He was only my Savior. My life was His, yet my love was bound in a selfish and worldly heart and it would take years to manage it loose.
Chila WoychikTags: inspirational
In this book, much is metaphorical, not as it seems. It’s written for writing’s sake, as if I were to say, “Let me tell you I’m dying.” Well of course I am. So are you.
Chila WoychikTags: writing metaphors writing-process
This isn’t a religious book though I mention God, not a medical advisory though I speak of pain. It’s a circus, a mortuary, a grade school, a limousine ride. Will it be worth the paper it’s printed on or the screen you hold in your hand? I just hope you remember it next week.
Chila WoychikTags: writing writing-process
A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker’s mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I’ll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won’t shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.
Chila WoychikTags: writing death metaphor stream-of-consciousness
I continue to live inside a dichotomy: what was and what shall be. The pain in my skull is me trying to mesh the two.
Chila WoychikTags: writing dichotomy cognitive-dissonance stream-of-consciousness
Life is flinching in the midst of breathing, gasping at the thought of dying. It’s climbing ropeless up sheer rock faces, groping for the next finger-hole of hope. Steady on! Only a thousand feet to go and after that a jungle, a minefield, a rapids. (Can I stop smiling now?)
Once, not long ago, I was flung off the cliff of the moment, thrust into an illicit relationship with destiny, an affair not of my making. Was I making love or being raped? The lines were fuzzy.
Tags: life writing suffering death-and-dying hardness sufferings
Let’s face it: suffering discredits goodness. I’m agnostic in practice though faith-based in theory. I used to pray but now know he’ll do what he darn well pleases when he darn well pleases. Will he listen? Maybe. We have a book that says so, but how much happens beyond that book, I can’t say. That’s agnosticism in its bleakest and most honest form. Don’t judge me, yet believe me when I tell you that years of abuse tend to wring out every ounce of one’s ability to understand and adhere to faith in standard form.
Chila WoychikTags: writing suffering prayer agnosticism agnostic abuse
I’ve learned to lick
my own foul wounds
and prize the taste of ache.
Tags: pain poetry post-traumatic-stress-disorder post-traumatic-stress
God, O God, where art thou? Thou art as distant to me as the lady combing rice in the Yunnan Province of China or a piece of floating space debris circling Pegasi. In this feeling-dead world of post traumatic stress, skepticism is king, queen, and court jester.
Chila WoychikTags: pain skepticism post-traumatic-stress-disorder post-traumatic-stress
I’ve never had a rat, never chased one. I chase my own tail and that’s enough. I must now make plans for the day I catch it.
Chila WoychikTags: writing metaphor rats metaphorical
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