odds are
astronomical
i’m already ready
to run
don’t open any doors
i live comfortably with one foot
out
already
faith in me
is a fool’s
game.

art journal pages as i try to determine what stays in my hot air balloon & what to chuck out so i don’t crash. yesterday i was a ship…today i am blowing in the wind. fragile and full of hot air.
i can’t guess–day to day–what is going to happen in my head.
i’m okay with that…but how can i expect someone else to be?

mate for life

i will never forget
his telling me
(his clear blue eyes
dimples so deep that
women gave him whatever
he asked)
“doves mate for life”
he told me
to explain why
when he shot one dove
he would make sure
to shoot the mate
as well
so it would not be heartbroken…
his one small
kindness.

ah yes, my kentucky redneck. a preview of my relationship with dusty. he was a breed of his own–just like dusty. a special kind of damaged brilliance.
i think of him every time i see a lonely dove perched on a telephone wire. not because he was my mate for life–but because of his telling me about making sure to end the suffering of any dove left without a mate. i never really knew how to feel about it.


i wrote this because there is a mourning dove that likes to perch on the telephone wire outside my office window. i often wonder if that dove is my one true love come to wait for me.

my way

i’ve got a chip
on my shoulder
i’ve got
an axe to grind
&
fuck you
i’m gonna do it
my way.

more of this. anger…angst…figuring out who i am. the hero or the anti-hero…i think i am more of the second one. when i try to be the hero things just get messy.
so maybe the trick is accepting that i am not the hero.
& wondering if i ever really even wanted to be the hero.
i mean, i showcase my flaws–i don’t hide them under spandex. i definitely lean to the dark side while still holding something of a moral compass.
i guess things just aren’t as black & white as hero & villain. & who would want them to be? things are much more colorful this way.

the embers of your life

you can’t put a bandaid
on a decapatation
you can’t
try to change that flat tire
as your car
careens off the cliff
bursting
into flames…
just sit back
&
light your cigarette
on the embers of your
life
& wait for the drama
to wane.

the drama is never going to wane. i should just accept that.
but this epiphany did make sense at the time as i was trying to pull it together on my birthday. realizing that trying to get your shit together when you are at your lowest point is probably a non-starter.
except now my birthday is over and i’m still having trouble pulling it together.
fuck me.

loop de loop

i hurt you first
but you hurt me
worst
so many of my
relationships
travel this path
i push away
for fear of rejection
then i come back
just in time
to be rejected
my own little
negative feedback loop
self-fulfilling prophecy
my own
tragic ending
every time i try to be
a whole person.

relationships. can’t live with ’em…can’t live without ’em. i am a mess. my most recent decision is to just dedicate myself to my family & my art & writings to to say “fuck it” to community & relationships.
if i were a man, they would write an epic poem about me–but being a woman, i will just get labeled a spinster & children will fear me.
(i made myself laugh one time thinking about how they never have “most available bachelor” auctions for women–but if they did, it would be a spinster auction.)

mother me

defeated by the creatures who sprung from me
paralyzed by four energies
crafted from my own
left incomplete by my creations
who only seem to be happy
when i am miserable.

ack! motherhood is so not easy. that’s a fucking understatement. i keep hoping i will figure it out & things will magically get easier, but i am starting to think the trick is to realize it is a fucking nightmare & still manage to find the joy.

carousel

i’m a fucking carousel
of emotion
watch me spin
…rather slowly at times
& to creepy music
of course
angry now
depressed now
hopeless & self-destructive
calm & grounded
elated now
full of love
turn a little more
here comes your abandonment issues!
and
oh
we are back around to the anger
…what makes the carousel turn
where is the plug?
is it safe to stop it
or
like a roulette wheel
will it stop on double 0
& everyone
loses?

another take on my spinning which is really clear if you sit & read through my journal pages all at once. i looked through about two years worth & got pretty dizzy.

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