Category Archives: poetry & lyrics

words that move me, some from others, some mine.

Scott Bennie’s Thoughts on Depression and Anxiety

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… depression is a disconnection of one’s emotions from the real world. It isn’t just melancholy or feeling down, it’s your emotional telephone dangling off the cradle while your hands are too weak and useless to put it back where it should be.

Attempting either to give pep talks or use “tough love” to people who suffer from depression rarely if ever works. If it was that easy to get people out of it, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem.

Anxiety is taking the panic button in one’s head, that impulse that tells you that you’re about to die, and holding it down. You have no idea why it’s being pressed, you feel incredibly weak and stupid and foolish that it’s being pressed, to the point where you feel useless and worthless — and it still won’t go away.

A prolonged anxiety attack is the closest thing to a living hell that I know. They’re a scream that doesn’t stop which drowns out all sounds except the panic and the accompanying feelings of worthlessness, and it’s nearly impossible to get any message through that noise until the trigger stops being pressed.

~ Scott Bennie

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We have come to be danced

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Come_to_be_danced_poster
We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance

We have come to be danced
not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance

We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance

WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance

We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance

We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME

~Jewel Mathieson

Prayer for the Dawn

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The young cat’s alarm
    is the wail of a newborn
a thin, needy siren
    that ends as a question

The sentinel terrier
    issues a warning
squares off at his post:
    are you friend or foe?

Locomotive approaches
    clears throat in apology
blows nose at the crossing
    and slips toward the sky

I inhale the clearness
    the end of our sleeping
the bliss of the morning.
    Happy to be.

shadow

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today I would dismiss the loopholes
the drifting gaze
the dodgy non-sequiturs

today I would accept the dalliance
the research
the confession

today I would creep past your keeper
stare down your hesitation
welcome your compromise

today I would pray for a beginning or an end
to this dead air
to this interruption
to this.

for the lovelorn

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Over and over I hear what must be the epic rhetorical question? Why did he/she leave me? There are as many answers to that as there are broken hearts.

Perhaps one answer is this simple: let’s say A has been miserably lonely for what seems like eons. And B comes along with a few delightful hours. The contrast is so painfully sharp that A finds it shocking and eventually intolerable. So it seems easier for A to drop off B’s radar and return to what is familiar and safe.

Isolation ensures that our feelings will not be trampled upon by another. Superficial encounters beckon with the myth that we can just check our feelings at the door. True intimacy requires trust, and that’s just in short supply.

So we dance and dance and dance.

moonset

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The room is dark and filled with white noise from the nightstand. Your broad back is rounded in twilight sleep, close and solid. I am pressed against you, inhaling your warmth, sipping the heat of your skin. The day is gathering its events to be unwrapped and examined, but for just this minute, I am still and quiet in your bed.

Permanent

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I am not a boy.

I have straight, dark hair.

I am four.  My best friend is beautiful. And I am not.

She makes me sit in a chair.
She pulls my hair and twists it around tiny plastic things.
I like to play with the little sheets of tissue paper.

Sit still, she says.
Here, you can hand these to me, one at a time.

I feel important.  I am helping her.

I don’t like the cold dripping down my neck.
I don’t like the smell.
It’s hard for me to breathe.

But she looks determined and certain.  This will make you beautiful, she says.

The plastic things are sticking into my head.
I want to scratch but she says no.
Just a little longer and you will be beautiful.

I want to be beautiful.  Then she will love me.

She pulls a chair to the sink and pushes my head under the faucet.
The water is warm and feels so good I want to stay there forever.

But I have to be neutralized first.

I am wet and cold and the skin of my head feels like a blister.
But she squirts the neutralizer onto my head.
We’re almost done, she says.

The sun is shining.  I can see the lawn through the glass door.
My friend comes to the door.  She is beautiful.

But I cannot go outside.

I am not beautiful yet.

not long

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STRAWBERRY © Beata Wojciechowska | Dreamstime.com

I think to myself, I just want one night of love with you. Just one. Just one night. A few hours. One hour, maybe two. That’s all I need. Not long.

I think this and then I go back to work. I work for a while. Then I find myself thinking it again.

Then I go back to work some more, only now I am aching and wet. Thinking I will mow the lawn even if it doesn’t need it, so I can exhaust myself and maybe the fire in my knickers.

Salad. I’ll make a salad. I’ll use balsamic vinaigrette and strawberries and romaine and that will satisfy my need for wanting to lick you from neck to thigh.

Tears well up into my eyes and I wonder why. Maybe I’m so wet it’s leaking out from my eyes.

Hopscotch (excerpt) ~ Julio Cortázar

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My hands want to hide in your hair, stroke the depth of your hair while we kiss with mouths full of flowers or fish, of living movements, of dark fragrance.

And if we bite each other, the pain is sweet, and if we drown in a short and terrible surge of breath, that instant death is beauty.

And there is a single saliva and a single flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you shiver against me like a moon on the water.

~ Julio Cortázar