Image

in between all that rage ..

there was this ..

its not a very good shot, but aight for 5am out my window.

& this be the crescent moon on the morning of our summer solstice.

& then there was this ..

listen.


kpm © ig @kpm-artist


 

fucker

& as you feel the blood & brain matter dribbling down your face,

as i gently remove the crowbar from your skull

whilst whistling a merry little tune, more to myself, than too you;

just know, that the answer to your question is:

no, i don’t like it.


kpm ©


 

why is it?

Why is there an overwhelming ‘need’ to diagnose and ‘treat’ women?

To be quiet.

To be seemly.

To be tempered.

To be polite.

To be nurturing.

To be loving.

Why the fuck can’t they just be?

Be fucking angry.

Be fucking violent.

Be fucking loud.

Be fucking rude.

Be fucking hostile.

Be fucking emotional.

Why are the things that are ok for men are seen as ‘crazy’ for women?

Like speaking their truth.

Like saying No.

Like disagreeing.

Like crying.

Like screaming.

Like beating the shit out of some asshole.

We react. We are. We want. We hate. We rage.

That doesn’t need a fucking diagnosis.

& definitely doesn’t need fucking treatment.


kpm ©


 

!

fuck you, and the pedophile van you rode in on!

Yup.


kpm©


 

Video

i wont do what you tell me ~ rage against the machine

killing in the name of – rage against the machine, 1992

oh. that moment.

that fucking gutt dropping moment.

when it dawns on your soul.

that you have quite possibly.

just wasted the last 15 years.

of yo’ mother fucking life.

and what is that you can taste.

yep, that be bitterness.

despair.

and head fucking. rage.


no picture here. move along.


kpm©


 

Image

after.math

if anger is disguised as grief. what comes after grief.



kpm ©


 

SaveSave

SaveSave

Image

today …

Today …

I lost my fucking shit. Smashed my phone, nearly smashed the wall and the window …

Not just angry but fed up. Know that feeling? When all the fucks in the world don’t make up for the several thousand not given over the shittone of years?

Yep. Well they all collided today, in one huge conglomerate of snot, tears, and near uncontrollable rage.

I felt hopeless. Helpless. And way the fuck over it.

What brought this fucker on?

Oh, I think it’s been brewing for awhile and just bubbled to over fucking flowing.

I grizzle (vent, whatever) on the regular about what got me to this point. That anxiety and panic are a fucking curse and pst(d) can go fuck itself … major depressive bullshit can go fuck itself as well btw …

I fucking try, try, try … to go with the fucking flow … handle myself, manage myself … resolve my fucking issues … do better, want better … blah de fucking blah.

But sometimes, when it all crumbles in front of my eyes and feels way to fucking much, the kicker, is that no cunt will or can pick me up … I am by myself. A blessing and a curse.

It’s the way its always been.

Not a nice word is ever given. A consolation or an encouragement. Maybe this is because thats been my life and is what I continue to choose … I’m really not too fucking sure.

I did the self soothe routine. It wasn’t pretty.

And I’m still coming down … out … off …

I want to run, but there aint nowhere to run too … and I’d probably break a hip or something in the process. I don’t have money. I don’t drive … but fuck that, I don’t have a car.

Nothing, but my life, is mine.

And this is where I feel my suicidal peeps. When you have nothing but your life, whether you continue to live it or not is YOUR choice. Sometimes your only choice and your only control over who you are. Or so it seems.

But don’t worry … I aint topping myself today.

So, I self-soothed … ish … music, mainly.

Then I found an old FB post I had done for my girls. But today I took it for myself.

It seems like there is no consolation from any cunt other than myself. Do I feel sad or bad for that? A bit. But I tell you what, I know that I am fucking better than any boot that has ever kicked me in the gutt.

I will always get up.

Not cos I have too. But because I’m too fucking stubborn to do anything else.


From FB:

I was trying to find a meme to send to my girls, just to remind them of how gangstah they are … that they are strong women … that they are righteous mamas ... that everything they say and do, is good enough … that they don’t have to justify themselves, to anybody, anytime – especially not a man … that what they look like doesn’t define who they are … that rejection isn’t a slight on their character … that they needn’t beg to be noticed -by anyone … that everything they put out into the world, is enough … that they are not defined by any of their parents beliefs, views or mistakes … that because someone may have hurt them, doesn’t mean that they are someway deserving of that hurt … that even when shit turns to custard, they are still gangstah … that drinking to much, or swearing to much – how they conduct themselves in other words – is no-one elses business but their own … that the feeling of being unloved, is only a perception … that they are good enough, just as they are.
And you know what … all I could find was this crap meme. The type of crap that says women need to be asked by a man, healed by a man, loved by a man, defined by a man, characterised and affirmed, By. A. Man. And I thought in 2017 Women were defined as so much more than that! I’m not talking equality, because there is no way I want to be equal with a man. And I’m not talking male dissing – fuck knows my moko and nephews won’t be men that are ashamed of being men – or put women in some kind of subservient framework or position.
But those defining themselves as women – we really need to stop pinning all our hopes and dreams and emotions and ‘noble’ characteristics and conduct and misconduct and thoughts and intelligence …
On how we believe a man has .. viewed us, views us, given to us, didn’t give to us, wanted from us, took from us, broke us, mis-used us, degraded us, encouraged us, loved us, or Not loved us … we need to stop apologising for being Us and stop looking to them to make us feel better.
We are completely gangstah just because We are
Fuck knows being a woman is no easy feat and my girls are doing a fucking awesome job of being completely righteous human beings !

(not my meme)


Blessings. Or something. Some positive shit. Yeah. Positive shit.

Arrghh.


kpm ©


 

hormone wave.

todays recipe:

random fits of crying followed by a large slathering of rage followed even closer by a few pinches of punctuated home truths …

and you got yo’self some serious waves of menopause …

i’mma riding this bitch …


kpm ©


 

so it finally occurs to Me …

… how outrageously angry I am at the moment. And when I say ‘at the moment’, I mean for the past few months at least.

To begin with I thought it was the hormones and possible pre-menstrual rage (it’s a thing yah know lol); and then as it lasted a little longer than the usual few days, I thought it might be pre-menopausal rage (yes, also a thing I made up lol). And while the latter may be feasible or at least the fuel thats keeping the rage fire going, I don’t believe it’s entirely the cause. And I’m not sure if I’m entirely disturbed by it all really. Our puke filled society has a wonderfully fucked way of discounting women, which we are taught to do and end up doing all by ourselves. So embracing the rage sounds like a better option; for now.

But it occurred to Me, whilst scrubbing the toilet bowl this afternoon – due to a pending house inspection tomorrow, by the property company that ‘take care’ of our rental house – that I find these inspections extremely intrusive. On a ‘good’ day, I can deal with what I deem to be intrusions – door knockers; phone ringers; spam; salespersons and the like – reasonably amicably. Over the last few months, this has not been the case. One such intrusion by the Mormons, made them privy to  a ‘Me’ response. It left them silent. Yes, believe or not, I managed to Silence the Mormons.

Anywho – the house inspection is an intrusion that we have to deal with – amicably – if we want to continue living in this house; in this area.

But I don’t like it.

Which got Me off onto another train of thought. One that I’ve had multiple times over the last few years.

I hate being made to do anything.

Not just gently dislike it; but loathe beyond all reason.

Why?

Because it is something that is forced upon Me.

And while I can reason most of these away, and look upon the proverbial ‘bright side’, by saying “I want to be here. I choose to be here. And this is part of being here”, routine … I still loathe it.

And when I say loathe it, I mean my stomach churns, my heart pounds, my chest tightens. Now to begin with, I thought this was one of my freaky pts(d) panic attacks. But this loathsome rage, while feeling similar, is distinctly different.

And while I feel like running I also feel indignant and fucked off.

I would prefer that it had nothing to do with being sexually assaulted, but it doesn’t. It has everything to do with it. It has to do with feeling forced, invaded, having choice taken away, being encroached upon.

I’m hoping that the resolution comes quickly. That I find my feng shui in it all and settle. That I don’t end up causing grievous bodily harm on some poor Mormon or sales rep.

But I can’t promise anything.


kpm ©


 

wottup?

i means, seriously…

don’t spread em enuff

don’t cook em enuff

don’t ‘get the feels’, enuff

it aint eva enuff

is it.

guess wot tho –

i aint yor mama

i dont need to pick up on shit

or pick up your shit.

i was invited to

co-

thats rite

co-habitate.

if yor wantin a mama again

best get to steppin

back to the

homestead

where all yor wants and needs,

‘cept for the first,

will get met.


kpm ©


 

Image

yep. I still have fucked up dreams.

*For those that can’t handle, this is a warning … not that I usually give one … but for some, the discussion of this dream will be disturbing as it’s about rape. It’s not all negative, hard to believe I know, but I get that some of my shit it hard to deal with and it isn’t my intention to freak anyone out un-necessarily … I just gotta get my shit out … so yeah …*

This partial post has been sitting in my drafts for days … but as you know … I hate drafts in my draft section … it all feels so … incomplete!! LOL

But I’ve been waiting for a reaction to a dream a had about 3 nights ago. I still have disturbing dreams but they aren’t as frequent as they used to be; and I’m usually able to go back to sleep after a while. That’s progress, for me.

;

The other night I had a rather graphic dream about being raped by the pedo cunt. The face was slightly different, but the ‘intent’ was the same … to gain power … to terrorise … to humiliate … to belittle … to laugh at … to torment. To hurt.

It was all there.

It’s usually at the beginning that I wake up … sweating and crying and I get up and shower … to remove the ‘feeling’ … to wake myself up properly.

This time, I didn’t wake up though and an entire rape happened.

The other difference this time (dream wise), was I wasn’t little (body wise) … I was an adult.

The other huge differences …

.

…..as he laughed his face off in mine … laughing at the pain and fear in my face … and the fear that was in my body and the tears that were rolling down my face ….

I screamed at him, that he was a cunt, a fucking cunt … and the more he laughed the angrier I got. The scream turned into a violent bellow … you know those gutt wrenching “FUCK YOU” bellows … yeah, well one of them … and it raged and it went on for like forever ….

and as he continued laughing and doing his filthy deed, I bit his chin till it pissed out with blood … as he pulled away, the flesh ripped and I spat it out at him … he continued to laugh …

then I bit his cheek and the same thing happened … blood everywhere, flesh everywhere … and then I raged some more …

I couldn’t move my body, as such; I knew it looked like an adult’s body but it felt small … and it felt like it was being crushed …

but the feeling in my spirit … my gutt … my soul … was pure and utter RAGE ….

.

The thing for me, that is good, is that this has never happened before. Usually, like I said, I wake scared, shaky, sweaty, crying … and in my dreams that powerless feeling takes hold something fucking awful.

But this time … just RAGE. There were all the sensations of what was happening … but a pure perfect RAGE … at HIM … not me and my powerlessness … but HIM and his fucking filthiness!

And when I woke up …

I felt an amazing, overwhelming peace and sense of orientation and satisfaction.

That has never happened before.

I think I waited so long to share my victory because I thought somehow I would have some sort of ‘delayed’ reaction or was in some sort of fucked up denial.

But No.

I feel like I have turned a pivotal corner and wasn’t even aware of it coming.

As gross and vile and fucking disgusting as it all is …

I’m not as I was. I am different. And I am fucking love that!


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

crawl

Short of knocking.

someone out…

I’ve hit just about.

everything.

I can find today.

I have a seething rage.

Boiling in the pit of my gutt.

And under that…

there’s…

fear.

Shit fucking fear.

I hate fear more.

Than most anything else.

I think.

Fear is.

vulnerability.

Fear is.

shaky.

Fear is.

weak.

Fear is a.

bullseye.

Apparently.

Fear is normal.

I don’t think my.

Reaction to it.

Is though.

It makes me.

cry.

It makes my insides want.

to crawl.

Out through my.

chest.

Vomit out.

It makes my muscles.

tense.

My head,

it hurts.

It makes my breath.

flutter.

And shake.

Nowhere to.

go.

Nothing to.

scream.

Trapped inside my.

skin.

And I can’t get.

out.


kpm ©


 

Image

nightmares. 1

I can feel myself breathing and tensing. Tight. Rage. In my gutt, my head, my chest. In my limbs, shoulders, through my neck to my teeth. A searing sort of pain, dark, with shadows.
I look for something, to touch me. Kindly.
They would walk past…mother, boyfriend, husband…whoever i was close too. They don’t see me. I talk. They don’t hear. I get louder. They don’t hear, or react.
I scream in their face – im here, look, im here!
They smirk, turn but don’t acknowledge. They take their fist and jam something up into my uterus.
Then pull my insides out. Smirk at me. Walk away.

I’d wake sweating and shaking and with the smell of blood in my nostrils. The first time I remember this dream, i was about 6 i think, we lived in the big house.


dreams can be assholes. JS.


kpm ©