The problem wasn't the money
or the fame,
not the taunt, ripe bruises
shining from her heart
or the painful creak of her
hip bones when she moved.

No, the problem wasn't
the seeping words or
the tightness in her chest
every time she passed a church.

It wasn't the way the holiday lights
made her head dizzy or
the floating sensations
in grocery store lines
and it was definitely not
how her associates nonchalantly
patted her back in passing,
blatant excuses to walk on.

It wasn't the smell of soap
or the staring for hours
at the ceiling.

It wasn't the long, smooth metal
of the numbing pipe or
the sweet taste of Sangria wine.

It wasn't the many times
she'd been used or
the indignation that set in
when the walls were quiet.

It wasn't even the tapping pipes
that kept her awake at night
with their torturous monotony.

The problem was not the comparisons
or the dismissive tendencies,
the disconnections,
the draining of her energy
or even the isolation.

It was not the quiet meditation
or the constant spirit guide speak,
not the unpaid bills on the mahogany desk
or the whirring sounds of
a radiator about to explode
in her only transportation.

It never was the monetary lack
or the diseased reality
she was never given
the choice to escape from.

No, the problem was the sadness,
living there in the base of her spine
like a tall, thin castle
spearing up into her vertebrae
until her whole being ached.

It was the way the sadness
made her muscles swell,
and her face become pasted
to cotton pillow shams,
the frown lines starting to
make their way to her chin and
the visuals consistently invading.

It wasn't the crass indifference
piling up on her skin like bones,
the remains of every person who
had touched her and left,
leaving another layer
added to the angst.

Instead it was the secrets
housed inside the sadness,
catacombs of skeletons
break dancing in her ballast,
as if her tears were raindrops
and the sobs a symphony.

So no, it wasn't the way she
robotically moved through her day
or the smiles she feigned,
not the haze in her eyes
left by too many nights of crying
or the sleep where memories faded.

It was just
the sadness.

{recorded version https://soundcloud.com/venniekocsis/the-sadness}

v.k poetry
copyright @ dbv publishing 2013

Sometimes people look
Old before their time
  
The lines on their faces
Come early like
The sections of pain
Just couldn't sit
Inside anymore so
They seeped out
Onto the bodies
Creating strained
Pockets of water
The sadness that
Never got cried out.  

I watch faces age quickly  

There are young women
Who look like grandmothers
The weight of their anger
Forcing their skin
Towards gravity  

Their lips smile but
Their eyes hold no shine
They are empty,
Morose hollows
Staring from pictures.  

I wonder who
They think they're fooling
Or if maybe
I'm the few who sees  

I understand the shine love can be  

I wish for magic wands  

Sometimes people become
Old before their time  
Trudging invisible walkers
Made of situations
With heavy legs
Constructed from blame
And tearless fingers made
From strings of bitterness.

How long can a
Spirit carry such weight
Before it bends beneath
The dark matter
Humans pile
On top of themselves

Sometimes people age
Before they've
Lived half their life
Walking skeletons
Constantly searching
For the graveyard
Inside their yearning

There's a fountain
Called youthfulness
The ones ancients
Used to sing of
This liquid called
Love
They could drink
Become infants
Until the lines became
Infinite

But sometimes
People choose to
Age before their time

v.k poetry
venniekocsis.com
copyright @ dbv publishing

There are ghost chairs
dancing shadows in my kitchen
it's a division of demons
creeping into the limelight.

I hold my fists tight.

I am riveted in this breath
staring at the darkness;
the lines on the walls;
I am re-walking dark halls
between men legs.

I can't break my eyes away.
I reach for pictures.
This is a trigger
in full blown affect.
Gotta document
so they'll understand
how unexpected flashbacks
wait lurking in corners.

Television screens
and movie scenes
always avoiding
in case I'm swept in reverse
to the times I was hurt.

Bruises never go away.
They're right here
dancing in the shadows
cast by the day.

I'm stuck in ghost chairs
missing fistfuls of hair.
and I'm there again screaming.
I shudder.
The memory echoes like
thunder in my head.

Turn away
Turn away
Don't travel there today

But you see
emotion lingers
makes the minutes go slow so
it's best to write a poem
and let it seep
to keep it from whispering
"remember me?"

I don't wish to recall
yet I long to fill the holes
sift through the dirt
and dig up the bones.

Someone's gotta pay atonement
for the innocence they took,
but death has come to greet the swine
and they're almost off the hook.

One day they'll return
to where the fires burn
and in the middle will be a chair
just waiting...
waiting...
for the wicked fan fare.

I hope they splay their wrists bare
and eat it with the twine
like they did mine.

All I have left are the pictures
the sunlight makes in halls,
unexpected incidences
when my mind decides to recall,
an ink stained bed sheet,

a thousand journeys
written on lined paper,
and a ghost chair
dancing on my wall.

v.k poetry
venniekocsis.com
copyright @ dbv publishing

I can't think of you
on days like this
when the gray mist
floats into my windows
dragging amber leaves

I can't think of
the aftermath
the way I cried
how I'll never know why
or have answers
to burning questions

All that is left
a deep burn etched
into a stone
in San Antonio

I can't remember
the sound of your voice
the cynical conversations
or the thick black
of your glasses

Days like this
I sit in the silence
between loss and innocence
flat like the rocks
we tried to skip
in the rushing water
of the spring snow melt

We're a scattered tribe
a silent sister
a brother buried deep
inside the bottle
and me, the one who
writes it all down
like suffering
formed a diamond
if that's what
we could call survival

I can't think of you
on days like this

v.k poetry
venniekocsis.com
copyright @ dbv publishing

You said you
wanted to hold me
because I feel;
wanted to
run your hands on my skin;
taste the baseline
in the hopes it'd
make you heal.

My stone face
chuckled inside
as if wounds get
mended by smiles
and aftermath
gets cleared
by denial.

It's a momumental
discension of sociopathy
human feet
shuffling
shuffling
away from the empathy.

So you want to
touch me,
drag me into
the abyss
of your kiss
because I represent
what you miss?

This predatory energy
is disrupting the synergy
of Us.

Why do humans
long so deeply
for the things
that keep them weeping?


Beaten down
blue in the soul
stand by watching
chemical clouds unfold
and you want
just one moment
or an hour of my time
before you go?

If I placed a mirror
in front your face
you'd still only see
what your mind creates,
a mirage
a wish
a death grip in your fist,
caring only if
you'll get to win.

Another notch.
Another barrel.
Another halo snapped in half,
this is the aftermath
of a sky gone cold
and here you are
wanting to
hold me.

v.k poetry
venniekocsis.com
copyright @ dbv publishing 2011