Shifting the Broody Moodys - Sharon Purce

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Written By: Sharon Purce

How do I abuse me? Let me count the ways. I hammer me with my senses Leading my sixth sense into a maze. I implore My God to relieve me Of the worries and the craze. Yet, I contradict the pleadings Teaming yesteryears up with todays. I think that I’ m remembering, But, really, I’ m re-living. I’ m reinforcing the pain That I swore someone else was giving. My bruised self-worth scabbed its own self With others ’ misguided esteem. I stored up their views like saving-grace wealth Tucked them safely in my “This ’ll work” dream. Their perfected modes of discipline Cemented as an in-grained-in-me-norm Tried and true gospel-like doctrines Had me chillin ’ in a coffin-like form. The incognito of abuse ’ s disguises Make it crazy-hard to trace.

For every day, just like me, Abuse dawns a different face. An off-spirited smile, a veiled third eye A chiding voice, with nagging deceit, Subtly suggesting lie after lie Implying lack from head to feet Eating or drinking my shame, guilt and fear As if medicine for my diseased soul, Broken tools in my fool-box for gear Promising to seal that unfilled hole I harass myself with sadness Instead of accepting what was IS. I try to rewrite reality ’ s mess With success manifesting in tears. I nag at my peace with varying discord Not knowing misery ’ s the plan. Premeditated piss-offs climb on board To undo the calm that’ s at hand. Revelation: I’ ve survived way too many ages To let others still be the blame. When pointing out my abusive stages For healing, I MUST list ME by name. For the abuse is, by far, dead and stinking Those weapons have been dulled by the grave. T’is I who resurrects stinking thinking As if it’ s the discord I want to save. Knowing today I have a choice, I choose acceptance and release I daily re-define my harvest And make most everything be about peace!