Sketch Pad #1

"I believe that when the soul disappears from this world, it disppears only to become manifest upon anothet scene in the wonderous drama of eternity." Edwin Markham

Tempest

  So sick..feels like my insides want to crawl out of me, every last piece. Rid myself of the toxins that have brewed and festered for these past few years. I would take a hose to the pile and cleanse it all, wash away the filth and poison that cripples me now.
  Shaking..swirling..climbing..crashing..dipping..swaying..thrashin..heavy..down. Must I lay my head just from the spinning alone, to lessen the threat also of vommiting violently from the sickness or worse yet, dry heaving from empty stomach churning. No calm admist this storm.
  Brewing inside like a hurricane, building up in size and fury. My hands and muscles shake, my brain gasps and chokes for fresh air while swirling, drowning from the waves crashing down everywhere. Oh God, how the stomach aches! Bowels on hiatus, terrified and anxious.
  Even the calm from the eye of the storm passing over, my body hasn't enough time to repair, to cope. The bile still rises up and lingers against corse, swollen flesh. The eyes swollen shut from the burning salt stinging and pelting relentlessly. The break is too short for my brain to realize.
  The steam train comes rolling back with even more force than before. Tossed with reckless abandon, raped ferouciously again and again, my body weakening with every whip, every word, every moment of memory, immune system no longer rebooting to help the fight. Hope is abadoned/lost from my eyes.
*The Rose*
May.21.2012