This knot

What is this knot inside that seems to be taking over her being? Is it dread of awakening another day? What comes of the detached soul once it has been abandoned over and over again? Is there hope for it?

The soul cries out in pain and sorrow for it's very existence. The mere thought of continuing seems to instill dread.

Wanting to pass on but scared at the same time, it seems unfair to even have been born only to be forgotten.

A cruel joke as it turns out. Just something placed here to be played with. Taunted, sacrificed for the humor of society.

If the soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts then hers must be black. The color of the hurt, the anger, the dwelling within where her being was formed, molded, created to be despised by all it would touch.

For what she thought was a good heart inside her she has realized it is a mere organ to keep her sustaining the horrible life she is forced to live. The question is "Why?" She surely doesn't know the answer, she was never supposed to know the answer.

Nowhere to call home, nowhere to belong. Her fault for not ending her misery years ago, before she learned what caring for others was, before the demons took over her mind, her life. Before she had something to lose.

Perhaps it isn't to late, for the dead knows nothing, the dead feels not, the dead has nothing to lose. Why must she endure another stab, another heartache, another day of being shown her fate of this existence called life?

Walt Whitman said - “Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.” This is not true, it is the epitome of a lie, a wolf in sheep's clothing, the lead beneath the gold layer. It appears as truth then vanishes quickly once it has taken that which it came to rob, the soul itself.

The mentality of the human race is walk on or be walked on. Why couldn't this be her mentality? Is she the only one? Are there others? Who knows  but she sees why people choose to no longer exist. Inside us there is something that has no name, that something is what we are.

One of the deepest longings of the human soul is to be seen. Hers would drown in darkness. She has given herself over to the powers that be. Have her, she will no longer fight, she will no longer hold to hope, she will no longer be...

Written by: Belinda Taylor Sept. 1, 2013
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epitaph of the Living Dead

This body hurts. This body cries. Wondering why its life cant be sustainable like other bodies. It wonders why it was chosen to live in the dead zone.

One illness after another, is it paying for past sins before it passes from this earth? Or was it chosen to test the innermost depths of its being?

Thirsty, numb, pain, all associated with its existence. Does it go on? Does it surcome to the ravages of its fate? Maybe it will fight for another day, maybe it wont. Who knows?

The strength the body felt so many years ago, now feels like a distant dream. Did it exist? Was it but a mere daydream interrupted by the reality we call disease?

Can't imagine the pain of the disease inside, can't take the violence shooting through the mind. Unleashed rage, pounding fear into the innermost regions of the heart.

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet, let it not be a death but completeness, let strength melt into memory and pain into songs.

The body, not worthy, not of any value. It learns to stop feeling, but hopes for a life in the after. Will it be recognized and loved anew?

Will it be looked upon in a demeaning manner only to live eternally in its fate. Who knows? Here for a single hour in the wide starlight We shall be happy, for the dead are free.

Written by: Belinda Taylor 5-29-10
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