Kraken Nemesis

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Worry, picking apart my brain, forms tentacles & infiltrates the darkness demolishing barriers discarding all sense of reason.

Fear, prys open the latch & pokes it’s ugly noggin out amongst folded loops, sensing freedom & an opportunity to breed.

I recoil; form more sunken chests & box in my indignation, push it back down subterranean & throw away the key.

I threaten to rip the legs off my giant colossal squid if she doesn’t do as she’s told!

My kraken nemesis.

That self entitled bitch, sticks her beak in where it doesn’t belong!

I square off, walk the grid like an executioner plans strategy & make the first move.

I am flawed. No better than humanity subdues & ignites.

I feel ashamed
I feel ashamed
I feel ashamed

Finding my place, my people & my self taking an age to surface.

I can’t make head or tails of it.

I float, drift around in the ether, neither up or down — threads like silk ferry me away. Is this what it’s like to crack?

Psychicly split down the middle.

One half tending the earth, grows old gracefully, wears away the lines to paint a picture. The other chips away at my sanity like a termite.

She is mad. A lost cause. A first world problem searching for a third world solution, juxtaposes sense.

I don’t know if I’m any good at treading water. She’s drowning.

I think I’m gonna crack.

Who is there for me?

© Copyright 2021, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

Limbo Suffragette

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Limbo

Isolation
Lonliness

Altruistic tendencies.

A real man looks after his woman.

Builds up hope
Says all the right things

Means what he says
Does what he means.

Love.

Means nothing if it’s bullshit.

Is he going to break me?
Is he breaking me?

Old habits?

Does he want me to leave?
Could I leave?

Would I keep coming back?

Hurting me
Being hurt

Loving you
Being loved.

What is magic?

Where do I belong?

Destiny.

Who is there for me?
Who is there for you?

How long do I wait for what exactly –
Love, security, money, both?

Hibernation.

Am I discarded?

Be like water.

Do I belong here yet?

A limbo suffragette.

A caregiver.

Am I just a caregiver?

He doesn’t want me for that.
What does he want me for?

Companionship.
Am I expected to be faithful?
Am I enough?

Convenience
A means to an end?
I’m not sure what he wants.

Friendship.
Am I on the market?
I’m not sure I’m available.

Marriage.
Will I accept the contract?
Do I really belong here?

I want a partner.

He needs a wife

Wants a legacy.

More children?

Hanging by a thread
Dangling on a ledge.

Friend, enemy, lover, acquaintance.

Loving.

Leaving?

Family, security
Money, happiness

Asking for nothing
Expecting something.

Dignity.

Respect.

Honour.

Am I worthy?
Is he worth it?

Will he build me up?
Bring me down?

Take me on?
Walk away?

Why does he want me?

What did he get?
What am I taking?

What did I get?
What is he taking?

Just roll with it.

Wait for nothing.

Be grateful for everything.

The Devils’ going to make me rich.

I don’t have to worry.

We’re all in it for something.

Yet you offer me everything & nothing.

I just want to love and be loved.

© Copyright 2021, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

The Rainmaker

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Matty Phoenix

His aura hell bent; Phoenix halo,
sparks, fire
& inertia creep.

Cool swagger sways a third eye,
the back of his head
scans in infared.

The Rainmaker’s blood
red right hand fisted to brawl,
gets it done.

Dirty deeds wipe the slate
clean — a power vacuum sealed.

Still waters run deep.

%

Hozier moves the tempest
to where the heart meets
the sun & the moon.

Atlas, holding up
the weight of the world,
brings him back down to Earth.

© Copyright 2021, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

Suck The Kumara

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Kumara Kité

I’m only as good as my last poem, and that sucked a kumara.

So, why do I care what some hua thinks about me?

I’d rather kia kaha and hīkoi tóku mahi.

To stand strong and walk the talk.

It is what it is.

Ka kité ano apopo kurī.

© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved

Meaning for Hua

The New Zealand history of Kumara

Meaning of Kia Kaha

Cyberus & the Ramblings of a Mad Woman

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Isolation Desolation

i


Cyberus the black dog, creeps in under Mary’s skin, licking his lips, penetrating her holes, gnawing away at her sinewy tendons and succulent bones.

He rapes her subconscious crawl space, probing his wet nose into her closet crotch, sniffing out the buried remains there like Cujo; gnarled lips, protruding tongue and crazed eye stare.

Mary pricks her ears, Cyberus howls at the April blood moon, his mourn calling her out from behind her silvery veil, behind her mindful interludes – moonbeams bleed crimson and red rivers pour from her nightmares blurring the edges of her days.

Cyberus spreads his malaise like a disease.

He infiltrates cavities and grey matter mimicking the ebb and flow of tides; dopamine highs and serotonin lows, squalls hovering on the horizon – the ramblings of a mad woman batting her eye lashes, baring her sharp teeth.

ii

Mary flatter’s her fans upright for .50c an hour to satisfy Cyberus’ insatiable appetite, gulping down terabytes like an insomniac slip streaming strip scenes and Mary rubs herself raw, learning how to love the hands that feed her.

The water slides off her duck downed back, down valleys and cracks her bareback fingertips squeezing every last drip from her drops.

Mary turns off the shower, wipes away the steam from the window and peers outside. Two stray dogs have escaped lockdown, causing havoc on the streets.

She would take them both in and give them a good feed, if she had a backyard big enough to bury bones.

iii

Tom stands outside on the pavement, peers up at the window, his threadbare trenchcoat just as superfluous as his empty pockets, except for the cornerstone content bulge. He watches Mary’s jailbird swagger dance and sway behind a steam curtain.

iv

Cyberus can feel her skin crawl, he allows himself to rise – settling in between her mind and the blurred edges of breasts, buttocks and inner thighs.

Infared penetrating his night vision.

© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler Files. All rights reserved

The Awkward Orchid

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1.

People are orchids; cunts in disguise, and my tongue is already licking their splendid protruding lips like schnapps.

I’ve behaved like an orchid before – all puffed up and pouty, making holier-than-thou statements before those dreadful chinese lanterns have me boxed in, their crude hypnotic swagger acting like a prayer.

People are indeed orchids, complete with parasites and annoying bitey insects that sting and suck their way into our folds like thrips; bugs spreading their shit everywhere.

But who cares?

Give me Derris Dust any day, thrips have no feelings and orchids are such selfish sluts!

How dare they open their sub-waxy petals and assault my precious beliefs, forcing me to question my disease!

How dare they splay those wanton colours around willy nilly, when I really want to rub their ruddy faces in it!

After all, too much free love can only encourage lust, can’t it?

Lanterns are a much more suitable display of proliferation. Pyrethrum perfume is so underrated, isn’t it?

Fertilizer certainly brings us all down to earth sooner or later.

2.

Get plucked orchid!

I try my very best not to behave like an orchid. I try even harder to walk away from those flowering displays of tall poppy syndromes, but they tease me.

I try not to react to orchids if I can help it, preferring to turn the other leaf however, like all flowering displays, it would seem that misandry is misplaced.

The stupidity of self serving dwarf hybrids is ridiculed by other orchids, who would rather still remain an orchid in full bloom.

Orchids are not perfect!

If orchids could project all my vindictive hatred towards other orchids, turning them all into a mere arrangement, I’d at least have a chance at self love.

Oh wait – I touch myself all the time!

What was I thinking? To hell with orchids having their own way, I prefer to deal with other orchid varieties whom feel cajoled into behaving like real orchids!

As far as I’m concerned, its your orchidy choice, not mine.

Same goes for feeling indignation when calla lilies become offended!

Life will always be a red hot poker if you let an orchid get to you.

Poor little victimy poor me lantern. I’m so plucking ‘offended’ by you – boo-fucking-hoo!

Heaven forbid I might have to consider taking responsibility for my own lustful thoughts!

3.

Never try to enlighten a lantern when they don’t believe they have been or are behaving like a plucked orchid!

They’ll end up sitting on you, pouring pyrethrum from a half empty cup all over your splendid bloom, convincing you that their pollen is justified.

Typical perpetrator behaviour with an overwhelming sense of entitlement.

I attract orchids like flies, never mind the thrips. I’m finally learning to recognise the subtle difference.

One sucks the life out of you, while the other annoys the fuck out of you!

4.

Of course I’m going to pick on you when all I hear are wasps!

I dont care if it wilts your stem! I dont care if it makes me the pair of secateurs for hurting your feelings!

I’ve picked, I’ve been plucked and I don’t accept cuts any more.


© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Whore

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Clock app, I chime well.

The sheets are slithery crevices

Satin-lined, with serpent tongue poised to strike,

It is a meeting of the soul,

A shaft of light

Through cathedrals of stained glass.

Where you are safe,

Where there are no family heirlooms,

No dinner on the table, no lies.

Suave virile hips, the smirk of men

Glaze at her smoke

And I, in my honeyed plume,

Milk a gallon of amphibian seed.

To release

The roar of angst I swallow toads ~

Meat and three vege, a staple,

The ‘Elixir of Life’.

My mouth gags,

The mouth of Mary

When my accelerator touches the pan.

The giggle of my

Plastic features, my way of arching

Johns to rigors of trapeze

Lays on the charm, a gasp.

And it goes on and on, and on.

I shall remain a nymph. Old muscles

Strain like a bough and I

Blush like Betty Boop

Satisfied,

All the sighs of winter, fall

Offering up last seasons rosella

Tea to read.

© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Appropriated from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Gigolo’, 29 January 1963, Collected Poems, 1981

Cora Pearl & Tinders Meat Market

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Tinder dating.

Balancing on that tight rope between modern meat markets, vintage marriage proposals and a continuum of taffeta excuses for those with no idea about couture.

Coffee date number two,

torn between a Trelise Cooper bustle or Collette Dinnigan trousers, opting for mid length K-mart culottes and flat shoes – quite sensible really.

Then he makes a move, casually stroking her genius arm while he takes a business call leaning back on his wing.

It’s an affront to Cora’s touch-starved senses colliding like electrons; Georgette raised speed bumps bristle with expectations.

Its awkward for a moment –

deciding weather to pirouette or sashay onto the dancefloor with some spurious home truths.

Ta da!

‘I used to be a sex worker’ she crowed, sipping on a nonchalant eyelash latte on the verge of treason ‘and if I decide to go back, you can’t stop me’.

Silence.

Ms Pearl takes another sip, the onslaught of ignorance threatening to tighten her whale bone corset breath, now held in contempt.

A standing ovation or white knuckled finale taking the bias edge out of contention, taking it all in.

See, she can’t see the point of another round of ruffles and rouge.

/

Spontaneous attraction hides in the shadows

of a cloak and dagger past life, frightened

by a mere unorthodox interlude.


© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Behind the Door is a Metaphor

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Little Red Riding Hood wearing shoes, stepping through balancing on pins, holding on to handles in case the latch breaks and the garden gate swings shut, accidentally locking Goldilocks out while she’s peering through foggy windows vying for attention, except she’s standing on tiptoes wondering what went wrong wishing she was back behind a red door out of the cold, flying like Dorothy clicking her way upside down, looking around for a place called home behind a blue door, where fish peer out from holes in shipwrecks inside a fishtank looking outside into my world, wishing Ariel was a shark that ruled the universe with clown fish laughing behind closed doors ordering sushi, just so she could meet Sponge Bob and go out on a date in a restaurant behind a green door seated in a corner watching everyone stuff their faces on pork bones and rib cages smothered in red sauce that sticks to the side of her wicked stepmother’s face, picking breadcrumbs and gingerbread between crooked teeth, eyeing up the shoes hiding behind a wooden door in an attic where Cinderella keeps her mice, making it impossible for Alice to find the key to a parallel universe where her doppelganger is one of three fairies destined to raise Aurora into a raving lunatic behind bars, until a knight in shining armour sees her hair and hoists himself up into a flying machine, snatching Rapunzel before she ends up covered in thorns, talking to a teapot and candlestick waiting the hills to come alive, just so she can close the door and her eyes.
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

The Bell Jar of Mixed Blessings

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If it’s not the bloody buzzing mozzies, it’s a bell jar of mixed blessings and a monologue of nothing but geese!

Voices resounding, reimagining, conjuring up memories about red shoes and dwarves and something out of Aesopica!

This totally ridiculous,

unwanted attention seeking behaviour burns my eyes, while my jaw grinds like carpet burn and my ears ache.

If I have to bite the bullet – I need to do it by 9pm and knock it back with a big shot of poison!

I’m not up for this kind of angst, destined to play and replay on repeat. I already made peace a priority but where is she now?

(Sylvia is waiting in line for electroconvulsive therapy, just to wipe the slate clean; clear the air so-to-speak).

That’s the truth of the matter!

Finding my own voice and lifting the skullcap off Pandora’s Box, just enough to breathe.
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Outlander

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Jamie Fraser.

The highlander of my wet dreams &

the epitome of Scottish manhood – the rise

of the Jacobite & the battle of Colloden,

ending it all.

/

That fiery red head fuels my desire, transporting me to Lallybroch.

I am the Lady Broch Tuarach arching her thawed back,

purring like a cat; her cream licked to perfection.

Jealous.

Her secret coveted, breathing pure unadulterated sex.

I stretch back and close my eyes, snatch

images of her glory box at the foot of my bed

replaying soundbytes,

over

and over,

running my fingers through locks,

strumming a frantic tune,

finding their way through crevices & folds; my highland landscape.

Such pleasure!

Tartan wool & kilt,

an 18th century romp & a battle for the heart.

/

But as always, English tyranny is never far from the scene.

Too many #Metoo moments and brutality stops everything in its tracks.


© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

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That bloody clock!

ticking away, oblivious

to the tension stretching

my larynx to breaking point,

reminding my throat

how fucking dry it is

without Vocalzone – my finger,

pointed up when she said

she’d bloody do it.

Rhiannon knew it was

a bit too much to expect

after her long hibernation,

but loved her never-the-less;

hopes, memories and failed dreams.

Sing.

Warm my little husky chops and

Put on a show, but no

it is not this day.

Falsetto minor slapped back

and bit me, packed up

and packed a fucking sad.

Portsmith Club won’t be looking for

quirky.

I’d need to practice

for a month of bloody Sunday’s

before Stevie Nicks invites me back

to her condo for a soireè.

I did her too,

I’ve done her a thousand times

belting out vibrato

in A minor.

Here I am ‘pick me, pick me’

I could sing,

I feel so lonely without her.

My happy place no more.

It’s like dying

a savage kind of

musical death and I’m so scared.

Who can be bothered with a

washed-out-has-been-old-girl

from New Zealand.

I’ll just stay at home

feel sorry for myself a bit more

and cry myself to sleep.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Traumasutra

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Sitting/

Staring/

Laying/

preparing for the long rest.

Avoidance/

of people, places, sights and sounds.

Depression/

an abyss-like-nightmare that wants to kill me and I battle for my life.

Anxiety/

strangling me to within an inch of my suffocated existence.

Silence/

except for the machine head that analyses and deciphers psychic projections.

Fear/

the worst my mind can conjure, always on the lookout for my nemesis.

Panic/

attacks that leave me exhausted, foolish, irrational, exposed and defeated.

Boundaries/

overflowing – pushing people away, proving that point I once knew.

Distraction/

compulsion’s that envelop me like a synthesized loop; engulfed, and left devoid of all feeling.

Mistakes/

battles to right wrongs, that fail apallingly.

Agoraphobia/

refusing to put myself at risk, unfortunately I still need to eat.

Guilt/

burdens I endure for both of us.

Sensory deprivation/

just to make it stop!

*

Complex PTSD/

is all of this and more.

Trauma/

leaves a lifelong scar.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Ms Necessity & Tragedy’s Limbo

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Ms Necessity, negates a decision to go left or right, preferring to stay on course crash landing her way through one of those flourescent white barrier’s that sneaks up in your headlights, at the end of a long road.

She chooses to wipe herself out by launching into a paddock full of daisies, coming to a screaming halt in an old weeping willow tree where her mangled wreck, dangles in its branches like Mr Wesley’s Flying Ford Anglia.

She wouldn’t leave behind any skid marks if it could be helped.

Necessity cares about the beautiful blue patch of meanies & over-ripe blackberries that would otherwise be squelched into bruised crimson & clover – leaving a blight on an otherwise picturesque, if not comedic scene.

Of course Tragedy saw her coming & spotted the wreck a mile off, while in a trance somewhere in limbo. She has a way of turning up unexpected-like & departs just as quickly & you’ll always end up with a little scratch to remember her by.

There’s not much room for Tradegy & Necessity to co-exist. Both see peace as an oxymoron. The why’s and what for’s are an irrelevant waste of grey matter, but the writing has always been on the wall, if anyone cares to look (behind the iron curtain).

They’ll both lock me up given half the chance & if I wasn’t so tired I’d do it my bloody self & throw away the key!

All I can say, is that the medication better be good or I’ll be asking for a second opinion. Mr Brownstone seems a lot more enlightened than big pharma right about now & all I need to do is find a little entertainment on Torrent!

Tragedy, bless her, is still leaning toward oblivion while Necessity would prefer to quietly pass over without any fuss.

Now, she likes the idea of flying.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Baby, I Love Your Way

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I love you.

I love that you’re mine.

I love the way you light up a room with your presence and my heart.

I love the way you joyously cook for me and our friends; laughter combusting into spontaneous abundance.

I love the way you laugh and giggle and play the fool, running around the room screaming like a freaking fruit, with Snoop.

I love that you do your best with everything and everyone, everytime.

I love that your heart only wants to do good and focus on the future.

I love how you think positively about all of our obstacles and we work together to solve them.

I love your resilience and strength of character, even when times get tough – you find a way.

I love the way your face lights up when you plan a party, design a flyer and work the promo.

I love the way you DJ – making me and everybody dance, with huge smiles on our dials.

I love to see you in your costumes and watch you come alive.

I love seeing the happiness on your face when you achieve the almost impossible, frequently.

I love watching your facial expressions and that passionate rocking and rolling you do on your chair, punching your hands in the air, to your favourite songs.

I love the way you make me feel, holding my hand and casually putting your arm around me, no matter where we are.

I love how you give me a wake-me-up-call most mornings, and I feel your desire pressing against me.

I love the way you slip, and fall between my legs with that naughty, cheeky giggle.

I love the way you whisper in my ear and tell me I’m sexy and beautiful and how much you want me.

I love it when you kiss me for no reason.

I love your sexy swagger and smouldering eyes.

I love the way you make me Chai in the mornings, and/or a cigarette and we slowly wake up together.

I love watching you shine.

*

On any given day, you give yourself to me in all your authenticity, with love.

You are the most awesome, amazing, talented, sexy, loveable man I have ever had the pleasure to meet and call mine.

I dont know how long I’ve got you for, but the romantic in me hope’s you put a hippie ring on it and we mooch on into the future, forever.


© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

I Choose to Run

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“I think we’ve been put through the emotional wringer and there are only fraying threads left of the tapestry we once sewed togetherJD Butler

Just like me to need a pacifier when the going gets tough but

it’s not all about me.

You’ve changed – maybe we’ve both changed, but not for the better. You used to care if I cried but

not any more.

I guess you’re strung out, over-worked, under-paid, under-sexed and looking for a way out in your Red Dead Redemption II,

outback adventure.

Maybe you also feel trapped? What if I left, left the house for you to rent? I can go anywhere to live

and start again.

Sydney, Melbourne, Perth perhaps. 6 months here, 6 months there (in New Zealand). Reinventing myself

is what I’m good at.

Jezabel is never too far away for me to find a way to survive. She never leaves me or changes. I can count on her

to do the right thing.

I’ll miss you. Everything about you. How wonderfully beautiful you are with your deep dark brown eyes. You are talented, loving and rich beyond anything resembling money.

I consider

myself blessed.

It’s time I moved on. I’ve reached a point where I don’t think we can offer each other the best part of ourselves any more. I think I hold you back from your true potential.

I think you resent not seeing your friends as often as you would like – cultivate those

friendships and opportunities.

I think you would feel better with money in your own pocket. I want to see you happier, less frustrated,

less aloof and less distracted.

When I met you, you were larger than life, full of happiness, generosity, love. You were loyal to me.

I think we’ve been put through the emotional wringer and there are only fraying threads left of the tapestry

we once sewed together.

I’m distressed. I’m trying to preserve the last of my sanity in order, to survive.

I’m concerned. I want to give you as much as I can for you to feel secure. You’ve worked hard and

I have no intention of ruining you.

I’m not like my ex because I love you – he never did.

I don’t want to see you cry, or curl up and die inside,

but I still choose

to run again this time.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Betrayal

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I leave the room for one second

and I come back to see your cock slamming into her.

You definitely weren’t thinking about me. Selfish, greedy pig!

To make things worse.

You defended her feeble excuses, tried to twist it around and make it my fault, then you left – with her.

Somehow I’m a user. A psychopath with no friends? Go figure.

You were such a disappointment. Still are.

I see your cock inside her, thrusting hard and I can’t bare to touch you or trust.

Betrayal was never a part of us or what we had. ‘I hope you’re happy now’, was another thing you said.

It’s a waiting game from here on in, till we say goodbye and start again.

It was over before it began really. I knew deep down already, you were just too good to be true. Part of me kept hoping but it’s too late for me now.

I’ll do all my grieving before we say goodbye, so I dont have to think about you then. It won’t be pleasant either, but I’ll take what I can get.

I’ll still wish you the best but I’ll never go there again.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

No Rhyme or Reason

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Just get into the swing!

Do a little

hop, slide a little

side-step,

twist a little

twirl.

~

Go,

get carried

away

with the ebb &

flow,

lost

in the moment but

never

gone.

Fine timing a back

beat

into the future,

focussing on

movement,

rhythm &

sway.

No rhyme

or reason,

just have a good

night’s sleep.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Tag Team

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Photo by JD Butler

1.

Your love for me has already gone

& you don’t even know it.

I lie awake, tensing & untensing, reminding myself to breathe.

Numb.

I don’t remember what it feels like to be loved, lying next to you, rubbing your shoulders, listening to your faux sleep or nightmarish fits & starts.

I only ask you dont take my friends with you.

What little I have left that teeters on that ledge where I start again & you leave off.

Do you know what colour my eyes are? Know their depths & greys?

Do you know what keeps you close & yet so far away?

I don’t understand.

You give me so little to hold on to, I feel invisable but you seem to think the world owes you a favour & you’re mine.

I cease to exist.

I refuse to live.

I’ll take the scraps like a good little bitch – watch & wait for the next tasty morsel to fall onto the floor.

If this is what you need, I have no choice but to accept.

Throw me a bone every once in a while, when you remember not to forget.

2.

I’m being selfish.

You love me with all your heart. You’re working your skinny white arse off for me, for us & I’ve got you all wrong.

You can see into the future that promises money, hotel rooms, boats, fine wine & women but didn’t you already piss that up against the wall?

I’m jaded.

Am I really what you want, tucked away in the back of suburbia, barefoot, looking like a dyke in my short-shorts & singlet?

Age wearing me down where I just want peace.

I dont want to dance or drink or muck around with you knowing there’s nothing in it for me.

Oh but there is?

Did it only just dawn on you that what’s mine is mine & you either choose to accept this mission or it will self destruct in 5, 4, 3…

What have you got to worry about anyway? You can make money, friends, music anywhere.

Well I’m 50, a woman, unemployed, questionably sane & dubiously employable & up to my eyeballs in debt.

My options are limited & guess what – you’re it!

You don’t believe in marriage & I concur. You believe in hard work in love but no cigar?

Why do it all at all if you get nothing out of it?

Why are you here complaining?

What the fuck do you want from me, if this is not a game?

3.

I’m not sure I know exactly what I’m in for.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Most Days

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“I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.” JD Butler

1.

Most days I want to die.

My heart breaks

over the most

stupidest of things.

My thoughts tell me I am not

strong enough

pretty enough

skinny enough

feminine enough

kind enough

friendly enough

sexy enough

compassionate enough

caring enough or

rich enough.

My brain tells me I’m too

moody

angry

sad

depressed

anxious

ugly

scared

fragile

emotional

weak

unpredictable

unstable

flighty

and fickle.

My brain tells me to think

the worst of every situation, interpret every thing as an

attack

snide remark

slur

corner

lie

deception or

ulterior motive.

I really shouldn’t take things so personally.

Others think I’m too

Sexual

Slutty

Useing

Abusing

Needy and

Crazy.

I guess

that’s why he told me I have no friends.

Most days I can’t stand it any more.

I’m too much of every thing or not enough.

I wish I was never born.

/

I’m ok on a good day, but I struggle. Demons,

in my waking hours, have a go at me for every-little-thing that ever was.

How, do I continue to survive?

Most days, I just want to die.

2.

Some days I feel happy.

content

pleased

proud

relaxed

calm

and secure.

I’m in my garden planting, weeding or harvesting.

And I think about what else I want to do.

Paint

draw

read

make

sculpt

weld

and create.

Money holds me back so I continue watering the garden.

Some days I feel optimistic.

I am convinced I’m going to get that job,

find that financial independence,

not go back to sex work although I miss it terribly.

Some days I don’t think about

pain

loss

fear

humiliation

rejection

or torment.

I’m numb, but at least I’ve stopped

shaking in my boots,

jumping all over the place,

looking around every 5 fucking seconds

or wanting to run.

Some days I feel hope that I won’t

take my life

end up on the streets

be alone and lonely

have no friends

have no lover

or find love.

Whats wrong with me?

I live with trauma, fuck up daily and behave like a bitch –

and I dont think I can be fixed

sometimes.

Some days I’m OK.

I smile

laugh

joke

play

make love

not war.

I try not to let the voices win. I try to

bite my tongue

shut my mouth

hold back tears

try my best

please my man

and stop complaining.

I try not to wait for the end, although I push everyone away – my deluded saving grace

is more likely cutting off my nose, to spite my face.

Some days I think I will survive.

But most days, I still want to die.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved