Candid Corvid Productions

When I was in survival mode on the mountain, it was hard to feel settled in my space-? skin-? environment-? I can’t quite explain the sensation of always feeling disconnected, under dire pressure, and of always walking “the razor’s edge” – afraid to slip up by any mistake.

I am good at managing time. It’s just the pressure zones that compress me.

I must help him.
It fits my nature.

We’ve made it this far.
Let’s keep progressing.

I hear that it is possible to live one’s life this way, without emergency drama.

What would that be like? How can I set myself firm upon this path?

We are taught as accommodators and devoted caretakers to “stand by our man” in their times of need.

But, if the relationship lacks love’s bond of mutual reciprocation, it is best you leave before you bleed.

There were reasons I stayed with him.

I thought we were onto something.

But, his plans were exclusive.

Once I am allowed to slow, I remain stationary until receive signals on which engines are next ready for firing.

It is disconcerting to let myself feel set adrift when there are so many miles yet to go.

I crave you like a hurricane that can blast away existence, yet seek the calm of eye’s inner knowing.

I can no longer be left without answers.

Reassurance and strategies are needed.

Worry and fret, fret and worry: a mind’s insecurities churn reality into a flurry.

It was not by my will that I became a “junkie.”

It happened by devotion to someone I trusted, who fled down a rabbit hole, uncaring of the gravity well sucking me after.

There’s a type of madness reserved for special case people like me.

We do not belong to any category, and are left raving until we claw our own way out of Hell, back into “sanity.”

I cannot avoid that overcoming this will somehow change me.

I am terrified that I will lose who I have known myself to be.

I admit I doubt it, though it has burrowed into my brain like a chip transmitting – only dosing enough to keep on course, then dwindling if I fall into need’s reminiscence.

I hate you as a pusher and love you as my savior.

“Tough Love” does not define this torture’s thunder.

I must not concern myself with chasing money.

If I am loved and cherished, it will come to me.

If I invest in myself, I will have power to succeed.

All I can do is proceed with what I know as it will yield true results to me, regardless of outcome’s vagaries.

I marvel at other people’s willingness to take leaps, after having expended my own – before they even conceived of possibilities.

It is not necessarily a lack of trust, as I have been accused of, but rather an insecurity about the unknown when advised by a specter.

Having chased my own intuition and finding it thwarted to seeming dead ends which required more courage to overcome when entangled – quite honestly, I am confused and unsure in which direction awaits a true friend.

It cannot be helped that when we are blind, we need others’ help to guide us, yet rarely has anyone taken time to understand my simple complexity so that I might manifest as what amazing result I came here to redeem.

This nor.ally is obtained by paid psychotherapy – and then analyst agendas attempt to divert my natural inclinarions, instead of building my next levels according to my visioning.

Others’ egos and petty depravities have often beleaguered me.

I am not a unit to be manipulated, though my passion could add greatly to the right campaigns

How does one trust a ghost that refuses to be seen or speak plainly of its ultimate intentions?

I worry it will break, stones will come off, or I will lose it now that I wear it daily.

I have an active lifestyle where sometimes my hands bump up against or bash into things.

It is strange to have this one symbolic relic mean so much to my personality

It has bolstered my courage by my wearing it.

Hope of a better life can be a fragile thing.

I have seen them fall by sustained injury, lust’s betrayal, and self-medication.
Why do I weep for them, when they were satisfied with resignation to be ill?

“Be Our Guest” (Disney’s Beauty And The Beast),

“Konoko” (The Beach Boys) &

“Saan-taaaa Lu-ciiiii-aaaaaa” (male well-known voice operatic style)

Keep in mind that although I may add comments of further introspection, these do not confine the meanings which could be derived from my poetry.

I poke fun at myself (to bruised “ouch!”ings) because it is true, you see?

I am a remnant of that which was once true, now bringing forth the ghost of me.

Ah, such tragedy – even Shakespeare would weep while clapping!