magnificent

i shouted my demons down
who told you
i was that?
who told you
you could call me
that?
i am not
what you say
i am
rather
i am magnificent
i am majestic
i am fabulous
not
what you say about me
but
what i say about me
i am
feral fey
witchy woo
i am
magical.

i have started doing this whenever i hear those fucking little demons whispering nastiness into my ear. i shout at them. i tell them how wonderful i am.
so far so good.

day ten

day ten at madness
manor
temperatures in the 90’s
& internal
conflict
afoot
who am i?
& why does that little
voice
whisper
“fat…ugly…old
irrelevant”
no!
i chose this
i did
i took this path
because i am not like
them
my bohemian spirit enjoys
doing dishes in a clawfoot
tub
digging through a cooler
for food
hanging laundry amid the trees
to dry…
this is who i am
i chose
this.

after a couple of days of spinning out. i came to this conclusion.
i did this. i want this. i made this my life.
there is method to my madness at the manor.

irrelevant

i am irrelevant
redundant
pointless

and cannot spell “irrelevant” apparently. thank god for autocorrect.
as spoken of yesterday…loneliness & strong beer kinda made me spin out. or maybe i was just overdue for a visit from my demons…

i drew a cat because my cats are driving me up a wall. plotting against me. hunting my fairies. new house; old cats. we are all figuring it all out all over again.

noise

there is a lot of noise
in my head
voices interrupting voices
ideas
moving
in every direction
too many directions
how do i
quiet
my thoughts
how do i encourage
them
to work with me
rather than
against
me
rather than a traffic
jam
how do i create
moving
paths
to
inspiration
&
clarity?

this touches on the same thoughts as a post a few days ago. quieting those inner thoughts so i can focus enough to do something fabulous.
each day is a little better…but it’s still a work in progress.

tea party with demons

the voices come
& the voices whisper
“you’re fucked.”
it’s my nightly meeting
with my demons
they’ve come for a tea party
butter on toast
(monsters love toast)
it’s a thing
every night
the whispers
& epic songs
telling of my ultimate
& fanatastic
failures
i love my demons
i do
i might even miss them
if they were
gone
miss their nasty
little
whispers
& predictions
of doom…
but no worries
they are always
close by
to keep me
company.

a few beers & witchery with a friend had me singing this out about my demons. what is light without dark? what is good without mischief? i do love my demons. they keep me on my toes.

what is quiet certainty like?

surely
life would be
easier
if i could
speak
without questioning my voice
think
without examining my thoughts
act
without wondering what
motivates
me…
everything i put forth
is subject to a three dimensional
inquisition
am i right
am i wrong
am i pacifying
am i blowing it all
out
of proportion…
ah.
to attack
without regret
without anxiety
without a second thought
to conquer
without
wondering
why.

in these stupid times we are in…my resorting to a very simple adjective for a complicated matter…i follow my heart, as always…listen to my instinct, as always…but cannot quiet the chatter of voices within….
as always….

broken mirrors

i keep reaching
out
to exes
as if the contact
i have
with the ones
i still
know
isn’t irritating
enough
enough!
why do i want
to fill my time
fill my life
with
empty
vessels
& broken
mirrors?

more practice with my bamboo pen. slowly slowly learning from my mistakes.
i have that little voice saying, “don’t do that–be careful!”
& i ignore it & fuck it all up…much like my dating life.
slowly slowly i learn from my mistakes.

i have been working out a lot about my approach to relationships & my obsession with exes lately. long fucking overdue–& just in time for valentine’s day.

i borrowed from evelyn de morgan again for this inking.

fallen XIV

it always seems
i am looking
at myself
from a place
other than
me
taking notes
making
observations
i am my own diane fossey
studying
the mountain gorillas
of my mind
i am always
removed…
maybe
i need
to come down
off
my mountain
&
get
dirty
with my human
self.

i am turning myself into a work of fiction for my fallen series. this is an interesting development for me. i mean, it’s me…but on a fictional level. i am sure other writers are familiar with this. becoming their own characters. being a character…as well as the creator. this isn’t the first time, of course. all my life i have been a character in my own story.
okay, several characters, depending on which voice is narrating.
the fallen series is just a new flavor for me…(new flavor of me?)
i like it.

divine intervention

maybe i should not have
but i drowned 
all the fairies
in a glass of beer
with a drip of 
soap
drunken little bastards
they never returned
the pen
they stole
 but now i find myself
crossing my fingers
& waiting 
for the little voices
to whisper
again
telling me
what to write
guiding
my pen
in stories
they pull
from somewhere
deep
dark
inside me
as i watch
& wonder
“where the fuck
did they find 
that?”

how it begins

i am the sad one
the broken-hearted
i am the one
who feels
my pain is invisible
i am the one
who feels
too much
…but when the little voices
whisper
“don’t give up”
i listen
i may be sad
& broken-hearted
…but i don’t
give up.

so if i were to start an art journal memoir…this would be the first page.

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