As she moved it was poetry in motion
A product of her chaos and inner commotion
Graceful yet destructive as she leapt through the air
Through her movements her mind was laid bare

Yet those tears still fell softly down her face
Embracing the tears, she picked up her pace
Moving through the motions her mind starts to clear
Releasing her emotions a smile starts to appear

The music ends, she falls to the floor
The turmoil is back.........forever more

Everyday in the heat
Sweat beads down
Drips into my eyes
Stings on
Every stride
One foot in front of the other
The knee
Aches
No stopping now
So far from home
How the sun
Bakes
Surrounded by nature
And speeding cars
Inches from hitting
Inches from ascending to the stars
Roads must be explored
Pain must wait
For the freedom of moment
And the speed of life
Is what fulfills
This traveling heart
each beat
Puts one
Foot in front
Of the other
I will
Go so far

some kind of perpetual motion
perpetual motion
this movement took this

what a strange love
strange disgust
where did all this come from

what a strange light
strange moon and stars
where did all this come from

what a strange night
strange strange shadows
where did these shadows come from

oh my mind oh my mind
oh why do I say it all
why there is all this

why the torch burns on fire
why the blood runs running
where did all this come from

why disappearances
why is nothing to us all
never reach
why there is all this

13.07.18

I'm just attempting to manage my emotions,
I'm doing the best I can,
Mostly I think I'm doing very ******* well,
Or maybe I just want all these "professionals" to be wrong.

Occasionally I stop and remember:
"Of course they're right Chloe,
How can you possibly say you don't have deep psychological issues right now?"
But since these dissociative symptoms have started:
I've felt amazing mentally.

I must admit that before that,
I felt pretty bad - bad enough to actually admit and ask for help,
But doesn't that show how I'm "dealing with it",
I don't like people telling me my body's dealing with my psychological feelings physically,
I express myself all the **** time,
And they don't know anything!

I'm sick of the psychoanalysis,
And then them claiming they don't psychoanalyse
On that website they keep telling me to revisit.
They seem to think if you talk about your problems -
They just disappear!
And if you educate yourself on conversion disorders -
The symptoms will finally go away!
I could go through that website,
A thousand times and I will still
Remain to have spasms, tremors
And weakness.

I am managing my thoughts and feelings at the moment,
But that doesn't help me manage my physical symptoms:
They are literally debilitating and unmanageable,
Only they tell me I need to "accept it",
This whole poem is showcasing me doing exactly that.
As many times as I deny thinking that this is a functional illness,
I match referring to it as just that.

It's funny that I write so much,
And almost worship the skill
Yet I haven't felt the need to write about what's been happening for months now.
The reason I finally am in this moment,
Was actually because
I think I'm starting to feel things again,
And now I'm wondering if I've been pushing all of it back,
Which is exactly what they want to hear,
So they can say "your body's expressing it because your mind can't manage it, you need to express and deal with this."
You know what?
I really do wonder what the hell they think that "coping" is!

Maybe they would just say,
I'm avoiding my feelings and memories right now,
By coming to my notes section to seek some peace,
As what they would like to think of as a facade,
All comes crumbling down.

The waves of intensity belong to me,
And as much as I don't always enjoy them,
You can leave them all alone because they're mine,
And you can't tell me how or if I'm handling them properly.
Sometimes I just feel like this is who I am,
This is what I'm prone to,
And if you want me to just get over it then fine,
I didn't seek you out in the first place
So if you want to think that I'm over it,
Then that's okay with me.

I should have tied them tighter,
he thought to himself.
No point in focusing on what I did wrong,
or rather what I didn't do right.
He got up off the pavement
and without thinking
dusted off his knees.
The right one stung.
He looked down and took notice that
he'd shed skin.
He watched reluctantly
as a single drop of blood
fell off the **** of his knee
and landed on the loose knot of his shoelace.

She washes her hands in egg whites,
picking out stray shell pieces.
Sitting as still as the morning- quiet,
while the kettle sets itself a-steaming.
She hears that same Chinese flute
drifting down the hallway,
slipping universal truths
under each hotel room doorway.
She looks to the rain in the hills
like sorrowful sailor's wife;
a day could be time for a dream fulfiled
or the time that the rivers run dry.

These unspoken words,
They recall a moment.
Against the inky black of the sky,
Touch, whisper soft, on skin
Poetry spoken quietly, contented.
Movement, undone by moonlight.
Disquiet soothed by the stars.
A moment of peace in between.