Stains of Pain

Cough, cough, cough up the black licorice fire of charcoal vomit from the medicinal spasm in my torturous thoughts.

Think, think, think of the wind soaked blue grey flight nearly leaped from the sunset 8th floor balcony.

Taste, taste, taste the cold blue steel of the 32 mm revolver on my tongue against the brain intended bullet.

Suicide skips this spot today, only to visit again, with hopes to steal the soul of a pain-soaked, willing victim, ready to plunge head first into concrete coffins of city sidewalks, leaving stains of sorrow.

Stains that beg forgiveness from those who cannot comprehend a life of being hunted by pain.

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Knowing The Real

Until you've crested the mountain top

With your mechanical speed between your thighs

Until you've seen the sprawling horizon

With tears flowing from joyful eyes

Until you face the pounding wind

At 80 miles as you ride

Until you face all fellow humans

With nothing left to hide

Until you've veered between the semis

On highways of rubber and steel

You've not known the fear of living

And you've not known what is real

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Fuel of Pain

Choking on fuel

That burns anger,

Pain, resentment,

Spitting of words,

Choking the sobs,

Pointing fingers.

Starving for air.

No room to breathe.

Engine gasping,

Chugging, lurching,

Begging to be,

Understood once.

Motorcycle

Engine stalled,

A breath comes in,

Truth exhales fire,

Burning the room,

And all inside.

All is in ruins,

Fuel everywhere,

Poisoning all,

Soaking through earth,

Paralyzing,

And sets me free.

Air and fuel mix,

The spark ignites,

Engine fires up,

Wheels start turning,

The road ahead,

Open, calling,

Beckoning me.

Escape and Ride

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Fly Black Birds Fly

Pain is Black Birds

They lie under my skin

Come to remind me

Of darkness within

Release the Black Birds

Allow them to fly

Let go of the pain

Goodbye, goodbye

Fly Black Birds Fly

Away from my body

Black Birds take flight

Into the skies

They make the midnight

Release the black thoughts

Pour out the black tears

Black Birds don't belong

In bodies with fears

Fly Black Birds Fly

Black Birds mean no harm

Not meant to be held

Blacken our hearts

Poison our cells

The pain that I feel

Is their struggle to fly

Release the Black Birds

To make the midnight

Fly Black Birds Fly

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Speak Your Fear

Do not crawl inward

And hide within your walls

Reach out with your spirit

And boldly stand up tall

Speak your fear and pain

Open up and cry

Provide it not the shelter

To hold your soul inside

Fear will eat your beauty

And swallow words up whole

Pain will clinch you tightly

And never let up hold

Speak your fear and pain

Draw it into light of day

For in the dark it holds you

And keeps you far away

Diffuse that power o'er you

Boldly cast it out

Hold not your lips silent

Open up and shout

Speak your fear and pain

My love, I beg you try

I promise only comfort

Speak, shout or cry

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Suicide Stalks Me

Suicide is a loathsome stalker who has haunted me most of my life.

My first attempt of suicide occurred when I was 14 years old. I've had 4 serious attempts since that time and thought of it often. This is not something I want to have in my life, but unfortunately, this is the demon that tracks me, attacking me at my weakest moments.

Make no mistake; I want to live. Suicide is a voice in my head that begs me to end the pain from which I find no shelter. He speaks into my ear when I am hopeless.

"No matter what you do, this pain will return. You can change everything about your life, but you'll feel this way again at some point. You'll never be able to completely avoid this. Your only escape is death. You may as well do it now."

This is the demon that follows me from which I long to escape. This is mental illness and while it is treatable, there are no guarantees that it won't return. I make no promises that I won't take my own life one day. Just know, this is not my failure, nor the failure of anyone in my life. No one can prevent this other than God, or me, and only me if I am strong enough.

If I take my life it is because Demon Suicide has caught me and dragged me under and only he is to blame.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I deal with suicidal thoughts. Certainly a societal taboo, this is what keeps so many of us sick and struggling, and often results in death. When one is afraid to divulge this "sinful" illness, one is locked away with only the voice that begs us to take our own lives.

I know he waits for me to stumble. Upon my next emotional crisis, he may be lurking, hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce on me. My only hope is to fortify myself in the good times so as to be as prepared as possible when he returns. I have no doubt this monster will return, as he has so many times in my life. I am resolved to give him my best fight when he does and I hold out hope that one day I will oust him for good.

It has only been my motorcycle which gives me hope that I may outrun him yet.

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Conversations Overheard at Hotel Breakfast

"In 1975 when I worked as a manager at UPS, we had to have a certain amount of minorities on staff. Keep in mind, these two would be part of that, as minorities. . ."

He motions to the two women at his table of five.

"We HAD to have at least one black guy on staff. Can you believe that? We HAD to! I would have rather have 5 white women working for me than one black guy."

The entire table nodded in approval.

"I saw my first black when I turned 18 and took a trip out of Minnesota," the woman said.

"Yeah, yeah, I was nearly 21 when I saw my first one. . . " another replied.

Talk went on to discuss the weather, Harley Wide Glides, tree huggers, what's in the barn, and that cheatin' Mexican man that Martha married.

"For some reason our John Deere had dirt all over it. Like someone had dumped dirt on it."

"I was watching this thing on TV about the Hells Angels last night and Sturgis, and how his own gang was trying to kill him for stealing drug money, and about these women who rode Harleys back in the 1970's and their role in the gangs. . . " she went on and on.

Welcome to South Dakota.

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Getting Hurt at Sturgis

I wear this gear.

Because I've been,

Hurt before.

I won't let any,

Thing or person,

Hurt me more

I like my gear.

Have you not seen,

All my scars?

I hate it here.

The damage has,

Gone too far.

I don't wear,

Gear for you.

I wear gear,

Because of you. . .

(Spawned by a comment made by Vespa Steph about her gear, I found it poignant and timely, here at Sturgis. You don't see many people wearing gear, but most of them are doing plenty of damage to themselves on and off the bikes. It seems that's what Sturgis is about.)

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Sweet Sweepers

Lavender asphalt in graceful sweepers float my spirit high.
Minimal input of handlebars releases my state of mind.
Blind corners fill me with faith, in the moment I create
The present; that is all there is. This curve carries my fate.
I don't know the other side where others have gone before.
I fear not my tomorrow, and I feel care no more.
Because sweeper, sweet sweepers, do carry me away.
Carry my spirit into the blind curves, living for today.

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Disappointment

Overwhelmed.
I'm overwhelmed,
With the expectations of others.
I don't want to hear that it shouldn't matter.
That doesn't translate in the real world.

Disappointing others is never easy.

No matter how I try, or don't try, or how honest I am,
With myself, everyone around me, to my loved ones, somehow,
I'm a disappointment.

I can't please others.

Every time I hear I've disappointed you, it becomes less painful for me.
I cannot continue to care when I know inevitably I will hurt you again.

I'm not ever going to be enough for you.

Because I'm not ever going to be who you want me to be.

I've tried to please others,
In hopes they would try to please me.
It doesn't work that way.
We all just end up hating whom we've become.

All I have left is my integrity.
All I have left is my desire to please myself.
All I have left is what I came into this world with. . .
One life to live.
My own life to live.
I must please myself to find happiness, because I'll never find it in you.
You will never find happiness in me.

Your happiness, your expectations, you disappointment, your joy, your achievements, your fears, your life. . . they all have one thing in common. You.

I will not hold those things for you. I'm busy with my own.

Every time I hear I've disappointed you, it becomes less painful for me.

Say it again.
Say it over and over.
Say it until I can't feel any more.
Say it until I'm released from my pain.

Disappointment.

I've become your disappointment.

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Ancestral Bohemians

As a child, we were nomads. My mother was constantly moving us, from rental to rental, never permanent, never stable. I made friends quickly everywhere we went because by nature, I'm very social. I wanted to live in one place and have a home, like other people lived.

As an adult, those days came. I owned a home, tended my yard, swept, cleaned, took care of my husband and children. I would lie down at night so tired and wondered, "Is this really what I wanted?"

My ancestors were nomads, travelers; but not by choice. They had once been farmers and occupied their ancestral lands for hundreds of years. My Great Grandmother Minnie Burke Rogers was a member of the great Choctaw nation. The Choctaw signed nine treaties with the United States Government, the first being The Treaty of Hopewell in 1786. In 1830, the United States seized the last of the Choctaw’s ancestral territory and relocated the tribe to Indian Territory west of the Mississippi. The Choctaw were the first to walk the Trail of Tears. Nearly 2,500 members perished along the way.

My husband is a nomad, a bohemian too. He understands the longing in my heart to keep moving. Perhaps we are wanderers. . . still looking for a great place that no longer exists.

Bohemian: noun
1. a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices.
2. living a wandering or vagabond life, as a Gypsy.

The less I own, the less I am owned by my property. I want less, not more. While this seems unconventional in this society of consumerism, I am comfortable with the thought. I'm more comfortable in my skin than I ever have been. You can keep your BMW's, your boats, your giant furniture and enormous homes. You don't own those things, although you can't see it. Those things own you. Be a slave to your paycheck, your payments, your bank account. I would rather go hungry than to spend my life working for "things". I long for freedom.

On my Yamaha V*Star Tatonka I am alive and free. I'm ready to roam again. On Monday we will pack a few items, load up my motorcycle, and drink in the lined concrete and become a blur in the broken landscape. I'm going back home, if only for awhile. Back to the road.

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Meant to Be

My exx, me, car builder Chip Foose, and my daughter Olivia in 2007

A short time after we married, I realized that I wasn't madly in love with my exx, but I thought we were good for one another. I wanted to make him happy and I wanted for us all to be a happy family. But it wasn't to be.

I spent 15 years with this man, trying to meet his needs, be someone I wasn't, please him, all in an effort to make him happy. I thought if he could be happy, then I was doing something right and I could find some sort of peace and be of value to someone. But it wasn't to be.

When I left I was so depressed about failing. My mother's first words were, "I told you so. . ." even though I begged her not to say it. Most of my friends couldn't understand why I left because I never said one bad word about my then husband. I needed support and understanding, but it wasn't to be.

Now he's found another. He seems incredibly happy and she seems to be the woman whom he was meant for.

I'm glad for him. I truly am. Because this was meant to be.

I'm glad I left. It opened the door for him to find someone who fits his life, fits his heart, fits in with his family, makes him smile and fills that hole that I never could. Trying to be someone I'm not never worked because it wasn't meant to be! Finding the right person is the best thing that can happen in life and for the man I spent all of those years with, the man I wanted to make happy, I'm glad that my final act of leaving has done just that.

He's happy now.

And I'm truly happy for him.

God, that feels so good to be able to say and mean with all of my heart.

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The Sense of Sobriety

On this, the eve of my 21st sobriety birthday, I am remarkably introspective. If you know me at all, you'll know that I'm usually introspective in some manner, but tonight even more so.

My accomplishment seems blurred and muddy in light of the death of an actor. Philip Seymour Hoffman died last Sunday, just 6 days ago, from an overdose. Alone in his apartment, found dead with the heroine needle still in his arm, the brilliant actor died at the age of 46, only one year since his visit to rehab. His acting abilities consistently enraptured me, transparent, vulnerable, brazen and shameless, his characters were deeply flawed but his performance never was. He displayed his characters as so incredibly human that I would lose myself in the film, forgetting this was an act, a play, a story for the audience's entertainment. It was life, in full force, at it's ugliest, tenderest and truest form.

And now that's gone.

This man who touched millions of people with his ability to make us feel was unable to recover from this disease, yet I've been saved somehow, by an incredible grace, from it's clutches. 21 years I've survived drug and alcohol free, able to grow and achieve so much, and now suddenly I feel so small. My accomplishments have been massive, at least for me, in my tiny spectrum of the Universe, but now they seem infinitesimal by comparison to this man. And yet, I accomplished the one thing that he needed most, that eluded him, and killed him.

He's dead right now and I'm alive. And somehow to me, that doesn't make sense.

Perhaps it's not supposed to make sense to me. The Universe and all of it's mysteries are beyond anything any of us can intellectually master. If I've learned anything it would be not to waste time trying to understand that which is so far beyond me.

I want to make it matter. I want my life to impact others in a positive way because I have been graced with a chance to do so.

I want it to make sense, for someone, if not for myself.

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I Am Alone

And on my worst days, the most painful of memories rise up, and haunt me.

I sing this song, alone.

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It Did Happen

You say, "That never happened."

You declare my words a lie

For whatever reason

Perhaps you don't remember

From your drunken, drugged stupor

Perhaps you want to deny

What you did

What you allowed

Because you find your actions

So distasteful.

I find you actions distasteful,

Unacceptable, uncalled for,

Painful, heinous, hideous,

Wrong.

You allowed men to rape your daughter,

You denied it happened.

You took their side.

You called me a whore.

Whore.

It became reality

Because of you.

You whored me out.

You were my pimp.

I realize now it wasn't for money

Because if it was for money you had other ways.

It was for power.

It was to destroy me.

You envied me

It ate at you.

I'm not a whore.

You're a monster.

You were wrong.

And it did happen.

It did happen.

It did happen and you're wrong.

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Beaten

My heart broke with your anger

I wanted to please you

I wanted to be the one

Who made you smile

So you would love me

And cherish me

The way my Father did.

I made mistakes and you yelled

You shouted

You left me without options

With no choices

And I failed

Everyday

To bring you joy

To bring you peace.

I wanted to show you I could love

That you were worthy of love

That you deserved love

I wanted love

But you could not love

Because I was a failure.

I didn't really love you

I needed you

Your approval

Because I hated myself so

I was raised on hate

I was raised on fear

Approval kept me from being beaten

If you didn't approve

I failed

And I was beaten.

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Never Conform

I'm not reading your emails anymore. I'm not sure who is sending them, so I'm not really sure who "you" are, but just know that I won't read them in the future. If you want to spread news about my exx, and it is so important to you that I know, well, I'm telling you now that you're not get any more of my attention.

The marriage was painful enough and every time I read an email from you, it only hurts all over again. It was painful to try to fit in with his family when they really didn't approve of me from the beginning. Knowing that I was unable to make him happy for all of those years was heart wrenching.

And to you Mark, I have this to say;

I wanted to make you happy Mark. You must know that. You saw how hard I tried.

We weren't right for each other. I see it so clearly now.

You wanted your family's approval and you would never be able to get that with me around. And I was the only person that had ever come into your life that loved you, appreciated you, valued you and wanted you, so giving me up was impossible. You found yourself caught in between what you always needed and almost had. But my love and approval wasn't enough and it left you always wanting, always aching, resenting me for not being quite enough. I could never be nearly enough, because I couldn't be them.

I promised you I would never cheat on you and the truth is, I never did. I left you before I started my new relationship. I did the right thing, because I honored my commitment to you. To this day I still care about you. Turning away from my feelings doesn't make me a superior nor stronger human being. I am not weak because I feel something. But I know you would never say the same.

"She means nothing to me now. She's dead to me."

How many times did you say that about your first wife? How many times have you said that about me?

Don't you see? Shutting yourself off from those emotions is what kept you from ever really having a relationship with me. All of those years I tried to reach out to you, but remaining isolated was your choice. Perhaps that made you feel safe, but it also made you feel alone. Sadly, you weren't alone, except by your own choice.

I made so many mistakes, but the worst was trying to fit in with your family. Trying to be someone you wanted me to be, trying to hide away all of the undesirable parts of who I am and be this ideal you had created, it was all doomed, and a horrible mistake. I lied to myself about who I was and what I could be to please you. I wanted acceptance as much as you did. Perhaps in many ways I still do. But what I learned about acceptance in our marriage was a pivotal, life-changing lesson.

I will never conform to please another to my own detriment again.

And while it means no more to you now than it ever did, I wish you well.

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False Eyelashes

You wear eyelashes of insecurity

Spoiling your smile wide

Intensifying your intent

Showing all you hope to hide

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

Eyes slam at the target

Of your jealousy and fear

Blotting your false beauty

Sickening those too near

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

Bereft of joy you bat them

Fear, your only guide

Shining sheer ugliness

Showing all you hope to hide

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Throttling My Life

It is on my motorcycle I have learned to live and if I'm lucky, it is on my motorcycle I hope to die.

Behind my handlebars, pulling my throttle to it's limits, within my leather jacket, I feel my heart pound and within my helmet I hear the rattlings of truth. I've found the road doesn't lie to me, anymore than a flower pretends to be a pine tree or the sun pretends to be the moon. The road is part of the Universe and dishonesty is non-existent in nature. It has no reason to lie, because it is natural and true. Not to be loved or accepted. Nature has no desire to be loved; it only is, and that's good enough.

I'm the one that has to die when it's time for me to die, so let me live my life, the way I want to. ~ Jimi Hendrix

Perhaps others will judge me for my belief in this, but I feel confident in saying I've done enough for society for now. I've given myself enough to satisfy my own criteria I've set and I've now reached a point where I want to give to myself. This is not a repayment issue; no one owes me a mother fucking thing. I expect nothing from anyone. All I've decided is that I don't owe any of you anything either.

My life is now my own. I will live for me, at my choosing, by my own agenda. You are free to do the same. Hold in your hearts that I will move forward grasping the notion that I owe nothing to you. Your guilt and expectations are meaningless and powerless going forward. I suggest you take that seriously as to prevent any disillusions. Regardless, I choose to no longer make your issues my issues.

I am ready to choose how I live and choose how I die. In that regard, it seems to me that when I decide then I will slam into the block wall at 100 mph on the bridge or overpass of my choosing. I will do this when I feel it is time and I will do this selfishly and without any consideration of you and your desires. Because I am taking ownership and complete control of my life . . . and my death.

This choice is not one of revenge or anger, it is made to bring a sense of ownership to my existence.

I have worked harder than most of self help, therapy, introspection and recovery in hopes of finding some solace. But the pain of my past plagues me beyond all reason. There are times that it becomes unbearable. Until now I've struggled through, powered through for others, in hopes that one day it would subside. That day hasn't come and I'm growing wearily discouraged. If this is my lot in life, to battle this depression forever, to be terrorized by nightmares night after night, to feel physical pain as a result of the muscle memory from my abuse, to ache relentlessly in my heart, then I am not much longer for this world. I'm at the end of my rope.

Don't give me this shit that it gets better, that it is only temporary, because I know that. I also know it comes again, when I'm at my weakest, and it pounces on me like a starving tiger to devour my love of life. Fuck that. I'm done trying to outrun it, mask it, and sadly, endure it.

Knowing that one day I can choose to end it brings me a solace of unequaled measure. One can only take so much.

Tonight I nearly took my life behind the chrome handlebars of my sweet machine. With the throttle maxed, open highway, and tears streaming from my haunting past and lingering, tortuous pain, I simply couldn't outride my own demons. Tonight I survived. One ride I may not.

None of you suffer this with me. This isn't your life, you don't know my pain, nor is it your responsibility to help me. I will choose my path and take responsibility for such choices. It is no one's problem but my own.

Live your life and I'll live mine; at the speed, on the road, and into the concrete wall of my choosing.

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Sonnet Broken Morning

I broke a tear from shameful eyes today
To see the pain I caused within your soul
You wept within encircled arms transfixed
Such sorrow tore down all of my control

Unlike the daybreak of sweet cherry blossoms
Bright morning dew still fresh upon the day
You kissed my mouth deep before all we knew
Our wedded bliss a brilliant love display

Today, dark mood, sorrow, broken morning
Longstanding shouts still hover in the air
Harm once caused has stained my lover's living
Evidence life punishingly unfair

I wiped tears from eyes of two long weeping
I pray the past die within our sleeping

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Overheard at the Coffee Shop

Conversations overheard at the all-night coffee cafe:

"Are you sucking on bullets?"

"That is quite a quagmire, wouldn't you say?"

"Is he slapping her around?"

"Her mother is bipolar and her father is an alcoholic."

"He set up a 4-banger job. . . "

"I've been through so much worse so I figured, I have nothing to worry about."

"I didn't know he knew we knew. I thought he didn't know we knew but if he knows, then that's fine."

"So I wrote a song about it. . ."

"I have a nose like a bloodhound."

"That ought to be good for intergallactic travel!"

"Actually, I don't watch it anymore. I got over it real quick."

"He hasn't called in two weeks. What did I do?"

"Thanks I got it in Lisbon!"

"Ribbed for her pleasure."

"It's a comfort level thing now."

"Are you gonna be here later?"

"Don't sit here Rick. Just don't!"

"It's more affordable than you think, but you have to give up shit!"

"They better be afraid of me."

"I don't know what I'm going to tell her. I really don't."

"I think grad school was a good decision."

"When will it get better?"

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