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Mental
Mental
The pyramids he built had magical powers, sharpening his used razor blades while happy-sad Jesus watched from a frame on the wall.
Then he dismantled the family car, replicating a Chilton’s Manual diagram on the driveway.
He often argued with a gun barrel. It had the last word eventually, silencing the voices.
~kat
A word about this week’s 52 Words in 52 Weeks Story. The prompt was “pyramids”.
When most people think of “pyramids” they think of the ancient wonders in Egypt. When I hear the word “pyramid” it triggers memories of my dad and one of his many obsessions.
No one noticed the signs, or if they did they didn’t say, because we didn’t talk about mental illness back then. People suffered in silence, or self medicated with alcohol like my dad. He may very well have been a genius, but he was also bat-shit crazy. I loved him dearly; he terrified me. He was the “monster” of my childhood nightmares.
So I’m stepping up on my soapbox for a moment. Mental illness is not a weakness or embarrassment. We need to talk about it. For heaven’s sake, if you or someone you love is suffering, get help. There is help to be found. There is no one like you. Really. No one like you.
And if writing about this can help save just one person from my dad’s fate, it will have been worth pouring my heart out on this page….
Safe – A Haiku
there is no safe place
no high ground, no border wall
to save us from us
~kat
For Haiku Horizons Challenge, prompt word, safe.
Magnetic Poetry Monday
in the forest deep where
moss grows thick and
roots weave an ancient
path through the cool,
dark shade, wild souls
hover between worlds…
if you’re quiet you
can almost hear
them breathing
~kat
Magnetic Poetry – Nature Kit
Shi Sai Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 27 August 2017
Some believe innocence is only a casualty of childhood lost, but I know this is not true. Even grown ups cling to wisps of innocence, suffering its loss when it slips away. The only difference is we call it hope.
The hope that deep down all people are decent and good and will do the right thing if given the chance.
The hope that bad things and people eventually pay for the harm they perpetuate.
The hope that people see us for who we are inside, not judging us for our faith, the color of our skin, where we were born, or who we love.
The hope that everything happens for a reason and in the end all things work together for good.
Children aren’t the only ones at risk of losing innocence. And there are many ways to suffer it’s loss. A parent will cushion the harsh blow when their child discovers that there is no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy, by telling them the truth; that those fantastical characters are in fact a mommy and daddy who love them very much and just wanted to make their life special. But who is there to reassure us as adults when the world we hoped in, and believed existed, begins to crumble away?
Some turn to faith, while some look to others to make things right. But even the strongest faith or the greatest savior in the flesh can leave us feeling empty, inconsolable because of the gnawing questions everyone asks in times of lost innocence, lost hope….”How could…Why would…What now…Who can I trust?”
The honest answer, the one we may not want to hear, is that some things can’t be fixed, made right, or restored. Just as a child can’t unknow the truth that Santa is not real, we cannot unknow the reality of the world, with its imperfections and cruelty, once it reveals itself in the light.
But one thing I do know is that the end of the world as we once knew it is not the end of the world. We go on. We always go on, a little wiser perhaps, but hopefully not jaded. Innocence is a bit overrated in my opinion. Hope can be too, when reality is not taken into account. I’ll take truth and light over the alternative any day… even if it hurts.
Shi Sai Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 27 August 2017
harmony murmuring
sifts first through sludge and shale
a sight deemed tasteless
where’s the lens filter
to reignite hope’s embers
shell shards spawn the shore
I just don’t think I’m into roughing it
Who likes cookies?
incogitant tweet perhaps,
spoken from privilege
only for a season
you can ask any child
if we could remember
storms, singing in the rain
~kat
A shi sai or ReVerse poem is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the shi sai features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.
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