I'm a victim of my own
                                  voice.

A ****** suspect of my
                          thoughts.

My actions are a chalk drawing
                         of mistakes..

But in all of this I was innocent,
                          not a suspect...

Woeful of the memories,
              was I to blame!

Could I have changed that moment?


When he walked out of our timeline.

Altered futures of what would have been
                 happy moments.

   But he was vacant like a parked car paying
                         for a spot never ever filled.
Still we waited on the clock before the pennies
                           ran out and then...
  

Tickets of denial, that he was there for us..
    he threw pennies at the lap of our mother.

She cried inside ever strong...

We were young of innocence, thinking he was
      there for us. But she was the guild that
                   caressed every fall,
                          every awkward question.

Denial was a strong venture for boys,
     that  thought the sun shone brightly.

In reality it was like the northern hemisphere
                   frozen for a time then thawed.

In reality, there was an absence of reconciliation.
        daydreaming of perfection.  
                                                   ­  never realising...
That one took the personification of both.
             And we gazed upon her as a not worthy.


But she brought us up in the wordless motion,
         of abandonment, not wanting us to see the reality..


That our Dad was as worthless as the pennies he
         threw in discord,
                                                 thinking that the copper
stepping stones were of worth to feed  and put cloth on us.


She was the one that played the part of both.
      gone is her words of wisdom..

But still her learning lives on..


                   We love you mother & Dad..


But realistically   she was both, and when she passed..

          She wasn't  a loss of a singular person but
                   one that filled the footsteps of both..



Mum we miss you... every one that wasn't filled
      not one footstep,
                           but one that filled both.

If blood doesn't seep
                from my wrists,
am in not alive..
Or has all feeling just
                 drained from me.

My smile is a collapsed lung of fake-ness
that I breath harder every lingering moment
of my existence.  Mutilating my cogitation
seeing the world in blurs of repetition.

I'm awoken by the pain of visualizations that
will not heed my alone time. But follow me
to that place that should be of silence. Instead
I scream in disillusion, as darkness was my escape.

There words are like raindrops of acid, and my
forest of thoughts wither upon the constant
onslaught of their needing to belittle me in the
presence of others. My branches fall frail to my side.

Others in shame, not a word spoken. No breeze to
hinder the hurricane of illusions that repeatedly
impact on my subconscious place. I'm silent like
a tomb of sorrows, I bury myself inward and deep.

I made my first mistake today, as they like a well
oiled clock, blood hound hunters of my scent find me.
In a moment I heed to my anger and clench my fist,
and then I'm blooded on the floor by there disbelief.

What is life? a moment of breathes that heed in our
existence. Is that what this is called? I collect tears in
threads of and bind them. This is my tears of pain
that I now hang from, pity me now as I only hear silence.

God is like hide and seek ,
           but you're the only one
           trying to find someone
                       who isn't really there...

I always wear black
  when I walk around,
           wanting to be ready?

For death when it slyly
    collects me footsteps,
          taking my last horizontally.

Needing to be prepared for that
         moment, when I fall,
I want to look good on my deathbed.

If death wants me to pass,
        it'll be dressed in what I'm
             slumbering beneath the dirt in.

She changed me like
        a used bulb..
But I hadn't gone out.

Never thinking I was useful,
                amendment of dulled glow.
I was useless to her needing.

Finding something brighter
              than something that
     had shined upon her from the start

Unravelling as we were woven together,
she was whole,
                               but I was losing strands
of conscious motions.  

Even though I was fraying,
       she wound her strength
around my insecurities, making us stronger.
              As a whole instead of two separate values.

Love has a way of holding two parts together,
                     even though we may unravel.
Together we bond making us stronger
              than anything separate, we are one love.

We all are connected by others,
                      through laughter,
                                  through smiles.
Were always thinking of those that
we haven't spoken to in a while,
                                   and we think!
But when that moment has passed
and there words are but echoes,
                               remember reflections
carry on through the people they knew..
always will we remember them
                              for there words to us,
and the laughter that resonates through
                                   our reflections of them.

which period shall I resound the four
verses one, the rhyme?  shall I use parentheses
or just write free, might I space
or italicize or leave this un-glamorized?

I walk down the long six-story concrete steps
a step at a time divining
the barren apartment
the govt spends
its money on above hovering

You think I want to live here
in this danger rat infestation
its free but that don't make me happy
I have a baby
and the world calls me a freeloader

obviously, I have decided to
write this in stanzas
it doesn't flow like the steps
this woman walks down daily
I do my best

sometimes I sleep with men when the cupboards bare
I decided to break the flow up

for why
I don't know

I have gone two weeks without diapers before and my baby
I would do anything for her so don't judge me. I
am not a *****.

I am trying to survive.  

Again I interrupt her story to inject-
poetry has to make a difference, it often doesn't rhyme, it
isn't made to be  syllables and meters.
It is to make a difference. Let me shut up.
let her speak.

I didn't mean to bring a child into this hell. But I gave in
to one night of weakness, Now I am stuck  on the sixth floor here in this bleak *** building with no hope no
idea how I might make her life better.
I have tried god.

All I have now are the streets.

The streets are brutal.

I was a withered monument
of forgotten reflections..

No one realized I wasn't there..

A shadow lingering in corners,
         but never seen..

I was apparition of the lingering
   life I led.. no one noticed when I was gone..