Ghosts of lives lived

My father’s father survived a war torn land as a child but could not survive the war that raged within him.

My father’s mother carried the weight of a broken generation on frail shoulders and fed it with pockets full of imitation love.

My father perpetually relived the death of his dreams till Death finally came for him.

My maternal grandfather built the Interstate of Integrity through the Badlands of prejudicial injustice.

My mother’s mother was born to please Earth with her scent – like Night Blooming Jasmine – only to be gone by morning.

My mother lived her life for others except for a momentary lapse that left her a lone wolf without a pack.

I live as a ghost in a life of lies built on the expectations of others.

 

[Another contribution by JW: art and words.]

[For those who may be curious, Kat is doing much better, but is still dealing with some issues. But I’ve got months of medical issues still ahead in the near future. So we are grateful to JW for all he’s done and continues to do for us here.]

Utter Bliss

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Utter bliss.
Welcomed.
Tested.
Pure, yet fleeting.
Six-months at best,
following a twenty-year void.
From the black hole to exaltation.
From nothingness… to “BOOM!”
When independence craves
depended on…
And single accepts double and change.
Though change changed once more…
and again…
and has yet to cease.

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Bliss is gone.
No tracks to follow.
Perhaps a whisper.
A thought.
Ethereal.
A dream… often forgotten,
since dreams are equally fleeting.
And yet Love remains without Bliss.
Still tested.
Still pure… Even more than before.
No dross remains.
Vaporized.
The fiery furnace of life’s trials.
Sparing nothing…
except perhaps,
the final curtain call.
Yet Love does more than linger.
Love survives.
Strong.
Committed.
Resolute.
Though Love’s thirst is quenched
through a daily rain of tears.
Tears at the hands of the infamous foe
who chased young Bliss away.
Sickness was who came calling,
and he did not come alone.
Masked… disguised.

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Wegener’s Granulamatosis Vasculitis
and the dreaded Zodiac sign:
The breast variety.
Metastasized.
Terminal.
A battleground of flesh.
A battle six-plus years and still going.
Like all wars, it’s taken its toll.
The battleground is ravaged.
Consequently, only those engaged
in the battle know the true worth
of the battlefield where blood is spilled.
The womb of war.
The birth of pain.
Yet True Love sees passed the scars,
into the thousand-yard stare,
and never loses sight of a soul-mate.
Hand-to-hand and heart-to-heart combat,
no matter how the flesh may change.
Thus, the loss of Bliss is bearable
as long as Love remains.
Yet woe to all where Love departs…
and woe upon woe
where he or she’s never been.

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[Another contribution by JW: art and words. We appreciate everything he’s done for us as we continue to battle the medical needs we’ve been facing.]

The True Perfection

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poetry.]

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The true perfection of humanity,
in a sense,
lies within our imperfections.
And vice-versa:
Beauty can be an imperfection.
Doubtless, not the common-thread
we would’ve selected
for ourselves.
Yet a bond, never-the-less,
binding us together.
Humans are equally yoked
in imperfection.
Alas, perfection is merely a state
of mind: often misconceived.
Humanity is a state of being:
a state where we each reside.
Neighbors.
Who then, when equally yoked,
has the right to condemn?
Yes, beauty has its appeal,
but it’s still a façade.
After all, today’s beauty
is tomorrow’s has been;
like today’s wannabe
is tomorrow’s never was.
Attempting to uplift oneself
by degrading another,
especially when unable to prove
one’s own perfection, is, sadly,
more than a waste of breath.
It’s a prevailing symptom
of an epidemic.
An ever-increasing pastime…
An ill-inspired comedy of errors…
With but one fate…
a Greek tragedy.

Know when to hold—Know when to fold

Anyone that has ever played poker has probably heard the phrase, “You’ve got to know when to hold, and know when to fold.” And we’ve all heard stories of people who don’t follow that advice and end up losing a lot.

Knowing when to hold and when to fold is also good advice for relationships. In fact, it’s crucial in D/s—BDSM relationships, because of the communication and trust levels required since there are many activities that can cause mental, physical, and emotional harm if the partners are not in tune with each other.

I have shown in prior posts that, statistically speaking, individuals involved in loving relationships before transitioning into D/s—BDSM have a far greater success rate than individuals attempting to find the right mate while they explore the kink world at munches, play parties, dungeons, online hook-ups, etc.

It is just so much easier to begin and build a D/s dynamic into a relationship when you already have a loving foundation, good communication, mutual respect, and trust. That is why, from a psychological standpoint, I always encourage individuals to find a loving mate that is compatible with them in as many areas as possible prior to transitioning to a D/s dynamic. It allows them the best of both worlds while giving them the best chance for a successful D/s relationship. And, as previously stated, all available data that I’ve researched confirms that perspective.

However, that does not mean successful D/s relationships cannot be attained in other ways. Sure, they can. But there will usually be more obstacles to overcome; particularly when trying to find a loving, compatible mate simultaneously while starting a D/s dynamic.

It is hard enough for long-term loving couples to transition into a D/s dynamic. So, you can imagine the additional strain placed on individuals attempting to begin a D/s dynamic when they do not even know important things about their mate; like how much they like or love each other, what areas they may or may not have compatibility, can they communicate well together, do they have mutual respect, and have they had time to earn each other’s trust.

Individuals who begin under such circumstances with so many obstacles ahead of them must remain focused and keep a level head. If they allow themselves to get carried away in the newness of it all, and succumb to the physical cravings and satisfactions instead of keeping a mature perspective, they can and will run headlong into problems that could have easily been avoided.

ZL: After reading about D/s—BDSM she became fascinated with the prospect of being a sub to a loving dom. Never one to wait for what she wants, she plunged into the kink community: both local and online. She communicated with over fifty prospective doms in a two-week period…and made her choice. She then foolishly signed a contract with him during their first meeting/session; and was conned into believing it was a legal document.

He moved in with her, took control, and slowly brought her into a state of seclusion. With very limited contact with family and friends, and trying to be a good sub to a dom that was never satisfied, she became miserable. A situation that would last nearly six-months. She finally told a brother returning from military duty overseas, and he immediately threw the guy and his meager possessions out of her place.

Sadly, while still yearning to be a sub, she was traumatized so much by her first mistake that she has not been able to commit to another dom since. She’s had sessions with over forty doms since that episode—including a few fem-doms—and hasn’t been able to even do a trial commitment.

For anyone considering a jump into the D/s—BDSM world, especially those that do not presently have a loving mate, make sure your head is where it should be. Find out as much about the D/s—BDSM world as you can. Make some online friends, and maybe friends in the local kink community that you can question. And take time to make a plan, one that you intend to stick with and will not alter unless you have a very good reason. And when you spend time with a prospective partner remember the advice: know when to hold, and know when to fold.

Who am I?

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poem.]

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Who am I?
I am the interpretation of my scars – seen and unseen.
I’m told everyone has a story.
I do not know but mine.
The beauty of youth once graced the cover,
but scars have always been the text.
Twas’ once… and only once… I bore no scars.
That was the time I had yet to live.
The first scar to my name
came at the point of birth.
Had I known what was coming
I might’ve curled back up inside.
I have several scars through child’s play.
Then another here, and two more there,
from adults who misbehaved.
With skin to asphalt I learned
that road, like skin, does have a rash.
O’ fighting scars, my history holds,
three-hundredfold, no jest partake:
though more within than out remain.
Till off I’m sent for our common uncle,
signed-up five days past seventeen.
I’m told adventure will be mine,
a man I will become.

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Stepped on soil in foreign places:
learned a truth I want to forget,
a truth no recruiter will tell a child.
In order to put away childish things,
a step taken to manhood,
it merely cost the lives of others –
and my blood staining the sand.
My skin did part like the Red Sea
as Moses held hands high.
First once… twice… than twice again,
so many surgeries past.
Uncle Sam, he did disown me.
His promises were dust.
Though it was he who set the policy,
it was I who paid with pain.
Pain to me is life…
my daily diet.
Scars now live… inside and out,
these scars I know so well.
The unseen ones are just as real,
and oft-times they bear more honor.
I pity those whose visible scars
were self-inflicted.
All beauty is not appealing.
All scars are not unappealing.
Beauty forges vanity,
scars forge character.
It is the “beautiful” people who shun me the most.
Their character has never been tempered.
My scars testify to my courage.
Scars from heroism trump the beauty
so common on the model runway.
I’ll take my battle scars
over your beauty awards – any day.
Maturity understands
why battle scars are beauty marks.
There’s a reason pretty boys die in battle,
while this junkyard dog survived.
Beauty on the battlefield is merely cannon fodder.
Battle scars: a clearer fashion statement
than scarification, body piercing, or tattoos.

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Every masterpiece appears scarred
when still a work in progress.
Yet when it scars with age
it becomes no less a masterpiece.
Society urges me to bare my medals,
yet hide my scars.
While shunned by others
I’ve learned to cherish myself – scars and all.
“Vet” now rolls off my tongue,
no longer caught in my throat.
I am scarred for life,
yet feel no shame.
Who am I?
I am the interpretation of my scars – seen and unseen.

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[JW has become closer than a brother. We’re both disabled Vets and compatible in many other ways. And kat and I wish to thank him again for all he’s done during this bad period we’re going thru.— AJT]