Category: Anger

Truth of the Matter

…not to the point of rejecting her own…

Kjirsti S.NicolaysenLeave a comment


Epiphany ensues enigmatically
Truth of the matter
She,
the other she
not the me she,
is the one
not to be trusted
with regards to
Truth of the matter
All this time
Wasted
Accusing
Pointed finger of projection with three right back in her face
Rejecting my light
and the real
Truth of the matter
Of what’s the matter
With all her woeful cries
and cruel queries of
what-have-you-done-nows
and
why’d-you-say-that-like-that
stems from her inside
ancient paradigms
of who she is
And who she isn’t
And where she stands
And how she walks
Not seeing
Truth of the matter
With eyes wide shut
Blind to her own
Truth of the matter
Projecting her
Fears of unworthiness
Twisted gnarled roots
of her withering vine
Choking to a crisp
Attempting denial of
Truth of the matter
She demands
obedience implicit
from others whilst doubting
Truth of the matter
She sits in the hot seat of her own judge and jury
To decipher dialectically
this that and the other ever so slowly oozing
like poisonous treacle
onto a budding bloom
browning the glorious edges of all delicate decency
Attempting to clarify,
Demean and deny
Truth of the matter
Carrying on with fisted glove
Choking the gilded rose flailing and winding twisting wildly out towards others
Thorns and all
Facing not the fears that unravel in her own gut wrenching
Truth of the matter
Her own worst enemy in discovering she has but the most minuscule of
personal trust in herself
In her own truth of
what’s the matter
With her own
Truth of the matter
Affecting full compass
due magnetic north
of her sinking heart
the true
Truth of the matter.
She matters, yes.
Truth is
(And this matters)
Not to point of
rejecting my own
Truth of the matter.

Fallen Venus

“…loving and bare dancing naked…”

Kjirsti S.NicolaysenLeave a comment

Stop piling it on, he said in cloak of shallow insecurities in obvious attempt to find his own needle in her haystack

all the while the threat of a breakdown grew in her like wildfire in her belly holding back tears with a Cheshire grin

Hot and cold, he was

One moment loving and bare dancing naked in silvery headlights of a waning moon

Holding her close against the furnace of a body sheltering her from the crisp winter’s cool air

the next shuttering out her light with a wearing down worded just so and digging deep and salty in to wounds yet to heal

creating darkness for fear of blind faith and truth that she may die of broken heart and misgivings

Stop being so sensitive, he said while her nerves frayed like an old sailors rope tangled as she scrambled for a lifeline of empathy and compassion

Stop feeling so deeply, he implied as he slipped into the next room quietly

as if her fear of death towards doom really isn’t that big of a deal as he fluffed up the pillows

Calm down, he said

As the postdiggers bore their holes

Spitting out chunks of a wounded heart and reflections of wasted time

I’ll leave these promised treats here upon the woodpile forgotten to taunt you in your discovery, he implied, with promises of love burning within her while she whirled and spun in an emotional stew rare, raw and naked real getting closer to going home to god as a wounded goddess

As darkness consumed the light she scrambled for the resonant peace of mind she sought hoping he’d see clearly while he fell into slumber oblivious and angry at her fears and wounds that were clearly not his to judge

Anger Under Toe

“…working on the inside…”

Kjirsti S.NicolaysenLeave a comment

pulling in like a snail to shell
wet, sticky, dark cool and safe
harbored resentment built from pain cringing in salt

to the wound
stinging all over

working on the inside
melting and waiting to burst with beautifying release and liquidation of pent-up emotions gathered over years of sliding among nettle fields
staggered by the broken paths lagging pauses linger just before jumping
in towards tomorrow’s hope for solace and retribution

Piracy of the Heart

…the stinging honey of your piercing lips…

Kjirsti S.Nicolaysen2 Comments

You talk when you walk with your swagger and depth

Speaking phrases with your boot flapping feet walking down the road

suggestive of another way of being with you

 

As if the chattering of the parrots above likely jealous of your walk

as they can only but fly away in a flurry of wings breathless

to the stinging honey shouldered from your piercing  lips

 

Dripping sweet nothings easing into my world ever-so-gently

coaxing into caring lying as if a treasure trove awaits

Your cadence is cacophony across my ears rendering false melody from my heart

 

The whole wide human race has never seen the likes of you

Getting on with your giddy-up gadabout ways and easy saunter

You think you pulled wool over eyes and created a safety net

But the piracy of your ways shines through the dark cloaked heart

from the cool wet darkness of where you truly dwell

Miss Mosh

Dance, little sister, dance

Kjirsti S.NicolaysenLeave a comment

Stomping on in dervish manner in leather and laced martens to driving groove

Playing doctor nursing spiked hair pointing cutting sky high and angry

The mosh pit grinds to a screeching halt with gaped mouths and curious furious stares

As a little sister punk-ette all in pitch black and chains from ear to toe shining with thorn rosey cheeks from the steamy heat of body to body

she approaches the monstrous mash with thunderous bravado smashing in like juicy grapes plucked from twisted vines

Starting in with steady stance stunning the Holsteins of the night until she wants to go home

Twisting into flesh like a corkscrew music pulses and throbs deep plucking

out note for note beat for beat

Chains and cat-o-nine tails flick up towards cracking sound barriers through

limelight shadowing out the glow of beaded sweat and spinning bodies

Bested and staid smokescreens shiver on stage with mics badgered with gutteral

As the cacophony settles into syncopation peppered with salt to a wound

amplifying sound into melting earwax like frost in sun

Ruining again angst strapped up shoots from tips of boots laced

leather taut as the pain subsides in her head as the pit grows wilder

Dance, little sister, dance

The night is yours and you are young

Mama Wasp

Kjirsti S.NicolaysenLeave a comment

The memory of wasps is considerable

Think of the way
just days ago as
combed tight content hexagons
were forcefully swept
from the upper corner of the portal
Wing dander, barely opaque veins dismissed
with bits of yesterday’s news and strips of old receipts

their thermal paper blackened by the heat
flew zigzagging into streaming sun rays like violent ticker tape strewn

Prying away dried cases
straight away swiftly by whisk and tippy- toe reach
one dusk the papery hive fallen from its grace
leaving but a few white eggs scattered on the deck
like soft tombstones

Now
on this succulent sunny bright morning
she returns to the abandoned hive
to the pile of bramble cut and fit to be tied
a mother wasp rises up from the shattered shell
and goes for her eyes directly