The Creaking Floorboard

These endless, nameless days of being locked down, locked out, locked in, they’re playing havoc with my unconscious mind. My dreams are coming to the surface, mingling with reality. Memories of a childhood, long since resolved in many a therapists uncomfortable chair, are beginning to haunt me again. Popping into my dusty mind like a white sheet of a ghost. You know those ones you see in the old cartoons?

Honestly, there is no longer any pain in that cut, yet there is a wound. I remember meeting a man who had a rare intuitive gift. He could sense my wound, under my hard shell, my armour, my deep cut. In he went, like a predator, for the kill, straight for my heart. Of course, I am a battle hardened warrior by this time. He died at the hand of my sword. You see the thing is, it’s usually predators that sense wounds, weaknesses in people, narcissistic personality types. He was just lonely.

At night I’m trying to sleep, and when sleep comes it’s old memories of lying in bed as a six year old child, dreading to hear that creaking floorboard. Knowing that HE was nearby.

Sunset at Navan Fort Armagh

The Creaking Floorboard

Trying so hard to sleep.

Lying, Seemingly suspended in the darkness,

Floating, the bed below.

Mind filled with doubt,

debt and longing.

The ghosts come instead to haunt with fears.

A light like a glow seeps beneath the door into the gloom.

Mind churning,

Body burning with the need to rest,

Waiting on sleep to come.

finally succumb to an uneasy slumber.

Sleep at last.

Now the dreams begin.

Dreams of a wrong childhood

Here lies the gateway to truth, pain and reality.

Here is the portal to that other place.

The place which shows how death will be …

That final rest place, when life’s mysteries are finally revealed.

The unconscious mind,

the stormy sea of analogy.

Unwilling peace and clarity.

I tell you to Value dreams, and share

with none.

Because These reveal you to

unworthy Souls.

Tell them lightly and you become

undone

by misunderstanding and witless

eyes.

~~~~

Breath held

Body stiff

Ice cold

Smelling him

bones crushing

dead weight

Rigid

Heaving

Bearing down

Pumping

Ripping flesh

daddy stitch

Bone dry

“Stupid Bitch

You’re frigid”

~~~~

Dreams are sometimes memories

that are treasures hidden under beds.

Memories are often monsters, buried deep in bright Souls,

in dark places, needing fed.

Release the monsters

Feed the monsters

The choice is always there

Is always mine. “

~ Kathy Barenskie

#prose #poetry #dreams #analogy #monsters #survive #survival #thrive #Soul #memories #sleep #lockdown #abuse

Published by myinbetweenworld

“Mellow and flowing, a river gently meandering through a fresh green leafy glade. Touching into spirit and knowing. I’m going into Heart and accepting the shadow”. ~ KB

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