Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  Hello Wall My very own Shirley Valentine space. Hormonal Damage and Generational Trauma Poetry Refined and Poetic Hormonal Damage & Generational Trauma: A Poetry Collection More evocative and artistic Poetry Born from Hormonal Chaos and Generational Wounds Bold and raw Hormonal Damage. Generational Trauma. Poetry That Doesn’t Look Away. Soft but powerful Poetry Through Hormonal Shifts and Inherited Hurt Mysterious and atmospheri c Where Hormonal Storms Meet Ancestral Shadows: A Poetry Journey

  TAKE TWO - Hello Four Wall's Fifty-year-old Shirley Valentine.   Fifty-year-old Shirley Valentine. hello wall. hello four walls. hello circles of monotony. hello computer — i cannot work. hello fake friends i cannot see. hello mental health, aka hormonal dips. bye friends you can’t see — why? because you lose your confidence.    hello perimenopause, full of ailments no one else can see. hello doctor (blind). hello hormonal dips. goodbye memories. Hello menopause goodbye self.   the radio today — hello Alzheimer’s. not a shock, hello fucked — but will i remember? harsh but truthful. A  small ditty, but a loud truth.

  Imfaltable (adj./noun): The imagined, unstoppable protector-self a person creates to survive, shield others, and rise up beyond their human limits — until they finally see themselves clearly and return to being simply, powerfully human. The Inflatable Imfaltable (adj./noun): I see it now. I see it clearly. I see my love. I see my overwhelmed. I see my bear. I see my rise up. I see my protection. I see me become ten. I see me wrap my arms around whoever, whatever it is that has taken my time, my brain, my thoughts, my action, my involvement from place at the wrong time, right place at the right time— my EVERYONE I see it. I see me rise up. I see me protect. I see me get angry. I see me get taken down. I see it clearly now. All my life I did this— my brothers, my mother, my lover, then my family, when every thing became to much. I rise up. I gave it away. Did they ask me? No. It was just something I was good at. To protect. My shadow grows...

 “And then… she woke up.”

  As I watch the tree from my window As I watch the tree from my window, she dances in the wind — arms swaying to a music only she can hear, a composer conducting her own orchestra. Happiness moves through her branches: the pines, the fir, the Christmas tree shape that always feels a little like fantasy, a little like Disney’s Fantasia — freedom, uplift, a natural blow dry of fresh air. She shakes off the old: the tired needles, the brittle leaves, the quiet decay that becomes food for whatever small creature needs it next. A decluttering. A letting go. A renewal. Wind moves beneath her branches like a breath of fresh air, carrying away what’s finished, making space for what’s coming. Decay becomes mycelium, mycelium becomes life, and she stands there — dancing, shedding, reusing, teaching me how to begin again.

  HORMONAL DIP — Dummy’s Guide “ The Cake, the Car, and the Clockwork” Imagine I’m a cake — a classic Mary Berry sponge. For years, my ingredients mixed perfectly: flour, eggs, sugar, jam. Then menopause came along and quietly removed half the ingredients. The cake still looked like a cake, but it didn’t behave like one. That’s my brain on low oestrogen. Or imagine I’m a car. For decades I ran smoothly, even on rough roads. Then suddenly someone drained the fuel and poured in the wrong type. The engine sputtered, stalled, restarted, stalled again. That’s a hormonal dip. Or picture a clock. All the cogs used to turn together. Then one cog slipped. Then another. The hands still moved, but not in rhythm. That’s menopause layered with neurodiversity. It’s not depression. It’s not weakness. It’s not “stress.” It’s chemistry. It’s wiring. It’s the ingredients changing faster than the recipe can keep up. And some days the ingredients come back — briefl...

 POV - “But some days that’s impossible…”

  Swings and Roundabouts Swings and roundabouts — gains and losses setting each other off, circling, colliding, more swings than roundabouts on this long road we call a life. We travel from place to place — go, trip, tour, voyage, sail, cruise, fly, hike, trek, ride, expedition after expedition. But always: remember the journey is yours. Only yours. Wrong turns, right turns, roundabouts, one way systems built for someone else — still, it’s your journey. Only your journey. Life is a unique journey. Your unique journey. You may walk beside someone, or a few, for a while — but the path is yours. Not we. Not us. Not our. Not you. It’s me. And in the spaces between the words, in what isn’t spoken, what’s left unsaid — that’s where the truth hits hardest.

 

  My Love Reaction Poem (I am less content but more worth) Has my adoration gone? Deep love and respect — she gave him a look of adoration, of worship. I was right there. I was right in front of you. See me. See me clearly. I’m always seen, noticed, never ignored — yet you passed me. I am always present. You saw me as a veil, saw through me — literally. Veiled out past for your future. Did you really not see me?

 28/11/23 “ Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.” – Carl G Jung

  THE TIME BACK (YOU WON’T GET) The time back. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. The time back to for the top of the cooker, cleaned. The time back for the toaster emptied. The time back for the washing machine door drum wiped. The time back for the microwave platter and splatter. The time back for the door wipe. The time back for all of the crumbs to be removed from the knife and fork drawer. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. The time is gone — the hug you didn’t hold long enough, the child who grew while you wiped and washed, the moments you thought you’d get back. The jobs remain. The time doesn’t. Your child has grown and gone. The jobs remain. The time doesn’t. Wishing you held tighter, but you didn’t know. You did your chores. You performed societal tasks. Wife and mother roles, expectations, when really you should have just held tight. With instinct (gut feeling) overruled by task. ...

  Cooker Top Monotony THE TIME BACK  (you won't get) The time back. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. The time back to the top of the cook, cleaned. The time back for the toaster emptied. The time back for the washing machine door drum wiped. The time back for the microwave platter and splatter. The time back for the door wipe. The time back for all of the crumbs to be removed from the knife and fork drawer. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, repeat. The time is gone.

WHAT'S HAPPENING I ITCH I SCRATCH I ACHE I RING I CRY I RAGE I SCREAM I’M LOST I’M NOT ME MENOPAUSE NO PAUSE I BOIL I FREEZE I’M GONE.

  WHAT'S HAPPENING I ITCH I SCRATCH I ACHE I RING I CRY I RAGE I SCREAM I’M LOST I’M NOT ME MENOPAUSE NO PAUSE I BOIL I FREEZE I’M GONE.

  The Pause (ENOUGH) (spoken word version — my words, my voice) I was the matriarch elephant, the steady footed keeper of the herd, the one with the long memory and the broad back where everyone laid their worries like warm hands needing comfort. I carried love, friendship, guidance, the stitched together wisdom of every year I’d lived. And beside me, always, my bag for life. Not the supermarket kind — the real one. The one I filled in my twenties, my thirties, my forties, with everything no one else remembered to hold. My partner’s forgotten tasks. My children’s joy. My children’s heartbreak. My own rage, folded small. My employment hopes. Their disappointments. Every unspoken thing. The rucksack became a tote, became a suitcase, became a hippo bag bursting at the seams, dragging behind me as my shoulders curled forward and my heart grew heavy from the weight of it all. Funny how happiness fits in your palm like ...

  Not only Bee's sting Bees, Childhood, and Derek My earliest memory of Derek was a mask— or what I thought was a mask. It was a beekeeping hat, a netted veil that hid his face like a secret. They say he had an allotment. I remember it— I think I do: sunlight spilling over the chipped white wood, a hive and my face kissed by the sun, bellows puffing smoke like he was smoking the air itself. Big gloves. The hum of bees. The smell of smoke. A sinister laugh— heightened fear, bees could sting me to death, or so I thought. Leaves above me— orange and green, fluttering like whispers. Maybe it’s a dream. Maybe it’s true. But it’s mine. A memory I’ve carried since I was very small. Bee Stings Then came the sting. Not from bees— but from words. One weekend, after the divorce, I played mum. Derek pointed at my chest: “ You’ve got bee stings,” he said. “ Shouldn’t you be wearing a bra?” I was nine. Maybe ten. Already taller t...

  What Am I? I think about the rules. I hate authority. I live my life in black and white — but my life is in colour. I watch my money, or I spend like a millionaire. I count my pennies, or I play Russian roulette. I trusted doctors — trusted them to have the answers. That one doesn’t work. I love myself, but I don’t love others. No… that doesn’t work either. I shine bright — Yet, I don’t like bright lights. I follow the rules, and I shout out. I shout out loud. I dare the rules — I interrupt. I can’t help it. I have to say it out. I thought I was friendly, but apparently I’m inappropriate. I can hyperfocus — yet I can’t concentrate at all. I can do one thing at a time while a hundred things roll around in my brain. I am literal, yet an amazing problem solver. It’s got to be opposite — what’s the opposite of literal? You ask a question, I answer it twice — once with my voice, once with my brain. The real me, and the m...