who i am not

there are no letters after my name

there are no bad jokes made in my honor, post graduation

from some asshole goofball shouting from the back of the room:

is there a doctor in the house!  har har                             (idiot!)

no writer’s group or anxious editor chomping at the bit to        

                            read my latest works

no editors, literary mags or chapbooks bearing a poem or two       yet

these keys call me  burn into my belly tainted with mistrust of what i know and feel of my language, ego-deflating self loathing, pressure ring-ringing through the skin of me and the voices, oh the voices who whisper and shout obscenities about my self worth and lack of self esteem           at sixty?? unbelievable!…don’t be so silly, others remark...just get over it girl!  rings in tender ears and sends me swimming for safer, guarded waters where i can swim underwater and not have to hear…what is this turmoil that ignites in my belly           in my soul in those places of darkness and of light, where the critics blades shines brighter than faith and at the ready and i, begging for mercy, come away spurting and sputtering i cannot do this because i am not worthy to dance in any of the great’s shadows…..so another clean slice in to the heart of me, yet surprise surprise, i am still wanting, needing to breathe life, pour breath into these words these poems these emotions…yet fear paralyzes and the demons have command of my language now and dance louder and louder and twirl faster and faster to that ear shattering japanese court music that often hurts my head and definitely repeat- performance- hurts my very soul beneath the harsh gaze of their minions who shout

your language is pedestrian!

yell the inherited tazmanian dervishes left to me by a 1970’s beach shack-meat-poet

there is no gauzy pink opiate fog tainted with old shinto beat leftover from him here for you to hold court in, i mumble

yet you remain             poisoning me      shackling each limb with heavy chains each time i try   to move            forward       or take a tiny step toward      exposure or support or  salvation        you danced for steve and fed his ego and helped him create his litany of thousands of forgotten works

but for me you hold me down and back        ripping the voice from my throat  screeching instead and vomiting     bile -filled self doubt into my gut    while faith, sweet grace            that soothes wounds still bandaged and throbbing from the last dual         is fleeting

disappearing faster and faster                         mere shadows in my skin

About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i write...to release the gamut of emotion...to tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
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4 Responses to who i am not

  1. Karmanot says:

    My dear poet, never forget the power of the middle finger when the voices nag! xxxxxxxoooooo m

  2. David Garcia says:

    wow…..I mean this is very good stuff here … I sure am glad you are writing…of course I relate to all you are saying we could change names … and that would be me and I am nearing the eight zero time…but so what…I keep painting, you keep writing, what else are we going to do…stay in the present moment I say to myself don’t let yourself get too far out there…forgiveness , come back to now, sort out who is talking, the eternal divine you are or the ego…be in the moment, I keep practicing, keep practicing … I heard someone say today, “your not your story” welcome yourself, see the story, see the truth, practice practice practice……..

    sooooooo I say let’s keep writing and painting …….the hell with the rest of it…….I sure like the tone of this piece you just did, it had a strong energy, force, surety ……….. xd……………..

  3. I, too, find myself at this very moment in the throes of self-doubt and the very real doubts of others. I am haunted by different events than you, but nevertheless haunted. I am tired of my trampoline mind that soars with confidence for a few euphoric seconds and then drops into the despair of one who cannot regain his balance because the ground beneath me is no longer stable. What is it about your misery that is so comforting? Is it because you are such a dear companion and misery loves company? Or is it because you have such a huge gift for expressing the suffering, the ignorance of others, the cruelty of a world in which so many artists and writers starve to be seen and heard? Whatever inspires your words, they have a presence, immediacy, and authenticity that corroborates the belief I have always held… that you are among the best!

  4. David Garcia says:

    I will read this again…when I am not so tired…but I am glad you wrote all of this…jesus linda you are a good better than good writer I mean you have it…don’t stop..xd

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