image photography by Natalie Ving Slime beneath me, slime up above
Ooh, you'll love my (ah-ah-ah) toxic love
-Hexxus Hello, my name is Joey, and I keep trying to heal toxic men. These words have been ringing in my ears for a few weeks now, so much so that I knew eventually I was going to have to bite the bullet and write about it.
As the threat of isolation looms, and the Universe decided level of Shadow work that this introspective period will inevitably bring
image - Adam Bird Photography "It hurts," I cried.
"I know," replied the Witch of my soul, "And look, the Forest beckons."
So it did, once more, a thick underbrush of reckless vines, criss-crossing the broken parts, stitching them anew.
The churned Earth seemed to crumble underfoot, loose and unstable, broken down from all the wandering back and forth, back and forth, without real rest.
"The roots remain, deeper down," she croaked, knowing what was in my mind of course,
Image sabrina nielsen photography Sweet Queen,
I know it feels as though your lungs are heavy
And your heart is full of stones
That the weightlessness of tear spun lakes
Is the only home you’ve known
I know you could spin a thousand veils
From the pain that you’ve outgrown
On your own
The shimmer is a glimmer of the armour that you forge
To be defenceless is a treasure
You rarely could afford
And it feels as though your Corvus wings
Are tethered to
images - Natalie Ving You are nobody's first choice. You are easily forgotten. You don't matter enough to be wanted. You are easily replaced. Sound familiar? For as long as I can remember, I just wanted to be someones first choice.
The thought would hit me like a tidal wave of loneliness where my self worth plummeted under the riptide, causing tears until my lungs ached.
The beginnings of feeling that I as a person was replaceable are not difficult to pinpoint; that despite
Here’s to the forgotten ones,
The lonely hearts,
Those who feel like they’re nobody’s first choice,
Who feel like outsiders all day long,
Misfits who can’t seem to relate,
The fragmented puzzle pieces,
The ones who silently observe wishing someone cared,
The not so popular anti conformists with loud opinions and bigger hearts,
The ones who stick out like sore thumbs,
The broken but thriving,
Those who aren’t ever given as much as they give,
The non in
"I know my Worth. I've paid dearly for every ounce of it." - Alfa Black soot stained feathers brush across my cheekbones, dappling ink across my flesh.
Experience is worn, painted on, from the dusty remnants of burning the defunct remnants of a former life, a constant reminder when the sting of memory fades and the tears are all spent. The Goddess Badb will always bring me back to myself, time and again, even when I find myself ashamed in the recalling.
Her crow-like shrill
Mother of Babylon Thy speak of sinful flesh falls short of my lips
Your scornful nature taps against the skull
My flesh burns with indignation
But not from any punishment you can mete out
Heartless is the memory of men
Seeking to bind and conquer and rule
To besmirch the powerful and capable Any crown forged and welded... bled for
To speak of many heads monstrous
They are afraid and their words reek of it
I turn my bare throat and growl
Hiss between my teeth
Image - Natalina Drepina source I have spoken before of Shadow Masks and the damage they can do to spiritual seekers; "Slipping into a shadow mask is one of the simplest forms of self-deception. To know ourselves is to resonate from a place of personal power; to ignore and justify our seemingly less desirable qualities or reactions, blaming others for our own shadows, is to make ourselves lesser. This is highlighted where so ever there is personal disagreement; when one perso
image - Cristopher McKenney. Samhain is almost on us, (leaving arguments concerning moon phases versus calendar dates aside, and mentioning that I have been performing rituals for about a week already,) and for the first time in a long time, there is more heavy reverence, somberness, and sadness in the air. Lessons are salty and sweet, with salt from bitter tears wept at the altar, balanced by the perfumed dew from the rose petals as those tears fall. Freedom is such a gift,
image - Helen Warner There were two important and deeply personal spiritual mysteries that remained on the tip of my minds' eye this year.
One was heard, a whisper on the wind, "to crown yourself in roses," the other was felt, an internal chaos that wrecked havoc within and was only later understood; the phantom death.
Both were elusive, like the strands of red thread woven together by the Norns, sisters to the Goddesses of the Underworld.
It felt as though the Nordic God
original image - christian-felices-citrus-tree-photography-the-crow That’s the thing about the Crow eyed women
With their lips bedecked in otherness
You might think for a moment they are infused with whimsy
But Morrigan made them with steel bones
We endure beyond the point of breaking
And underestimate us at your own risk
We speak for the heart of the wild ones
Teeth bared to raise up a snarl
Magick without heart is autopsy
The mask of the cruel slips and falls
I feel as though flotsam
Run ragged on the ocean
I have travelled far in search
Of something deep and buried
They speak of sirens ache
Upon the shore so lulling
I tip into the waves and sigh
A torn white sail around my heart
Was once airborn and waving
Now a shroud of longing
What does it mean to be sworn to sea
A promise of names sake written
In ink in the lines of my skin
Wrinkles wink at the past as I float
A maiden of sand that is slipping
Can I breathe
photography - Michael Germosén Primal Woman, I call to you And speak of spitting fire and Ocean tide Swallowed whole by a passion of being
The lines in the dark blur into memory
Timeless and ageless as salt bought yearning
Teeth chatter and chomp through the pages of history Gnashing at an ode to freedom
Something in our loins
Mystery is not the unknowing
But the unlearning of a half measured truth
Matted in animal fur and war wounds
Spears held tight
Original photography - Katerina Plotnikova I ran wild in my dreams last night,
I saw you, Little Hawk, I howled and ran and saw your eyes. Change is coming on the wind The beating of the drum An Old soul amidst the trees.
I danced before the moonlight
With a branch of Thorn
And called right back to Hawk. Change is coming on the wind
The beating of the drum
An Old soul amidst the trees. - Joey Morris
All my own work, all rights reserved #poem #hawk #poetry #dream #drea