I have questions that only
You know the answer to. I want to know Who let the signs on mental illness slip past their watch? mistreated you in your youth that led you to host such rage? knows what you've done and still protects you? How many other lived you have ripped apart? you can stomach to live another day knowing you did this? could you do this? I have many more pressing questions. But the most important is Why?
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You were small,
Unimaginably micro. But your steps was earth shaking. You occupied no space in anyone else worries But you were all of mine. You were supposed to be mine. Mine alone. But I had hands all over my body That would call their claim on you and I. We would be prisoners. I fled. I took you with me. We were together and alone You were mine And for you to be your own, We would have to be free. I will see you soon. I hope. When I am an old woman I shall wear rags from my youth
With a sense of pride for my aging memories. And I shall spend my pension on flights that circle the world, boxed wine, And funky Goodwill buys that sit juxtaposed in my ever changing home I shall spoil my grandchildren And witness upright their spends of inheritance on experiences with my warm hand And step back at Christmas to reflect on all that I have molded And when my times is up I shall be pleased with the life I have created And those left behind will weep but soon look up And learn to be comfortable with my ariel view of time. Through drought and famine, my hand wavered none,
Alone above my scalp, Held high, one foot in front of the other, I carried her name through snow and rain and sleet. She lies below, Hands crossed over her chest And not a dime toward her title. A title will not change, only its sound, A rose by any other name, No other name, my only Rose. Each day layers to form a sediment of memory.
There is no reorder, Only a continuation of stacking Hours on hours. The layers accrue- paleo light breaks from the center As the clock rotates left, Your kin will remember your fossil, Compressed back in 2003. Each minute compresses the next Until three score pass; The shape of the hour. It's like going to sleep firmly; what had gone on the windowsill--I exposed my hand--perhaps would give it back carefully.
You are everything to me.
my muse my block You are the source of my discomfort and my aid to rest. You created who I am but destroyed who I want to be. It is all you. You are my image of love, friendship, heartbreak, and fate. You crawl under my skin where I can feel you but you go unseen. I want you to be nothing, do you hear? They say 18 is the time of your life.
Why do I feel like no matter what I say or do it doesn't matter. I don't matter. Why is it that I make reckless decisions because the consequence is death and that doesn't scare me. I'm more scared of living than dying. I have burned so many bridges down, there is no reason to look back. I have no purpose turning around, for I cannot get back to you. So I guess I'll tread on. I will build new bridges with bricks and mortar, not straw nor sticks. I will find my way to the end. By bridge or bypath.
They lifted all their problems: all their concerns, doubts, and undesirables. Whether or not there was someone to grab them, it didn't matter. They no longer bore the weight.
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This page is a patchwork of short stories, one liners, poetic attempts, or allegorical fictions. Archives
February 2018
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