The journey of despair, the will to live.

I have come to the point

When people shoot and hang themselves

As they see their dreams die,

Like Van Gogh did.

I grabbed a special dark beer bottle,

Saved for such moment

When I need to talk to God or something -

‘Dragon’s Milk’, the best one I’ve ever tried.

But I won’t drink it. I don’t anymore.

Instead I took it to My Meadow

As an offering to local spirits.

We have a serious talk to do.

That means they will talk

And I will listen

And trust the wisdom in it.

I leave behind my broken camp,

Which I could never fix,

Because it takes two to tango,

And my partner dances with dangerous spirits instead,

Inhaled through the pipe.

As a result our dreams went up in smokes

And I’m on my own, in mid-forties —

The age when a woman needs to have arrived,

To be Somewhere, with Somebody.

I hate to spell it but I’m no longer interested

In men with no ambition:

If they don’t go up they go down

And drag others there with them.

No. I don’t want that.

I want to live in a Northwest Gothic style cabin

Like those nearby.

I see them hiding behind trees

As I glide through the woods, hiding

From their inhabitants.

My Meadow is close... this is my place.

Every vibe speaks that.

Here I’m so happy I even look different.

The problem is — it belongs to those people

Who own these homes

Which have always been beyond my reach

No matter how hard I worked.

I inhale the upcoming spring —

My last one here since we have to leave.

Our new landlords don’t want anyone here,

Especially a hoarder like my partner,

Making an eyesore out of the place.

Therefore I don’t tell him about

This secret abode of mine.

I wish I could... I wish he’d heal

And build us a new cabin

On the national forest land

Right behind the Meadow...

But I doubt that would happen.

So I stand there, leaning against a tree,

Gazing at the mountain top —

Elegant twin peaks forming a Cupid’s Bow,

The best smile I’ve ever seen

And I choke on my tears, wondering

What do I keep doing wrong

To end up destitute again.

I wonder what these rich landowners

Keep doing right, to deserve

All this bliss denied to me.

I have come to the end of my rope,

I have exhausted all my hope

Where social structures are involved

So a play date with the spirits is due

And I take it seriously.

I start drumming quietly,

Asking my guides to connect me

With the local entities

And let me know why do I want

What I cannot have.

Why did this place hit me so hard

That losing access to it equals death.

I count my dead as I feel that subtle shift of consciousness

And the weight of beer bottle in my pocket...

Kinda like the weight on my heart

Burdened with sorrows

That no tears appear enough to relieve.

Not a single literary contest won,

Not a single acceptance of my poetry submissions,

Leave the manuscript alone;

And to afford vanity press

I first have to sell something to make money...

Except a couple of good friends

No one appreciates my art.

And maybe they just pity me.

Maybe not... I hope not — but what I need

Is a massive breakthrough

Which is so long overdue

That I feel forsaken... forgotten, unimportant.

So out of sheer desperation

I applied for “just a job” to not be homeless.

To have more than handouts from the foodbank.

There goes my time to be creative,

There goes my pride,

My wasted skill...

Just for a paycheck. Feels so icky.

I move across the lawn

Towards the rusty barrel I sit on

When it’s warm and sunny...

Those people could see me now,

A house or two are close enough —

But they never seem to...

They don’t expect anyone to be here.

They don’t go here either...

I’m trying to tune in and listen

To the message from the other side

As I remain invisible, in plain sight.

Who could be “official” local spirits?

Is it deer, or moose, or maybe wild cats?

Instead, I have an image of an owl

Etched in my mind,

And it sits well there... it feels right.

The Great Horned Owl is here,

Called by my helpers.

I smile... of course! I heard the owl song

And met a few of them in person...

But they fled me,

Distrustful of the human shape

Which I’m not always proud to bear.

I’m sick of homo sapiens... they suck.

“You’re needed here,” the Owl tells me,

“You have midnight blood.”

I may have heard more and was explained

What it implies but let’s stop here.

I lose my beer can opener in snow

Once the bottle has been popped

And smell the brew:

The spirits won’t be disappointed.

I pour it all into the ground,

And finish drumming, walking back

Right to the place where I had started,

Making a full circle.

I never want to leave this place

But the night descends...

The Owl suggested to camp overnight

When it’s warmer...

But for now I’m puzzled.

What’s “midnight blood”?

I look it up online and find

Two books of fantasy... it’s not my kind of read.

I want the magic to be here, with me,

Reliable and solid.

It’s fine to not throw lightning bolts

But how about manifesting money

Doing what I love

So I can live here like these people?!?

Is it way too much to ask for?

As for the blood topic... I kinda dig it.

It’s a whole another story

But yes, I do feel different

From most humans, anywhere I go,

And I had traveled some.

In daily life, it’s sure a disadvantage.

A handicap, a chip on everybody’s shoulder:

Most people hate me and don’t know why

But now I do... I’m not like them

And it’s not a choice.

My world and theirs will never mix,

Even though they call theirs “reality”.

Just to be clear — I do a lot of “real” shit,

Maybe more than them...

No ivory tower so far, but I sure need it.

But how do I get it?

That’s my main concern —

To merge my vision with reality,

To have a Home.

I’ve never truly had one

And it’s similar to starving.

A hungry person can’t accomplish much,

A homeless person either...

So precious time of life is wasted on “survival”,

And poisoned by that social stigma

Of an outcast, a loser...

I made myself a promise

To always know my worth

And not repeat Van Gogh’s sad destiny.

Whatever’s the deal with my blood

It’s too precious to be sacrificed to bullshit.

I honestly don’t know what, how, and especially when.

I keep writing poetry with optimistic endings

While “real life” keeps getting worse.

But somehow all that chain of falling dominoes —

Talents wasted via poverty

Has to stop with me,

And it will.

March 3, 2022.