Scott C. Holstad

Knoxville Poems

Horrorshow

I wake
feeling dampened pillow,
turn on the light,
and see the pillow and
sheets rusty blood red,
soaked through from my
arm, which hasn’t stopped.
The wife’s going to be
pissed.

I cut
because I enjoy it.
My doctor says it’s an
endorphin release and
an understandable
substitute for other
things, such as drinking,
taking drugs, impulse
shopping, etc.

I have a different theory.
I am on Paxil
again.
Many anti-depressants
leave you with the ability
to chafe yourself to death
but never attain release.
I am one of those affected.
Perhaps the spill of blood
replaces that other need;
seeing it run down my arm,
drip into the sink, plop
onto the cat box; seeing the
blood dampen the ground I
walk on, oozing, spilling,
spurting even,
trails of it,
big lumpy clots
forming –
it turns me on.

Call me sick, perhaps
you’re right, but the
pain eases the other
pains and perhaps
this „issue“ as well.
I
do think it ironic
to see myself
using a paper I
downloaded –
Self Injury – you
are not the only one –
to dampen the flow,
leaving a darkened
souvenir for future
reading. Like
everyone, I need
to get off – this is
the only way I can.
So be it.

Divider Line

Mother

Mother,
you came out to be my
mini-savior after Lisa
went back to Phoenix.
You drove me to Cedars,
to the drugstore, the
grocery store, the post
office, you let me rest
up – you, too, were a
pillar of strength,
you and Aunt Ethel.

Thank you.

I often feel like I’ve
come to the end of the
world and the rocks are
biting sharp as I drift
toward the edge; I see
the harsh glaze of
blood surrounding me,
my cuts have become
ritual,
yet
at these times,
I stand in front of the
dirty bathroom mirror,
often with blood
dripping from my arms
into the cracking sink,
and I think of your
smile, your strength,
your inner presence,
and I know
what little peace
I can,
aside from my pills,
and my rage subsides,
if only for a moment,
and you
Woman,
my Mother,
are holding me
in my dreams
and
all
is
finally
well.

Cocktail

Wasted eyes
they look at me
like I’m the
stranger
I
see
f l i c k e r i n g
l
i
n
e

s
pewter and lime green
cocktail
of sorts
tho
not of the old days

Wellbutrin
Neurontin
Klonopin
Xanax
Risperdal

more
at times
sometimes so many
I just really can’t remember
don’t really want to

could I really be       manic
depressive
depressed
psychotic
let alone ADD & OCD

We
share this moment
not through touch
but
our eyes
yours
brilliant, shining, willing, wanting to know
feel the pain, understand,
mine
dead to the world, a bleak history of empty files

Let this cocktail do its job
alleviate the danger
temper the turbulence

funny,
I never dug getting stoned in college
here I am stoned out of my gourd
for you
they say it should be for me
the       group
doctors
nurses
case managers
even you

but
I want healing
because
I
want to keep you
us
alive
in this moment
and
forever.

Growth

My playing fields
were comprised of a
black and white
universe

cold/hot
light/dark
heaven/hell
right/wrong

This
my guide
my birthright

I tried,
Lord knows I did,
but something was
buried
in the back of my
soul
a perfectly
round
darkness

a
blackened
key
which
when turned
daily
produced
increasing
torment
fires of hell
anguish
despair
the leaves
turned gray
the rose petals
dripped to the
earth

and I felt heat
distant
at first
but
the kindling was
just the beginning;
soon more logs
were added
and I was ablaze

I earned a
reputation,
I tortured my
beleaguered parents,
I started
writing

my mind went every
which
way

and
I
yearned for violence,
sought it out,

on my way to a
multi-degreed
corporate
family
life

I
became
Manic Depressive
Obsessive Compulsive
ADD

the signs had been there
no one knew
no one gave a shit

when I
was to
eventually
go
overboard
it was
to be a
lesson
learned

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