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[your-habibi]

Hold up my balloons and cover up my face

I can feel them weighing on me every day

I should let 'em go and watch 'em float away

But I'm scared if I do, then I'll be more afraid (More afraid)

Tell them how I feel, but they don't want to change (They don't wanna change)

Tell them how I feel, but they remain the same

Loosen up my grip, they say that's not okay

Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet, ayy, leave me alone!

~NF - Leave me Alone~

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I just enrolled at Southern New Hampshire University for my continuing my education online, and getting my bachelor's degree in Creative Writing. I'm a bit nervous, but overall super excited to begin. Do you guys attend school online, and if so, do you have any tips or pointers for me?

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My grandson Raiden's own special baby talk language. 😍😍😍 (at Sparks, Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CLjralRFDn3/?igshid=1lies4qy8fok9

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#meow #me #covid_19 #coronaviruspandemic #corona (at Sparks, Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CLjrBWUFoLc/?igshid=1dz9qtunrfaml

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My grandson, Raiden laughing on the plane. 😊😍💗 https://www.instagram.com/p/CLjqz1jlkCy/?igshid=37kfl7i2x4gm

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#me https://www.instagram.com/p/CLjqsbDFWQX/?igshid=1nunhqfcarfjf

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My daughter and my grandson. ❤️💗💖 https://www.instagram.com/p/CLjqjhWlQhG/?igshid=1pvxhaowaqtbp

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Some words stay in your head long after they’re spoken.

Robin Roe (via bnmxfld)

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#spiritedaway (at Writingbeautifully.com) https://www.instagram.com/p/CH-lDYplOOh/?igshid=hzsxmuufv7ox

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Good morning! Brrr... It's chilly! 😊 (at Sparks, Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CH-kzAyl1Vh/?igshid=73e2xupv57wl

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“An Ode to Those of Us Orphaned by Drug Abuse” Poetry by Lesley Patterson AKA Lady Opaque of WritingBeautifully.com

I should have known by the way our own family treated her,

but it never occurred to me that my mom was very ill.

My entire childhood she was sickly.

Mom would say, “If you don’t feel good, then pop this pill.”

Opiates were her passion, but they drained her of all life,

and her chasing the bag caused nothing but more strife.

I was always told that we do not discuss this subject,

while she popped Percocet’s while riding with police and the LDS.

“Be quiet, keep it to yourself, and mind your own business.

Shut up because I want these pills, to just relieve this damn stress.”

When I was three years old, I almost overdosed from the meth that Mommy left in her soda pop,

I kept running around in a circle and my heartbeat throbbed non-stop.

I cannot deal with this right now baby, I do not feel that good.

My mommy could never be the mother that she should.

As a pre-teen, I had to find a new place for us to live after an eviction.

all this pressure just because of good old mom’s drug addiction.

Always the black sheep of our family, they never wanted to get close.

All the fault of the very person who was supposed to love me the most.

The child parenting the mentally ill drug addict was always our personal theme song,

it repeated every day, and every night for 34 years strong.

Finally, I came to my senses and got away but barely escaped intact,

her drug addiction, her lies, her laziness, all had a very negative and bad impact.

Made homeless before it got better, I lost everything I’d ever owned for the third time in my life.

The pain, the regret, the sentimental items lost, painful thoughts cutting through like a butcher’s knife.

I left that toxic situation though, somehow got out alive.

Now all I want to do is build stability to survive.

I do not want the drugs or the craziness,

I do not want Mom’s excuses or pure laziness.

I just want a drama-free and positive, drug-free meaningful existence,

and I’m chasing down that goal and dream with much persistence.

I need to break this cycle, need to stop the pain.

I must find a way to shine my light through the fog and rain.

Why did this happen, and God, why me?

Why did I have to grow up as the mother and not the motherly?

Deep regrets locked away in a child’s barely hidden and showing shame,

all because my mommy just loved the dope game.

What is left now and what can I do?

I can start by relating this story to each one of you.

For all those kids of drug addicts hiding away in the dark,

digging through trash cans for food in the park.

I know that sadly there are far too many others out there who can probably relate,

for they have also borne this strange pain, this fucked up fate.

To know what it is like to suffer from this pandemic you must first understand,

that drug addiction and mental illness often come hand in hand.

We are the generation of children that raised and parented our own parents,

judged unfairly by others for their deeds rather than our own merits.

All I can say is flee and escape,

do not stay there and take the emotional rape.

They always say meth is a hell of a drug…

but tell me where were you mommy when I needed a hug?

So many of us bent and broken, misshapen, and sad,

deeply grieving the lost family and parents that we never had.

The answer to this is more education and public awareness,

so that this epidemic can be treated with more fairness,

for all those little kids who all alone often cried,

those with empty tummies but trying still to hide,

all of their sick parents’ deeds that were done in the dark,

so, they could get some more Vicodin or a meth pipe to spark.

We need a voice to share our story,

we need a torchbearer who can handle the glory.

Someone to bring all of this to the light,

so, we, the lost kids, can sleep better at night.

We grieve for the mothers we never had,

and our hearts weigh heavy, emotions are sad.

The trauma is nearly unbearable,

all the horrible memories nearly un-shareable.

When I was just a teen, she had tried to get me to shoot up with crank,

I was smart enough to say no and the Gods I thank,

because it would be another waste if I were also a meth head,

that toxic shit will quickly put you in your deathbed.

I miss the mommy that I never really had,

but since I have finally escaped, I am rather glad.

I no longer have to watch her drug abuse,

I no longer need to put up with excuse after excuse.

I can finally live my own life, although tainted by it all,

however, this is my rise and the drugs were their fall.

We the children must stay strong and carry on with our lives,

find our own families, husbands, children, and wives.

We are making the family that we never ever had,

and yes, my friend, that is indeed very sad.

However, I am still proud to say,

that I am no longer under the influence of my mother to this day.

I left that life, had to keep her behind,

all so that peace in my mind I could find.

Heed my warnings this story is all one hundred percent true,

you can do drugs, yes; but they in the end they just do you.

https://medium.com/@lady.of.the.opaque/an-ode-to-those-of-us-orphaned-by-drug-abuse-poetry-by-lesley-patterson-aka-lady-opaque-of-b17bc9c00900

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Me in my 7-Eleven work uniform. 🙂💜♥️🌼 (at Sparks, Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CDN-DDbFFDH/?igshid=1jmxr2oitua1n

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“Pale Yellow” – A Poem by Lesley Michelle Patterson AKA Lady Opaque of WritingBeautifully.com

Pale yellow like her hair,

it feels as though she has always been there.

Shrinking slowly underneath her skin,

don't let it out; never let them in.

I once called her "mellow yellow," and we laughed for hours.

She said that I'm a funny fellow whose embrace empowers.

"My cup runneth over," she said in relation to us.

Over her, my stunning one, I'd forever make a fuss.

I ask why we all suffer she smiles knowingly and answers so simply, "Because we must."

“Without the intensity of life's ups and downs, where would be our lust?”

Pale yellow honeysuckles sunning in the garden,

smell so floral and rich that I stop to beg their pardon.

They too remind me of my sacred bond with that girl I love from so long ago,

Now I spend my days wondering why I ever let her go...

We drank pale yellow lemonade together which my grandmother made,

Under star-speckled skies, once the sun began to fade.

We once spent the night in a yellow Volkswagen Bug,

and though it was uncomfortable, I’ve never felt so snug.

When she started to get ill I never had the chance to tell her,

That inside of me I was feeling deep emotions stir.

She began to suffer from depression, but it wasn’t all that noticeable at first.

6 months later she then took a deadly turn for the worst.

She had taken up cutting and one night she cut deeper than she’d meant to.

Deep crimson stained her sheets which were once baby pastel blue.

After that incident, they locked her away,

And she’s been in and out of the hospital since that very day.

Pale yellow like the linoleum floor of the room where I went to visit her.

It’s been years now and happened so quickly that it all seems a blur.

Stale smell from closed-in asylum walls,

Bleached white corridors and endless halls.

Tears, I had never seen her cry before streamed down her face.

She said, “Look at me Johnathon, I’ve become a disgrace.”

I did my best to assure her that it wasn’t true,

and I tried building her up until my face went blue.

Every word I spoke she harshly denied,

and there’s never been a time I’ve more deeply cried inside.

I wept for my wilting flower,

It was never like her to bend or cower.

It hurt so bad to see her in such distress,

to only be able to stand by while she was in such mess.

The next words she spoke scarred me deeply.

She said, “After this visit, I never want you to see me.”

My heart crumbled up inside of itself, and I felt as though I could die.

Despite myself, I broke my strong face and I, too started to cry.

I protested, but she insisted with anguish written on her face,

then the nurses came and said, “Visits over” and I had to leave that place.

Pale yellow like the cigarette stains on my left hand,

Pale yellow like an hourglasses time sand.

I wonder where she is and if she’s alright,

and I pray to the Gods every single night,

to hold her and keep her in their sight.

I miss her and ever since I’ve never felt quite right.

Pale yellow like the bandages that covered her wrists,

Lord, I never wanted it to end like this.

 Copyright July 13, 2020

By Lesley Michelle Patterson AKA Lady Opaque of WritingBeautifully.com

Copyright July 13, 2020

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“The Bringer Of Death” – A Horror Poem by Lesley Patterson AKA Lady Opaque

It began with a story from another realm that was but was not real,

Stirring up so many emotions that I do not know how to feel.

There was once a little girl who broke all of her dolls,

she was always getting the short stick of life’s slips and falls.

The preacher said, “The child needs to be blessed!”

And so, with her spirituality, they started to mess.

Of what once was and someday maybe once more,

she rapped ever so gently on the cellar door.

To her surprise, an answer arose,

Was really it so hard?  God only knows…

All she ever wanted was to be loved and protected,

but of this fact her parents shamelessly rejected.

She kept her small head high, just pushing forward and on,

but she had died inside already, that little girl was gone.

She sits in the corner dismembering dolls,

and she trembles in the recoil of her family’s harsh calls.

No one was ever there for the child,

and in her mind, she grew more feral and wild.

She wears long-sleeved shirts to cover the bruises,

but she will not ask for help, this she very sternly refuses.

The teachers all suspect, but they do not really want to ask,

“Who is that little girl who hides behind a mask?”

She adorns it each and every single day,

she yearns to break free or to just go away.

At night, the monsters under her bed,

well, they all slip inside of her head.

So battered, so broken,

not a single word of this she’s spoken.

To say it out loud would make it worse,

so instead, she suffers in silence from one hell of a curse.

In the dark, she prays for the Goblin King to, “Come take me away!”

but he never comes and so it is there she is forced to stay.

Her home life is so toxic that its profound.

If I said it out loud, how would it sound?

Scars crease her tiny wrists created by a blade,

that she had dug inside of her flesh, yes; mistakes were made.

Her mother is a distant, cold, and cruel bitch,

but the suicide didn’t go as planned it was thrown off the hitch.

Inside her head, she’s crying out loudly, and yet no tears have fallen.

She is dreary eyed and anxious; she seems so very sullen.

Her father forces himself on her in acts of wretched and hateful molest,

but she keeps that to herself, locked up tight inside her chest.

All she’s ever wanted was to just escape,

that and oh yes, a father who didn’t commit rape.

Incestuous, she never cries anymore,

but it’s rotting her to her very core.

Her parents are druggies and they live in a slum,

they think they’re so smart when they are actually dumb.

Dirty syringes, sharp needles, all urging her point of release.

When she can finally run away perhaps these thoughts will cease.

Burdened, mistreated, malnourished, and disrespected,

she wishes that they’d left her alone and instead neglected.

At night when she sleeps, she keeps on having this dream,

it is the same one as every night and that makes her want to scream.

It’s always about being trapped in a house with no doors, windows, or mirrors.

This same repetitive reoccurring dream has gone on and on for years.

Cracked like the foundation she uses to cover up her black eyes,

destitute, forgotten, she no longer cries.

She feels like a ghost, one of the walking dead,

as she runs from the demons trapped inside of her head.

They taunt her, and prod her, and poke her with sticks.

Reality or fantasy?  Either way, they’re dirty tricks…

She feels hopeless in a situation that she can’t fix,

her back to the corner, head down, clutching a crucifix.

She feels trapped like there’s no way out,

then the voices in her head get loud and they shout;

the most horrible things at her in a ghastly wail.

She’s too thin from not eating and she looks rather pale.

Another day of this horror she just can’t survive,

and often she wonders if she’ll get out of here alive.

Dank and damp like a basement long forgotten,

you can literally smell the decay as if something is rotten.

All she ever wanted was a little more love,

from her parents, her teachers, and God above.

She’s been plotting the day when she plans to strike back,

her heart begins pounding, then it fades all to black.

She grabs her father’s gun from off of the wall,

then moves ever so silently down the dark hall.

Slowly creeping into her parents’ bedroom,

with an ever-increasing sense of death and doom.

She’s in their doorway now as they sleep,

stalking like a predator, she doesn’t make a peep.

She aims the rifle at her daddy’s still head,

then she fires, pulls the trigger, and now daddy’s dead.

Her mother wakes up to the sound of the gunshot,

looking now as if she’s the one that’s been caught.

The little girl aims once more and squeezes the trigger,

and wouldn’t you know, just wouldn’t you figure?

Suddenly the gun becomes stiff and jammed,

the Gods are playing a joke on her, the very recently damned.

Out of bed and running past her, the mother tries to flee,

all of a sudden, the hunt is back on and this thought fills her with glee.

Her moms got no shoes on and is dressed in a skimpy nightgown,

the little girl pulls a knife from her pocket and easily chases her down.

In a panic now, her mother’s trying to escape via the front door,

and the fear in her eyes makes our heroine smile more.

Up behind her, she jabs the knife deeply into her back,

instantly she feels like it’s Christmas and Santa’s brought a full sack.

Again, and again, with such savagery so fierce,

the knife goes in and out; her mother’s been repeatedly pierced.

The little girl didn’t know it at the time, nor did she count her stabs,

her mother’s hands now bloody, in self-defense the blade she grabs.

She’s soon overpowered and knocked back to the floor,

where she’s stabbed over and over until you could quote the Raven, “Nevermore.”

By the time she was finished the total stab count was forty-eight,

and now that she’s finished the little girl feels great.

For the first time ever she’s actually free,

to do anything, or say anything, well, that’s what she told me.

She left both of their bodies in their own pools of gore,

but to be honest, she’d really like to knife them some more,

just for all of the pain and trauma that they both had inflicted,

but her thoughts settle now and become shifted.

This is all like a dream, a bloody fantasy gifted,

and off of her shoulder’s the weights finally shifted.

She finally found justice and she felt vindicated,

and now as she reflects, she sees that some love is over-rated.

So glad she was there to take from them their final breath,

no chains now, she’s the victor and the bringer of death.

​https://medium.com/@lady.of.the.opaque/the-bringer-of-death-a-horror-poem-by-lesley-patterson-aka-lady-opaque-of-4cb3b5df8d2a

https://www.writingbeautifully.com/Blog/blog/the-bringer-of-death-a-horror-poem-by-lesley-patterson-aka-lady-opaque/06/14/2020/

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