The Blackest Wings






I felt the blackest wings attach to my back this morning

I awoke with them, rose out of bed and felt them flutter

Heaviness, burden and foreboding


Warrior wings of archangels, now were mine

Not to possess, I knew that.


They had brought me a message


Something soon would approach

Something as heavy as those wings

Those invisible wings that I could feel, yet not see

For they were cloud like, pitch black smoke


I carried these wings for three days

Each day, they became lighter

The darkness fading, but still attached


They are with me now,

Protecting me and aiding in the battle ahead.


Their appearance confused me

But now I understand

My body is at war with itself

And I take my Vorpal Sword in Hand.


DIH 01/09/16




Smile the widest smile and laugh the loudest

Give until it hurts, because it will hurt

it always hurts.

Joke about your past mistakes and losses

Lighten the mood.

Slip in a true feeling, a simple one, ever so slightly, the smallest utterance.

So no one will notice.

Can’t be caught with emotions exposed

For they will rip them and tear them from you like a slaughtered lamb

And we can’t have that.

Never expose the true pain

Numb it with alcohol, pills, work

and hours of sleep.

Hide it inside, the raw feelings, failures and losses

About to burst.

Let no one see, let no one know

Lest it all goes… poof.

DIH 12/09/15

‘Tis Holiday Seasonal Disorder Time

‘Tis Holiday Seasonal Disorder Time

The sun sets sooner
The feelings dredge deeper
The scars resurface and the pain twinges in my head

These are the months of forced happiness and joy

Of family and money and abundance
For those who have it
Serving only as a reminder
For those who don’t

A staple in my foreskin
That I have none of these.
Happiness, family or joy
My dwelling echoes
reminds me I am alone

each sound resonates its hallow presence.

Time for forced smiles or selfies
Gifts wrapped in debt
Time to mingle amongst family and pretend you have a life.
Tables overflowing with meals slaved over in hot kitchens
For stressful family gatherings of suppressed anger.
Snow falls and we smile
Childhood memories of snowmen glint in our eyes.

While shovels full of the stuff
Pull our back muscles to spasms of pain.

This poems a downer

Where is the Joy of the Season?
Where is baby Jesus?
Where is my Xanax?

The Dark Days approach

And the sun sets sooner
And the food is abundant
And gluttony is king.

‘Tis the season to be greedy
‘Tis the season to be forgotten

‘Tis Holiday Seasonal Disorder time
Now, smile for the camera



When it comes


Will I be awake
When it comes

Will I be receptive
When it comes

Will it be too late
If it comes

Years of my life have past and I’ve never known it

A fluttering heart, a short breath, butterflies in my stomach

Attraction, chemistry

But only fleeting and never acted upon.

I have had one chance at its arrival
Naive and scared, I pursued it
And failed

So I ran from the possibility
Not sure of the signals and feelings of the one involved
I ran

Never knowing passion
Never knowing lust

No orgasmic trips into pleasure
And I have tried many times.

More failure.

What am I missing?
What am I doing wrong?
Is it ALL me?

Time is growing shorter and I am still waiting.

Am I foolish?
Am I still naive at almost 50?

Part of me wants to close the doors
Lock the knees and give up
I’ve been listening to this voice
I think it’s true.

I missed it
When it came
And I have never cum.

DIH 08/5/2015

Nothing too see here, move along

I rip me to shreds
On a permanent basis

Leave nothing but flesh and soul and pain

Not loving yourself is easy
When no one loves you

Dreading the evenings
Because it always brings tears
’cause the loneliness never ends

The list begins:
I hate you, you’re ugly, look at those thighs
I’m lonely, I’m crazy and alone I will die

When I look in the mirror, I duck
physically dodge my own reflection
scared, terrified and invisible

Nothing to see here, move along.


As it slips

Sticky floors with shuffling feet
Walkers adorned with tennis balls parade in my path
I am kind to the elderly

As I slip closer towards them

Today I was declared a member of the no-flow club
Not even 50 and I’m in menopause

My reproductive organs never had a chance
I learned a year ago

Endometriosis, tumors, irregular menstrual flows
All the signs were there since it all began

Never practiced safe sex, even before AIDS
And still no children

Could never afford a GYN
And the ones in the clinic, treated you like a side of beef

My experiences at being a woman are minimal
I have… had the working or semi-working parts
I understood the biology
But, I could never produce the prodigy.

Now I feel old age slipping upon me

I will die and no one will know I even took one breath

As it slips closer to me
I try not to fall into worthlessness

One ovary, 1/2 a fallopian tube
And one unused uterus,
Set out on the curb

So, what does that make me
Less of a woman? The old maid downstairs?

As it slips closer towards me
Like those shuffling feet in the walkers
My mind flushes with possibilities

That don’t belong to me.

DIH 4/22/2015

Between the Meds

What step comes next, between the meds
I awake, I take a pill
I eat, I take more pills

Now I have to fill the time, between the meds
Or rather pills

Waiting for the moment when the medications ‘click’
And I can function
Or at least cope.

Its noon,
Time for more pills.
Drink lots of water this time, to help them go down
Can’t dehydrate, makes things worse

Sip, sip, glug
no more pills

Between the meds
Filling time with thought and action
Ideas and people

Oh yeah, and doctor’s appointments

therapy, pdoc
That’s psychiatrist for short, if you don’t know

I’ve tried it the other way

You feel your mind torn from itself
Not in a spiritual way, but rather a bloody crash into madness

So much confusion, so much suffering and inner screams.

I can never go back to that, that’s not filling time
That’s not living

It’s a horror movie looped in time-lapse

It may seem like I’m just filling time and not living it
But without the pills,
I wouldn’t even have this option.


The March

When we join to march on Washington to end Stigma against the Mentally Ill

The turn out will probably be small

I will be there, my mother and hopefully a friend or two.


But CNN, NBC and ABC will probably have better things to do

As I said, the turn out will be small

Maybe a local paper or a blogger

But it won’t make international news,

No BBC World for this strut.


Because in their eyes and closed minds

There is “NO” story.


As for the Marchers,

None of us will have guns or planes or buses to crash into building and mountains

None of us will have shot up a school or post office within the past few days

Many of us will have medication and a water bottle to take them with,

Oh yeah and sunscreen, because some meds make you sensitive to sunlight

You can get dehydrated.


If we get a hundred of us to show up

I would be quite surprised.

It’s not because our numbers are few, oh no

We number in the millions.


If you look to your left

If you look to your right and smile

We are there, the mentally ill don’t wear a Scarlet MI on our foreheads

But we are present.


When the March on Washington to help end Stigma against the Mentally Ill happens

The turn out will be small,

Not because of the numbers,

Rather, because the backlash the next day, will be fierce


For the one Television Station that does show up will broadcast our faces and

Bob from accounting.


And the next day, he will return to work and he will no longer just be Bob

No longer the guy they chat up at the water cooler and play fantasy football with,

No longer the Aerosmith fan in the next cubical, or the one who makes office lunch runs on Wednesday

No longer the cute guy from accounting, with the daughter on the honor roll.

He won’t be Bob anymore…


Bob will become, the ticking bomb

In the eyes of his co-workers and employer

The nut job next door, to his neighbors who use to admire his lawn tending skills

The crazy used to carpool with the other guys, until the March on Washington

And they all saw his face with the sign, “I am Mentally Ill… Let’s do lunch”


For each Mentally Ill person who makes the headlines

There are tens of thousands, who never will.


We fear losing our jobs

We fear losing our friends and our families

We fear losing our lives we have worked on so hard,

Day after day too keep together

like anyone else, with one slight difference.


The therapy, the meds, the coping mechanisms

The private break downs and possible inpatient stays.

All designed to keep it together, and we do.


So, when we all join to battle Stigma

The few of us who have come

I guess we will be there for the Bob’s and Jane’s,

Who can’t attend, because of what they are afraid they will loose.


The Stigma is that strong, the prejudice, the persecution.

Like Blacks and Gays, who have had to fight for years to be seen, heard and counted

I wonder if we will ever get our March, or Stonewall Inn.


We have always been the family secret to me hidden away somewhere since the days of Ancient Rome.

And here it is, here we are today and no one is willing to march with us or for us.

To identify our struggle,


We fight everyday, just to have a life and bring home a paycheck

We seek out treatment and help, when sometimes no help is offered or available.

When we can’t afford our medication and we have to ration out what we have left, if any.


No March on Washington will take place

Because we fear that the love and admiration we may have now,

will turns to fear from our family and friends

Once the mask is taken off and we are labeled.


So the mentally ill won’t come.

The media will pass, Bob’s job is safe

And we will continue day to day

We survive and we do it damn well.

Because we are strong and because we can.