The art is hidden for now. I have obeyed too long.
I feel frozen. While my possession eats the heat.
Where have you gone? Slid behind the clouds?
Perfumed doors. Rooms go from stale to rancid blindness.
I feel bloodless. Accidental and lost a shine. Pale funeral songs.
The black dresses are now my misery
These, that dance above me twisting. Swing dancing into a hex.
All ghosts, all witchery.
Former waves that blew the knives over us and dared us to swim the lake.
Dim are my eyes and bones that have chalked.
As Jacques sings "Ma mort attend comme"
I hold all the flowers, I hold all the crippled photographs.
Elderly and young photos. Fortune tellers in the clouds.
Deafening light from outside. I want the puniness of a weak night.
No hardening storm. No flooding streets and screaming thunder.
They, the geese she'd use to fly over me. I felt lucky to have them.
A new direction. To escape them. To escape him. To escape the cage of screams.
Those 8 Geese of Hanover that kept hovering me.
My guardian angels I would welcome them to my melting wax home.
I wonder now if they were truly demon. Explosions, the apple and all.
As now alone and severed I feel that they are the same as these hauntings.
I watch 8 black dresses hover over me now.
But they in these garments, they bite. The geese have transitioned their colours.
I awake to scissor teeth marks on my skin. So they are heaving to me the curse. Still. The Curse. Always that curse.
Do holy bibles hiss?
Is my god a blonde bombshell?
Is my god a tornado?
Is my god a magical bearded fabulous genius?
Is my god a chirping cricket?
Is my god a newborn baby?
Is my god a morphine drip?
My revelation is a promise?
Le deuxième ange sonna de la trompette
befitting. closing eyes.
staring into darkness, rippled waters I feel in the air of this room.
Leave the lake, become my misery.
In this room that pain stares at me.
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
I met you in the death to skin fires In sticky pits full of fallen stars A dark red-curtained nauseous room with the moonlit hissing Your room is a dying egg shell white bleeding angel artwork, the Mona Lisa convulses off the walls. You broke my eggs to the Dirty Three the yolk is a permanent black crisping to wet dirty cement, Breathing up from the ground To paralyze me to this memory Pause, run, running I feel homeless Fainting to your lectures You fed me pills and secrets You harshly took my heart out, and drained it like a sponge. I have to escape this, I have to escape this, I have to escape this,These claws that gripI have to escape this, I have to keep running from this, I have to escape this, So fast from the macabre The claws that rip The hands of knives want to purge me into the holes, To fall in, and smell the sourness of a body That sweats away the alcohol That dances out all her dirty arrogance. The few that swim out The feeling I have to swim out I’ve got to swim out, This drowning, This drowning, Is closing in, I’m forever changed by your tattooing Left me in tears Leave me scared Leave me feeling sick and departed From my mind Leave me blushing in with fevers and leave in a hypnotic taboo. I drove away When you didn’t want me to I drove away Because I had to I drove away From this Kentucky Mountain Medusa In an alcoholic veil Mentally bruising Mentally washed Mentally forever wondering Mentally i’m ashamed When you were the one drawing all of the lines. In my car I try to scream But I can’t In my car I try to breathe But I can’t In my car I drive faster than the speed I drive into the black hole eyes of the road. Like chaos in the melting snow and the violins play louder “I Knew it Would Come to This” Again Paralyzed when the sky blackened The road feels like a lost tunnel with these, dim lights.
Streaking down through fiery clouds,
the lightning bolt of mind
crashes through the sea of doubt
with wild and frantic cries.
But from the terror of this death,
the mind may soon ascend
and glimpse upon the heavens
to absorb the light again.
Make Believe
The magic world of make-believe
is meant for only children.
When grown-ups try to do the same,
they live a life of torment.
So we write our inner thoughts
in special cardboard journals.
No one cares about the words-
our rhyme of black and purple.
Delusions
Delusions were a way to live
that always served a purpose.
Subjective like a vision,
they always felt so certain.
But now I know the terror
of such a strange ordeal.
Luckily this error
no longer has appeal.
Caustic Brain
This caustic brain breeds chemicals
that taint my thoughts and feelings.
They reek and stifle constantly
and blister moods and reason.
My genes resemble poison jello,
so neurons pause and even stop.
But even if the waves are stalling,
the Blessed Spirit overcomes.
Short third person bio:
John Zurn has been faced with the challenges of bipolar disorder and anxiety disorder for his entire adult life. Over the years he gradually learned that: medication, physical exercise, meditation and creative writing were vital for his long term recovery. Despite this challenge, he still managed to work as a teacher and counselor for over thirty-five years. Now retired, he has more time to write and publish poems and stories.
Other links: Poetry Showcase for John Zurn
Sometimes I get distracted…
Like when I'm talking about one thing
I'll jump to the next chapter,
Skipping pages like stones.
I like gemstones,
The way they glisten and gleam
When the light hits them just right,
I'm not sure if I’ve been hit by light that way before.
I guess that's not for me to decide,
Beauty is supposed to belong to the eye of the beholder,
A subjective paradox
Since we're all supposedly beautiful in our own way.
Does that mean we're all blind?
I'm grateful blindness was not bestowed on my eyes
That I have the ability to see the many wonders of the world:
A butterfly landing on a lily,
A waterfall cascading over a rockface,
The sun setting over the ocean,
A crackling fire on the beach,
The full moon on a cloudless night,
The impact circles of raindrops in a puddle,
All the colors of a perfect rainbow.
Thinking about it, I've taken so much for granted,
Taken so many moments at face value.
I wonder why the phrase is face value –
I know we spend a lot of time looking at faces,
But does that make them more valuable?
You don't hear people selling faces on the black market.
And why is it the black market?
It sounds racially charged.
Like, why not the red market or the blue market,
Or for fucks sake, just call it the illegal market.
Get rid of the color labels altogether
Even fucking T-shirts are made labelless.
Did you know T-shirts were originally made for single guys
Who didn't know how to iron shirts?
I wonder what my wardrobe would look like if it weren't for T-shirts
Would I be wearing nothing but button-ups?
I hate button-ups.
This one time when I was a kid
I hit all the buttons on the elevator.
There were 16 floors,
We had to go to the 12th.
My mom wasn't happy.
It's hard to be happy;
Happiness is dependent on serotonin levels in the brain,
Those levels are a fickle beast,
Rising and falling with the slightest misfire of neurons.
Medication can help, I would know,
I take a handful of pills every day to help with my insanity,
But sometimes I think sanity is overrated.
I just wish the pills didn't come with the side effects
Oh, the things we do to be happy.
People tell me it's normal to be happy,
But I want to know how that’s normal
In a world of chaos and despair.
It seems normalcy should be a state of melancholy.
I used to wonder what normal meant,
It's such a vague term
Defined by standards that no one meets,
And sets expectations that no one lives up to,
Another subjective concept.
So much in life is subjective,
Like our perspectives are all disconnected,
Despite being part of the collective.
Group is a synonym of collective,
But if you look them up, they have different meanings,
I guess it comes down to context.
What was I talking about?
Damn… I guess I got ahead of myself again
I wish I could hold my place
Instead of rambling on tangent after tangent
Segueing from one unfinished thought into another
I never liked the Segway
Just some fancy device for rich people and mall cops
So they don't have to walk.
I like walking,
Preferably in nature.
Something about getting away from everything is calming,
Getting away from the hustle and bustle,
Away from the daily-life lies where we're all pretending,
Pretending that we're something other than who we really are.
When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was in a far away place
Full of adventure and intrigue,
And I was always the hero, but never myself.
I'm not sure if I have the qualifications to be a hero
I guess I felt the same as a child.
Children are cruel,
Unfiltered and ignorant to what words can do.
It wasn't easy being the chubby kid,
Especially when I was considered weird too.
It's weird how we ostracize those who are different
When those are the people
That have the best chance to change the world.
Progress doesn't happen without change,
You think we'd know that by now,
Seeing as how we have to change with the times.
I remember reading this article in the times
It was about something important
Oh, what was it
It's on the tip of my tongue… Shit!
Sometimes I have trouble remembering things.
It's like the thoughts get scrambled on route to coming out.
I prefer my eggs scrambled,
A little milk and a dash of salt and pepper,
Whisked together and cooked with butter,
I wonder when the first scrambled egg was cooked.
That person gets a gold star.
Wasn't I talking about something?
It was a concrete thought,
Something firm like stone,
Oh yeah, I think rocks are cool.
Sorry, my mind tends to wander,
It’s a wonder if I ever finish a thought.
Have you heard the phrase: “A penny for your thoughts,”
It’s always bothered me,
I’ve always valued my thoughts as more than a penny.
Did you know pennies were once made of steel?
It was during World War II due to the shortage of copper
When I was in my teens, I used to steal things,
I called it the five-finger deal,
Now that I’m older I feel a little guilty about that.
Getting older sucks,
Have to watch what you eat,
Your body starts failing you,
Sleep is more difficult,
I already have enough trouble sleeping as it is.
Insomnia is a bitch.
It comes from the Latin language,
Latin was spoken by the romans,
Man, the romans really knew how to live.
In my 20s I lived like a rockstar,
12-inch rails of coke with whisky chasers.
These days I take 12 vitamins chased with water.
The water molecule has 2 hydrogen atoms,
And 1 oxygen atom.
It’s crazy that everything is made of atoms,
And all atoms are made of protons, neutrons, and electrons,
And all of those are made of quarks.
Wait… I don’t know where I was going with that.
Sometimes I start talking
Without knowing what point I’m trying to make,
My mind wandering along.
I used to wander forests as a child
Appreciating the lush nature,
Moss and ivy and grass and trees.
I love trees,
The way they mirror themselves,
The way they branch out
Above and below,
Far-reaching.
I wonder when I’ll reach my full potential,
Hopefully that hasn’t happened already,
I still feel like I have more growing to do.
I wonder if anyone has ever reached their full potential,
What the fuck does that even look like or feel like?
I guess I find it unlikely
Kind of like the idea of perfection.
Perfection to me isn’t the same as perfection to you
Which is perfectly normal
Because we’re all imperfectly abnormal.
Perfect is such a loaded term anyways
A generalized abstraction of a watered-down preconception.
I’ve always been a big fan of abstract art,
Escher was always one of my favorites,
The way he could bend reality,
With mathematical precision.
Math and I have always had a strained relationship,
We always understood that we didn’t like each other,
It’s a language I never grew fond of.
I’m quite fond of the English language
There’s a certain beauty in its overly complex lexicon,
I’m told it’s difficult to learn for non-native speakers.
Something to do with all the homophones and homonyms.
I spend a lot of time on my phone these days
Caught in a digital daze,
Trying to connect to something virtually,
While I disconnect spiritually,
The separation growing ever wider with each passing moment,
Eyes glued to the pocket-sized screen,
Though it held all the secrets to my life’s greatest mysteries,
As the world keeps turning,
And the minutes keep passing,
And I can’t stop scrolling.
How did we start this conversation?
Sorry… I have a problem with attention,
My focus can be a bit fleeting.
Impostor SyndromeI ‘m not sure if I’m as good as I should be,
M aybe I’m terrible,
P erhaps everyone else is better,
O r maybe I’m just reaching at a fruitless dream,
S imply deluding myself with thoughts of grandeur
T hat lead me to false beliefs,
O r is this all just noise
R eticulating in my head.
S o many things left undone due to personal disdain,
Y et so many things were still made,
N ever to see the light of day,
D rowned out by the sea of melancholy,
R enasant to consider myself as anything more than average,
O r is this just more noise,
M ore disbelief of my lackluster talents,
E nigmatic and frustrating, difficult to rise above the doubt.
Post-Traumatic Stress DisorderP ieces of the past
O bfuscate reality,
S lipping from then to now,
T aking the moment hostage.
T urning the tide,
R eticulating the psyche,
A separation from oneself,
U ndulating, a visceral disconnection
M omentarily suspended in a memory,
A ll the feelings, thoughts, sensory perceptions
T aking over without warning,
I nstantaneous and spontaneous,
C rippling the mood.
S ometimes it’s a simple matter,
T o hear, see, or smell something familiar,
R eminding the subconscious,
E ntering the deepest pits of the mind,
S uddenly gripped by experiences,
S ome would sooner forget.
D etached and distant,
I t’s hard to come back the same,
S till caught in the storm of emotion,
O verwhelmed by the memory relived,
R epeating the details in a loop,
D isoriented from the discordant experience,
E ver in awe that the mind can replicate a moment,
R endered helpless every time it happens.
Bio:
J. Maxwell was born in Bellevue, WA in the summer of 1990. Just before his 7th birthday, his family moved to Las Vegas, NV. It was quite the change for him, going from a place that was so green and damp to a dry desert valley. Growing up in Vegas was a diferent experience than most other places in the world, being that it is a city that thrives on extravagance, debauchery, and the vacation lifestyle. When he was in middle school he started writing which became an outlet for him, one that saved his life from his undiagnosed mental health issues. At 18, he left Las Vegas and went north to Reno, NV, where he attended the University of Nevada, Reno. He completed a dual major degree focusing in Creative Writing and in Philosophy, graduating in 2014. He now lives in Fort Worth, TX where he had his first book published SOBER THOUGHTS FROM THE CRAZY HOUSE which is a collection of poetry dedicated to mental illness, addiction, and sobriety. J. Maxwell not only writes, but also enjoys nature photography and making digital art.
Follow Me Here:
Facebook.com/jmaxwellwriterandillustrator
Instagram.com/jmaxwell.artandwriting
Twitter.com/JMaxwell_Writer
i walk past your slumber
catch a glimpse of your sleep
you toss to break away
doors to this dark room
night teachings of fear
i reach the doorknob and find gum
my fist connects with the window
shattering the glass into shards
i climb out
find a light switch
but shadows weave in
and grab hold of it
darkness reminds
my hands bleed
i push myself back
past your bed
the pace changed my feet
now stuck on shoe glue
but your slumber resists
stays undisturbed
my cold breath screams out
our bedroom locks us in full retreat
while wind chimes whisk tunes unchanged
until my eyelids open
Spider's Mess
cobwebs overhead
tell nothing of what’s ahead
fountains of blood
mountains of flesh
inside this room
cobwebs hang icicles
tell nothing of what’s to come
water falls like knives
fire burns holes
inside my heart
and there you wait
This is what Faded Love Looks Like
we both knew
this would happen
tell me you love me
tell me you care
then the times
when you don’t remember
the last ache could spill over
tell me it’s okay
tell me we’re through
playing games on the front lawn
where our soaked feet kiss the dawn
and memories still find their way home
Bio: Maria A. Arana is a teacher, writer, poet, and editor. Her poetry has been published in various journals including Spectrum, The Gonzo Press, and The Kleksograph. You can find her at https://twitter.com/m_a_Arana and https://aranaeditingservices.com
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