Bug Stopped

This poem is based on an incident early this morning way b4 the world was awake. it was an hour of total desolation where man meets bug. it was a painful excruciatingly slow death, but man prevailed and woman wrote about it, jen

A Bug Has Stopped On My Kitchen Floor

I found you flipped over, your six arms waving wildly 

for help, on a deserted island. I didn’t want you 

and your deserted island turning up in the middle of 

the kitchen floor of my life. Like the deserted parking 

lot that used to be my carefree childhood. You moved in 

and brought the weeds and the carefree children 

fell and cut their knees. I don’t need your desert island, I am 

trying to reclaim my carefree joy even in a deserted place. I have

my own six waving arms to still. My big giant face hovers down 

closer to yours, a face, dear bug, not a helicopter of God. I have my own 

big face hovering down closer to me in the bathroom mirror, my face, 

no helicopter. The face with eyes that imply a weapon hidden 

in a hand. Is it a prison shank or a dove of fire? Lord I am perishing for a sign, 

I am trying to save myself, praying for the something 

in my most hidden hand. I look up on my back and wave my sick six arms around, 

then I right myself with the world, there is something in my hand 

and I will kill what I must kill. Bug it’s you and me...it’s you or me. 

The world is just war and desertion, desertion and war and then you are 

so desperate you look up for a big face, for a hidden hand with whatever 

it’s got for you. I understand this bug. I am not a bug, but I am a junky. It’s 

the same thing. Heroin finally flips you over onto your back 

on your own kitchen floor, and gives you many broken arms to wave 

around. And either you get back on your feet or you stare up waiting 

for something to fall out of the sky. I know you came for some crumbs, 

crumbs of my soul, but bug there’s only one crumb left, and so I am 

keeping it and handing you down a hand me down death. Bug it doesn’t fit

me anymore. This hard crumb no bug can swallow. The hard crumb 

no one can smile. I look in the mirror, I look in the bug and do 

not swallow and do not smile. Death is not pretty. Something in my hand 

materializes, I bring it down from the sky and slice you in your belly. It’s 

like the abortion I had; life is not pretty. I am not looking forward to 

the messy process this slice has set off. Like waking up after I relapsed 

and knowing the messy process of either giving up and dying on 

your back or else getting back on your feet sober. Bug, maybe you can 

empathize, I am shedding my exoskeleton. I want to tell you to leave but in 

the heat of the moment I cannot speak so I take something outta hiding 

and communicate it with deadly precision. I think you know the fear of shedding 

your outside knowing you will die in your own shit or else get up and grow 

back. For a long time no one knew where I was, not even myself. I was 

on a desert island. I am back there again on my knees again 

dealing with you again. Bug you are not me anymore. You try 

to confuse me with six waving arms. But bug, you got the wrong 

address; I don’t live here anymore. It’s you, not me on your 

back waving your empty arms, in a bed, deserted by a long series 

of brushes with death who said they were men. The first day of sobriety is 

the first day of waking up on a desert island or the first day in jail. Cry, wail, 

bang out your song with your head against a bar, or pray, 

but whatever you do shut up and mind your own business. Bug you did 

not mind your own business. You boldly walked across my kitchen 

floor then fell over on your back and waited to make me feel bad, real bad. In jail, 

in junky-hood we are numbers, we are statistics. I got your number. I was 

your number. I write your number into your own body, your own 

medicine. The first number is a slice down the middle. You say, it’s not 

enough, you wave your arms for more. Many armed bug you are 

my addiction. I don’t try and understand you. I say to the bug, the addiction, I still 

love you. Bug, I am sober and you are a little crawler, a little 

darkness creeping to get back into my things all over again and give me 

the creeps. This slice down the middle seems only to have simulated 

organ failure, still you wave from your desert. But that’s not God and His 

helicopter, that’s my killer face bringing down the sky. I slice you a little 

higher up where your heart would be if you had one. I would cry 

because I feel your pain, I still got you in me.  But I lost all my tears, 

they went into the pit, each ticked a year off of my life. Tick tick tick, the pit 

is bottomless, the years blurred by as I cried. Bug you got that bottomless pit 

look in your eye. I slice you at the neck now, where it really counts. At the end 

I was shooting up dope in the neck cause I had nowhere else 

to go, the whole place was deserted. In the end I had done everything 

I said I’d never do, there was nowhere to go. At the last possible moment I got 

back on my feet. Don’t ask me how, that’s the thing hidden in my hand. It kills

and it saves at the same time. I am brought again to my knees this morning, once

again at the edge where life meets death. I am moved to the edge on 

my knees, not by God but by a little bug. I try to say, it’s just a bug, it’s just 

a kitchen floor, but I know better, I remember when I was on 

my back for ten years, getting raped pillaged gutted and burned, getting used 

to it because I wanted to stay high. I got so high, I was no bigger 

than a bug and people would look up and wonder where I was. I look 

down at you, I must look as high as the sky to you. Bug I am not high and 

I am not sky, I am just a junky who’s clean, I just hate you and love you 

and got a something hidden in my hand. Addiction, bug whoever you 

are dressed as today, I choose life. I bring down the weapon. One must die 

so the other can live. I take you off at the head. The seasick waving 

stops. I gather you up in a tissue, tears black as tar 

heroin. And the bug, the addiction is over. I get up out of 

the ashes and go on breathing and being human. A bug has stopped 

on my own kitchen floor. Will I pay for this in eternity? Lord forgive 

me; dearest bug, my one and only regret is that 

I did not get you back on your feet so I could 

kill you like a man.

GREETINGS from POWA land!

greetings ya'll. this is my new blog so i must greet everyone one and ALL. i am jennifah powa. i am a girl on a mission. i have been sent to earth to accomplish my mission and then return to my home planet. i am a recovering person. i am recovering from a LOT of things but to keep it short, i am recovering from: addiction to many substances, mental illness, and a shattered heart. i am a survivor. my life has been pulverized, bombed out, war torn, shell shocked and I AM STILL HERE. i am presently rebuilding from the ashes. i am learning to love my ashes. my foundation is ashes of LOVE. i have been sober for a while but i have not been simply abstaining from chemicals. i have been working towards a goal of a spiritual awakening. i am entering a precious brand new eternal relationship with a GOD of my understanding. i urge all of u while there is still time, to get right with yr own GOD, to go to GOD however u understand and define God. i still don't know what the purpose of life is. i think it has to do with LOVE and i think my life has been a long series of lessons in LOVE. i know that many die alone from lack of LOVE. i don't want that to be me. God woke me up today so i guess He's got plans for me again today. lately i been doing small things with great LOVE, because that's really all any of us can do. and most importantly i am not doing any of these things alone. i was once a loner, a hermit, a hermit crab i crawled out of my shell. i have now found a bunch of other shell-less crabs. we are making a little home for ourselves together by the sea. what a strange life. what a stranger than fiction life. i still can't xplain what exactly life is and therefore what the purpose of fighting for it is...but i do believe wholeheartedly that it is worth fighting for whether u ever find out why or not. and actually WHY really is not important. some questions i will never answer, but i will show with my actions a great LOVE that makes the fighting worth every drop of sweat. hope u all live the miracle today! blessings, jen

anotha GIA poem...

This poem is anotha poem inspired by GIA. Also inspired by the bleak statistics that 1 out of 38 addicts get and stay clean. one day at a time, one word at a time...ima prove all of them WRONG. hope u all enjoy the poem as much as i enjoyed writing it...

 For Gia And All The Other 37

She wanted to get the hell out of there. I know those blank 

walls where the death sentence is written and it is totally 

blank. It is purgatory and there is nothing to read. She dreams 

of being five years old again at the bottom of the stairs 

before her hair ever got cut; she wanted to be home like 

in that picture, long braids at the bottom of the stairs. I too had 

that picture in my head, a postcard, a home to hang up 

on your cell wall. In reality though every junky’s homeless,

their best shot at a home is the mansions in the air with 

the infinite rooms. Home as faraway and unbreathable as 

the air that is everywhere. They tried to wean her from 

the tube, to get her onto the real air. After this they knew she wasn’t 

going back home, and she wasn’t gonna breathe again. I was on 

that train too, ten years in fact. Her unwillingness to breathe the real 

air was my unwillingness. I would not breathe the air, 

I was obstinate, I breathed through the tube, the crack pipe, the joint, 

the syringe anything I could find to not have to breathe like the others, to not have to be 

like the others. When I saw others’ breathing I choked on vomit and 

sucked in some more drugs. Her hair had been tragically cut short. It 

fell on the floor. For her heroin, or whoever you want to call it, we all know who it 

is, is king of everything. You could tell by the way she clung to 

the empty crown and even put it on her shorn head and smiled, she was not 

fit to bring home or to breathe. Her mother is there, always there, but still 

it’s not home, it still does not help her breathe on her own. The mother 

of the addict has her arms forever open wide. But she cannot 

hold you, she is a paper doll the addict daughter cut out to 

play with, to pretend real love with, the mother doll smiles love but 

the paper remembers the cut. Addiction puts in your hand a tube 

instead of a pen, and you put it in your mouth and breathe and then 

life is breathable. I refused the air of you and you and you. I was too 

good, I was too bad to breathe with you; I oscillated. I was nowhere. 

I was nothing. And I thought that was better than being me. For ten years 

I breathed anesthesia like air. They could not pry 

the syringe from my fist as I went in to save it from 

the burning building. I came out of flames swinging with my one 

sharp edge. I tried to breathe in suicide. I thought I’d get a backwards ambulance 

ride home. Really stupid; really all I was ever doing was finding new creative ways 

to get myself locked up in the same old jails institutions and death. 

They are all different rooms in hell, all different deaths with 

the same blank walls. And you wake up dead and it’s up to you to imagine life 

after this. The drugs run out and you wake up from death. 

The drugs run out and everything runs out, and in that desperation you run

out, even naked you run out even bleeding as a fresh wound, you run

out into the bright fall, winter, spring, summer everyday air. 

Ocean, mountain, desert everywhere air. It is breathtaking to breathe 

in and then do it again. The clear air that is everyones and is good like 

a diamond is forever. Whether you like it or not, it’s good, 

it’s forever. Whether I like it or not, I am clean many moons, 

many suns- many diamonds. Life is many moons, many suns, a chain 

of diamonds. Life is not what I thought when I was hanging around 

complaining about my childhood, making a home for myself in 

a noose. All I know for sure it that there IS life after drugs. I decide to find 

out what IS, is. I decide to be the one out of 

38, the one for whom the 37 had to die so one could live. You were one 

of them and so were many others I have seen. This concept is as far out 

as alien life, as infinite mansions in the air, but I have seen the alternative so 

I’m willing as the sun is willing to boldly go and discover 

everything. Addiction has given me nothing to lose and a mind so broken

open it’s a parachute. Addiction takes everything and then it takes 

your life and hooks it up to a life support system, and you believe more in 

the life support system than in life. You cannot entertain life beyond 

this system. Addiction is built on the floors of jail cells, the beds of 

hospitals, the dirt of graves, the backs of children. They are mere children 

stolen from home, their hair is cut short and then their lives cut 

simply like hair. Two braids lopped off, a life unable now to crawl up the stairs. 

Addiction makes a wall, white blank wall with a little hole in it

a hole to the real world. Addiction says it’s easier with 

a wall in-between. There is always a wall and a little hole 

waiting for the addict. A little hole, a little tube with a little air, a little 

syringe with a little glint of light, just a little, just enough and 

not too much, like one of those dog leashes that expands a little 

more so you can sniff freedom but never all the way, never 

free. So I knew I had to go all the way. In the dead of 

night I got the hell out. I pulled out my own IV’s. I threw up 

the tube, the pipe, the joint, the syringe. I trashed the whole system. I punched 

the machine’s lights out. I had to go all out “against medical advice.” I had to get 

labelled crazy then tear down the walls crazily. I made the little hole a big

hole and then I stepped through. I had to listen to them 

say: she will never go home, she will never breathe again. I had to hear 

this everyday for ten years. Hear it and know it and feel it and 

be it and breathe it and then I had to turn and 

go do it anyway...