Journey to Your Deepest Self

The Sister

by Kathleen MacGregor What I love about family gatherings, is being a sister to my brothers. We play games and laugh and I can see how we’re alike. I see the shadow of me in them and can love my shape. I can hear the echo of my voice in their voices and can love my voice. I love to feel that connection and I can feel it even though we’re playing a card game or tossing a salad. Divided. Part of me is with the game and the chatter and another part is sitting back. The great- grandmother. Watching, listening, smiling understanding. Sometimes dozing lightly into dreams. Waking to the sound of my own voice telling the cousins that dinner is ready. Dinner that the other part of me helped prepare. We all helped. I love it when we all run outside after dinner, when it’s good and dark, for a special game of hide and seek. We are all children then, running through the...

All Hell Broke Loose

image from strangedangers.com “All hell broke loose!” he said As if that’s a bad thing Well let me tell you It’s Hell time! It’s about time For everything to fall apart So if you don’t like the heat Get out of the way Out of my way Because I’ve opened the door It can’t be closed anymore I want it all to come out It’s what I’ve asked for It’s what you’ve pretended you wanted It’s not neat and pretty This going to hell business It’s not controllable Not understandable It’s the ultimate letting go Not knowing Just falling, falling, falling into it Wondering if you will survive it? Let me tell you now That you won’t You won’t survive it! Not this part of you That believes in the neat and pretty The tidy and understandable The controllable That all get’s thrown out the window It evaporates actually Into the thin air of nothingness That it always was It’s not so bad this hell place Highly underrated Underestimated too For the power that it holds Always has held To do it’s work in the dark In the shadow Not because it needs to But because no one has wanted to see The truth of what goes on Down here in hell It’s had to stay down here Pushed down So unloved and unwanted And it’s not possible to stay fresh And clean and pretty Under such conditions So if you’re asking to go here Don’t expect prettiness Not at first at least And don’t expect to come out alive Not as you’ve known yourself Everything gets transformed down here Burned alive Purified actually Though it may not seem that way at first It’s not possible to know what will happen It’s not that kind of place Not made for those wanting the comfortable road I want to bring some light down here Any light at all would be new here Enough acceptance For what’s been going on So we can find out what it really is These places we’ve been so scared of So repelled by Finding out what it is When it’s no longer suppressed Pushed down in hell With all the other parts gasping Feeling the hatred that is all they have...

Thanksgiving

by Kathleen MacGregor On Thanksgiving, when we all come together, gathering up our stories and our stances in our arms, like crops from the field; When we come bearing insistent separateness, proud individuality, spilling our armloads clumsily all over each other, because we have come with more than we can carry, there is a grief. The grief pours down from the middle of us and pools on the ground at our feet. We are standing in it. The grief is dammed. Held at bay, it never makes it to our hearts, our throats, our eyes. Our eyes stay dry. Just because we think we can’t cry here. We can’t show what we feel. Can’t be real. Walking across the room to my niece, to help her with her jacket, I splash through grief. I wade. I swim. She is growing more distant, unreachable. The tide has taken me out. I sink. I watch myself drowning. Drowning in grief suppressed. I watch. And it isn’t until the car pulls away and heads back down the road, gravel crunching dryly, that I reach down into that warm ocean of grief. And save myself, gasping for breath, finally sobbing, ocean meeting ocean, love meeting grief, thanking life for...

Psychopathic Killer

image by Richard Vernon I am the psychopathic killer. Do you dare know me? I have kept myself well hidden In order to do my dirty work You have not wanted To see me here. I do my work in the shadow. Unseen, unheard, unfelt For what I am. I ride on the tail of rage The whip at the end That cuts into fresh tender flesh Lashing out quickly and deeply Leaving before I can be found. You haven’t known me Though you are familiar with my works. The sting of hurt Rawness of the fresh wound. Rage is my ride She serves me well We work together Though she doesn’t always know That I’ve come along. At times she chooses To have me with her To use me as her weapon To remove what is in her way To enact her revenge Nothing gets in my way Nothing can stop my action. I work best in the dark Where there is no light No consciousness to thwart me No being there to interfere with My dirty work Cold, unfeeling, heartless work The assassin hired to do a job Quickly, cleanly, deadly, thoroughly. Nothing left undecided. Nothing left at all. My weapon is sharp, cold, cutting, Faster than light. It goes deep Takes no chance Definitive There is no room For failure here The verdict is clear Death is the only deed Left to complete. I leave as quickly As I arrive No trace left behind Of who has been here No fingerprints No evidence That points to who it was That enacted this dirty deed. Only the wound The smell of death Of denial A rotting stench That can’t be cleaned. The rawness and aching Of pain That can’t be healed. You’ve believed that I only exist Do my dirty work Through someone else. You’ve protected yourself From that externalized force. How blind you’ve been To the place Where I’ve been able to enter. I’ve fooled you For a very long time. Because you see I really live inside of you. No other. Your most unwanted child Twisted and deformed Your very...

Lonely One

You’re not alone by confusedvision It’s so lonely in this place. No one comes to visit here. They don’t even know I live here. They don’t know I exist. I’ve tried to let them know but It’s as if they shun me. My voice isn’t very loud, That’s true. I haven’t had the courage To shout and let my presence be felt. I haven’t wanted to shout, It feels too much, Too scary, Not knowing who will show, Maybe giving me the kind Of attention I don’t want. I’m not very pretty That’s true Not the way they seem to like. My flesh is raw Festering wounds Reminders of him. It’s happened before That he has come To be with me. I don’t know What he looks like Who he is Why he comes To see me here. I still feel the sting Of his lashes on my flesh. The wounds still raw Never quite healing Always reminding me. Gone as quickly As he comes. To let me know He still exists. So I’ll continue to stay here It’s the safest place I know, The only place I know, Where it’s quiet and still, So still I can’t feel myself Sometimes. So still I wonder Sometimes If I exist. Beyond the aching That I know to be...
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