R. Catherine

by: R. Catherine

Naked and curled, I lay there dejected.
Steam in my face, all thought is infected
with rivers of blood down the drain, I’m affected.
Suicide thoughts in my head are infective.
Head on my knees, lost in my own perspective.
Hot water beats down on my back, I’ve neglected
these thoughts for too long, they rise up and object. It
takes no time at all to feel disconnected.

Walking the halls, I feel too connected
to beats in my ears, my tears, I reject them.
I look down the stairwell, I just want to end it.
The things that I feel most days go undected.
I just want to let go, I feel too rejected
by anything good and I’m overprotective
of my broken pieces that create my perspective.
Takes no time at all to feel disconected…

by: R. Catherine

I choke on the words tht fill up my head.
Panic it rises to step on my neck,
to hold back the things that need to be said.
Things I should speak, but end up writing instead.

Questions I know that I must vocalize.
Like bile inside, determined to rise.
Choking them down, I internalize,
convincing myself of my own stupid lies.

Delusional, dysfuctional, sick in the soul.
Unstable, unable to ever be whole.
Broken and beaten, my minds on a roll,
to bury any light in a dank empty hole.

Lost to an endless beautiful ache,
distressed by the shattered void left in my wake.
Pieces of hope that are blackened by pain.
Never again shall I truly be sane.

There’s beauty in darkness, or so I’ve been told.
But the darkness in me that has taken it’s hold
is ugly and toxic, burns down to the bone.
It creeps up the veins, a disease ridden mold.

These pitiful lies serve in a special way.
They keep hidden everything that I should say.
Hide and seek is their favorite game.
Hiding me is the ultimate play.

This is my choice to make up these things.
To excuse myself from chasing my dreams,
or proving my truth by facing the seams
that make up the corpse of all that is me.

Stitches to show that I’m not at all perfect.
Facing that truth for you should be worth it.
Choosing to speak, to face you in person,
might just be salvation for the me that I torment.

by: R. Catherine

Under the witching moon, she chants the ancient song.
Singing to the twilight sky to bring a lover home.

A maiden fair had come to her desparate in her plea.
Longing for her gentle lad, who seeks his fortune out at sea.

“Bring him home!”, she said, “To fill my heart and warm my bed.”
With eyes glowing, a firebright, the witch woman spoke into the night.

“Caution, dear.” In somber tone, echoing in the deeping wood.
“Pure, the love you have must be for this magick to do any good.

Should any other kind prevail, obsession will give way to greed.
Selfish desire turns passion to madness that will forever control the head.”

“You have my word, this love is true.” tears in the maid’s sapphire eyes.
With one last word the spell was done and cast off into distant skies.

She watched as the maiden fair disappeared into the mist,
and looked down at a familiar figure that arched and gave a reproachful hiss.

“I tried my best.” The witch woman shrugged winking at her lover moon.
For she knew full well the lover’s fate would begin with the rising sun.

A watery bed awaited the maid, her blood on the hands of the gentle lad.
For pure a love must always be if using magic to force fate’s hand.

Into the darken woods the witching woman wandered on.
Shedding robes she tipped her hat, to dance bare under the witching moon.