Writer, researcher, music lover, cancer survivor with CMMRD ("double" Lynch syndrome)

Category: Poetry (Page 19 of 20)

Soul-spilling

I write a poem; type out my thoughts
one-handed, a glass of bourbon in the
other. Tap out the title at the top and
declare the date and time of writing at
the bottom. An old ritual. Open a new
document. Write another. Add my time-
stamp. I write a blog post. Later I decide
I’m drunk and it isn’t very good, so I edit
it, still drunk. It’s probably better. I start
on the Scotch. Write another poem.
Restart the soul-spilling. 

The timestamps get later and later.

small

maybe if I make myself
small enough
I’ll
      dis
           ap
               pe
                    a
                        r
                             .

Cannula

Cannula:
Cannulook?
Not when they put it in
Not when it pierces the skin
Not when you know this is just the beginning. 

Cannula:
Cannulaugh?
There must be something funny here.
But no; affix that blank expression to your face,
remove all trace of human. No-one must know
you’re actually feeling something. 

Cannula:
Cannuleave?
Not without getting rid of this
and even then, you never really leave
this place, this bed, this mess
inside your head.

Cannula:
Cannulive?
Not with this,
not without remembering,
not without wincing and covering
the crooks of your elbows
(was it the crook of the elbow?
It is hard to remember, my brain is
trying to protect me that much.
Not enough.)

Cannula:
Cannulament?
Always, and probably too much. 

Cannula:
Cannunot
give me another cannula, please?

I had to go for a CT scan today. So, that’s what this was. (Written yesterday in “anticipation”.)

Wrestling

I have grown tired from wrestling with my emotions.
Why are they so much stronger than me?
I can’t even win an arm wrestling match.
I think I’ve grown some new veins,
I’ve become a bit more blue,
changed into something new,
or maybe I’ve turned into a cliché,
one who drinks and scrawls their troubles away,
but that notebook isn’t far away enough,
I don’t know when it got so tough.
Let go, let go, if I knew how I might,
but both my fists are clenched far too tight,
my fingers curled around repetitive notes,
the same thoughts recurring, the same words I wrote.
Instead of letting go I keep my fists clenched
so I can swing for a punch while I’m entrenched
in this fight with my feelings, because they’re never fatigued.
The match goes on long after the spectators leave,
and while the sun goes down on all past events,
I’m sparring with those whom I love to lament.

A Rap

I found a rap I wrote two years ago! The only rap I’ve ever written, in fact. So I thought I’d edit it and post it here – edit it because it was a bit rough, and post it because even though it was written two years ago I still feel more or less the same. Talk about lack of progress!

The rap is about something that I write about quite a lot – more for my own sanity than for anything else. The extremely short summary is that in 2010 I had my bowel removed due to bowel cancer, and since then I’ve found out that there is something in my family called Lynch syndrome, which is a hereditary condition that makes it more likely that a person will get certain types of cancer at some point in their lives. Cue plenty of screening. On the face of it, reading this potted summary, maybe it sounds like it should be no big deal – I had the offending organ whipped out, everything has been okay since, and the whole genetics situation is being monitored. It’s not that simple. Sometimes – not all the time – it’s really hard to deal with, and I struggle with fear, anxiety, flashbacks, and on top of all that, judging myself for it. I’m trying to work on that last one. So, I write.

I’ve gotten to a point where I’ve been wrestling with whether to shut up and try to forget about it and avoid thinking or talking about it, or to accept that it’s now a part of me and the way I define myself as a person, and be okay with that. I’m trying to do the latter, because it’s going to stay with me whether I like it or not, so better to control it and own it than to make myself feel bad about the way I feel. Yes, I feel like this. Yes, this is me now, and yes, this is how I express it. So here’s the rap:

I’m a little bit more Santa’s grotto than ghetto,
‘Til you see the thoughts in my head I find so hard to let go,
So many feelings I can’t control in my mind’s shadow,
The darkest crevices are reserved for those dark demons
That raise their heads, race out, take over, there’s no freedom
For anything else to enter when everything else is devoured,
All peace of mind eaten even after all this time,
Maybe I exaggerate, maybe I just want people to know,
Maybe if other people think about it too – maybe then I’ll let go. 

It’s taken all this time just to open up and own it,
I’ve had all the encouragement in the world to clam up and not show it,
I don’t know what people think, maybe I should have outgrown it,
But I gotta talk about it cuz I don’t know what else to do with it,
Where I do put this thing, put it in a box, hide it out the way?
I’d just get up and open it, stare at it every day,
Well what would you expect, if you went through what I did?
Would you just pick yourself up, say ok, never mind, or would you hide?
Would you try so desperately to get rid of all these thoughts,
Wear your body out, I don’t know, take up sports?
I don’t punish my body enough for what it did to me,
Get up on the treadmill and sometimes just feel like screaming,
“You did this to me”, these scars, although I learn to love them,
I really wish they were gone, wish they had never come to be,
Wish you had never visited me,
I wasn’t expecting this, one in three but never happening to me,
First you take my brother, if you think you’re gonna take me too you’re wrong,
Rid me of a sibling I’d never even known, never will know, will never understand
All the pain of my family like I’m just an outsider,
Do you remember when – no
He always used to say – no
Shut up, I can’t hear this, all the things they know, I can’t listen to,
So come on and tell me what I’m supposed to do when you try coming for me too,
I just punish myself, punish my body for failing me,
Even though I dig these scars eventually, they make me me,
On second thought, I don’t always mind this, gotta say I’m getting used to it,
Found my cross to bear, sure makes me angry but I’ll take the hit,
Don’t know what I’d do if it happened again, the same I did the first time round,
People say I’ve been so strong and brave, I didn’t let it drive me underground,
But what else do you do? I didn’t do a thing you wouldn’t,
I don’t see what other options there were, I couldn’t
Imagine it going down any other way
I don’t have super human powers, it just ended up this way,
Just by luck, by chance, there’s no fate or destiny,
No miracles or oh, this was all just meant to be,
I’ll take my pride and walk away, take this as a part of me,
Show everyone what I’ve been through and I don’t care who sees,
Maybe it’s attention seeking, maybe I need an outlet,
But since it’s sticking with me I won’t let anyone else forget.

Bourfusion

A little something to take the edge off
To make me a more well-rounded person
To loosen those edges

And what now?
Hey.
Pay attention to me. 

Hey.

It’s hard to write with a glass of bourbon in one hand
and half a decade’s worth of confusion in the other. 
It’s hard to say what I want to say.
Whatever the fuck that is. 

Pour me another.

Photography

We had no camera so we made frames with our hands,
blinked to fire the shutter and held the picture
with faces squeezed shut,
gone from the world for those moments
as we tried to emblazon the image
onto the insides of our eyelids,
where it would hang for viewing with every blink,
its presence in every dream.

Resilience

Is there a magic formula for
waking up with more resilience?
A certain position to sleep in, a
particular temperature to set the
thermostat to, perhaps a single thought
to cling onto like a parachute
while drifting down to the ground, to sleep.
I think I cracked it last night
but I might not be able to
repeat the feat tomorrow.

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