You look down on me,
In the dust,
Of the storms you’ve created,
And judge me for being dirty;
When consequences can not be abated,
By your guilt.
I brush myself off again,
In the eye,
Of your ignorance,
And wait for the dust to settle in,
On the odd chance,
You’ll look down upon yourself,…
And turn to dust.
K. Aldaya, 04/17/21
Picture: By Austin Ban on Unsplash; https://unsplash.com/photos/IS6RwpuEJpY
The world is so busying telling me,
How I should feel and who I should be,
That it’s never, even once, stopped to think,
Whether I’m not exactly who I’m meant to be.
Maybe I will never be like you.
Maybe I’m not supposed to.
Maybe asking me to be something else,
Is the reason I can’t get through.
Maybe I would be okay,
If the world accepted what’s different.
Though, no matter how accepting it claims to be,
Some of us leave too much of an imprint.
We make a mess. Stand out too much.
Cops trail us and build up a case.
“It’s odd you were at the crime scene,
Even odder that your prints were all over the place!
Guilty by association, my child.
You’re guilty for showing-up: time and again.
You’re a victim, but perhaps an accomplice as well.
Did you not know it would drive you insane?
Now you are just as responsible.
Only criminals return to the crime!
You could have been normal…like us,
Instead, you’ve wasted this courts precious time.”
Yet, if we may speak to this court, sir.
We feel guilty and shameful each day,…
That we haven’t moved on…couldn’t move on…
And fell down, and apart, and astray.
We didn’t know how. We still don’t know now,
How to escape from that place,
Though if we could one day do so,
As you’ve stated, we’ve already left our trace;
A trace of guilt. A trace of our crimes,…
Of guilt by association.
No matter what we may say to these crimes,
The world will ne’er forgive the implication.
The implication that we are criminals.
That not being like you. Not living like you,
Is a bloody-bed of our own making;
For there’s only acceptance for crimes you live through,
But ones which stay, fester, and remain,
Which turn us wretched, and drive us insane,
Are the ones which society won’t accept.
And refuse to consider,…o’erlooking the brain.
Yes, the world is so busy telling me,
How I should feel and who I should be,
Yet has it ever wondered why we’re not free,
To be who life has made us to be?
No, I am not like you or them,
And no, I will never be in the end;
Though just because I am different,
Must I be rejected ’til the end?
Placed up on trial again, and again to defend…
Why I am the way I am?
I’m a lifetime of sounds and sights you can’t see.
Yet, men like to spurn what they don’t understand,
And charge for the crime of PTSD.
K. Aldaya, 5/23/18
Picture: By: Bill Oxford on Unsplash; https://unsplash.com/photos/OXGhu60NwxU
Red as sun-lit roses in the budding-Spring,
The pavement glistens with fresh blood,
And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.
In my hand is an old-withered rag of white,
And in my soul a battlefield,
Plays a ghostly reenactment of the costly fight.
–Bloody is the rag which tries to hide a guilty soul,
Yet bloodier are the hands which clean without a rag that’s whole.
Red are these hands and the only I have known,….
Are these hands with fresh-blood dripping…
Dripping, and dripping guilt and pain; scrubbing all alone.
Blue as restless oceans crashing to the shore,
Are the tears which crash to the earth,
Never enough to clean the hands of an old child-whore.
–Red as sunlit roses in the budding-Spring,
The pavement glistens with fresh blood,
And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.
K. Aldaya, 8/19/14
Picture: Inspired by American McGee’s Alice: Madness Returns; Artist Unknown; http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_maly49hnQp1qkuk8lo1_500.jpg
Mommy, please don’t leave me,
I’m afraid to be alone.
I fear the darkness coming.
Please don’t leave me alone!
Mommy, I’m so afraid,
Of the shadows which follow…
Follow me, and haunt my dreams.
I feel so cold; hollow.
Mommy, I feel it’s near.
Terrified I cringe and shake.
Please don’t look at me that way….
Like I am a mistake.
Mommy, I am sorry.
Sorry I’m a haunted soul.
That you can’t stand to look at,
My sin as black as coal.
Mommy, please hold my hand.
Do not let it go and leave.
It’s coming…yes it’s coming!
There’s no more time to grieve.
Mommy, don’t go away.
I’m so afraid and I see…
A dark form is near…..so near,
I feel death’s here mommy.
Mommy, mommy, help me!
It has me…I scream and scream,
But you don’t seem to hear me.
I scream and scream…and scream.
Mommy, why did you leave?
I step and walk to you now,
And you take my bloody hand.
Mommy, can’t you see now…
How hard it is for me to stand?
Mommy, I’m so tired.
Goodnight. I wish I could stay,
But the dead do not walk strong,
In the light of a new day.
Mommy, it is so cold;
I can’t feel your warmth at all,
And I walk when I should sleep,
Beneath the night-moons’ pall.
Mommy, I am lonely.
Endlessly walking this path.
Can I sleep forever now?
Mommy, run my blood-bath.
You won’t miss me anyhow.
K. Aldaya, 3/3/14
Picture: Artist Unknown; http://thedarkrosejournal.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/sadness.jpg
My Soul is a Lock Without a Key 
