The girl with the smile.
The perfect storm.
Wonderful. Just. Wonderful.
Aren't we a shy pair? The names
you use to describe me to others are cute indeed
but I'd like them better if you used them with me.
I'm more than Lauren, your friend from school.
I'm the electric wonder who you deemed "too cool"
to pursue back in eighth grade. So you sat back like a
fool and let me get my heart broken by a boy who didn't care.
I forgive you though,
because you were there when he let me down.
And it was your hug that I'd wished had been his all along.
And back in tenth grade when another stood me up,
it was you, skinny love, who picked me up. From a
lonely cold night outside the movies. It was you,
who took me out for ice cream and it was you,
who told me he wasn't worth the trouble.
In tenth grade you deemed me an exciting beauty who
could never fall for a man like you. But all along it was
your hand I wished had been holding mine.
And my senior year when we parted ways,
and we reminisced about the days we had
you had a look on your face. Like there was something
you just had to say. But instead,
you told me you'd miss me when I was at college
and nothing more. You made me the girl with the smile
that ignited the light in your heart but you did not tell me.
You let me go. And I never let you know that I wish it had
been you in school who I called my own.
Summer after I came home from my first year away,
you said I had changed. I had purple in my hair
and the care I once had of the opinions of others was
gone. We spent weeks together, like nothing had changed.
And when I cried because I had to leave you again you
were the one,
who calmed my fears and promised to visit
once you'd moved in.
I was your perfect storm of grace and tragedy.
And it was you,
who I wanted to share every moment with
during those warm summer nights.
Sophomore year you brought me to a party. I
didn't know anyone and your friends were rude.
And when I wanted to leave and never come back it was you,
who stood up for me and told them I was perfect.
You said I was Wonderful. Just. Wonderful. And after all
the times I let the truth stay bottled up inside I finally
let it out. That kiss on the porch was not the wine, nor the
weed. It was me. It was you. It was us. It was all the times
you were there for me and all the times I'd secretly wished
you were those boys who'd let me down.
So why? Skinny Love? Why continue on this way?
No need for another heart break. Let's admit the
way we feel, my friend,
the way we've always felt.
For tenth grade me.
For senior year you.
For the times we cried together.
And hid our feelings for each other.
Come now, skinny love, tell me how you feel.
being awake hurts.
If i could stay asleep life would be peaceful.
each day causes new pain.
I dont remember what happy actually feels like.
i am so alone.
Yet im surrounded by so many people.
its always a game.
Happiness is found and then crushed in moments.
life is cold.
I just want to be held and feel safe.
being awake hurts.
let me stay asleep.
call me autumn
i'll be the giant pile of crunchy red-brown leaves for you to jump in
i'll be the ugly sweater you love so much that you pull out on the first cold day
i'll be the pumpkin that you dredge out the insides of and carve a jack-o-lantern face on
call me winter
i'll be the christmas morning that greets you with a heap of presents under a twinkling tree
i'll be the warm cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows after you come in from the snow
i'll be the groundhog that assures you there will be an early spring to end your wintertime blues
call me spring
i'll be the umbrella you dig out of your trunk that keeps you dry in the unexpected storm
i'll be the large cup of coffee that stays up with you through all-nighter study sessions before finals
i'll be the first flower you see in bloom after a long and cold winter
call me summer
i'll be the rays of sunshine that tan your flawless skin
i'll be the cold shower you take cause that bloody air conditioner is broken again
i'll be the hammock that you lay on as you stargaze and think about all the galaxies that stream above
So what if I am crazy, like I would need to know.
People say the words I write and cry are cursed.
How would they know that? They don't even know me....
Maybe they are right. I only write for the loss of love and peace.
I have done things that the two lords of the world would not approve of.
The lies, the tears and the lost hope for a brighter day.
I just want it to end.
I am called crazy from my own mother, she says i'm a sinner.
I want to be dead... Cold, limp, still.
I am the beast I wanted to be, now that I am.... I am Horrid.
I can never change back. NEVER!
I am all alone...
The alone one I can trust and trusts me is my old cat named Fatboy.
Sometime I swear hes telling me to stop doing the sins and cursing the lords.
I don't like you.
Not at all.
You're a tempest.
You're a squall!
You've the personality
Of cable tar.
It is not my fault
You're who you are.
You test everyone
It matters not to you.
Through and through!
And you're bitter,
As though life owes
As though you've tied
Your every selfish want
And bound it up
In silly string.
I don't like you.
I've done my share.
But you've a cold,
And now I just don't care.
You trample over feelings
When you could have made a friend.
Your language undeserving.
Your boasting shows no end.
Your carelessness is costly.
Such a heavy price to pay
For crushing those about you.
So will you please just
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
"False friends are worse than open enemies."
I need the sun and it's warm arms around me,
I need earth's sweet soil to stain my bare soles,
I need the thick air of a humid day,
with the rain clouds hanging over me,
threatening to obstruct my evening plans of star gazing,
I long for the warm, dirty waters of the lakes of my home town,
the gargling bubbles in the back of my throat when I accidentally breathe underwater,
and I long for the pain in my ear canal when water gets trapped,
from pretending to be a mermaid for too long,
I am impatient for the ache on my shoulders and face, from UV exposure,
too much of a good thing does exist,
but it's nothing Aloe Vera can't soothe,
I am anxious for cold beers on the porch with my best friends
in the home we live in together,
and I am anxious for the mornings wasted laying in bed,
with the morning sunshine through my lace curtains as my only alarm clock,
I want the bruised legs, scraped knees, freckles, and dirty hands
that only these short lived summer months can bring to me,
I want the careless, reckless, "it's only 2 am" behaviors that come with a late sunset,
and I want the happiness that comes with the scent of flowers entangled in my hair,
a late sunrise, and warm winds.
I have this ache, Doctor. And so far, no amount of drugs or drink have been able to cure it. Where does it hurt, you ask? Why right here, Doctor. Right here in my chest. It started feeling odd when I saw HER for the first time. It was a Thursday; August eighteenth of two thousand eleven I believe. I remember her perfectly, for I had not, and have not, seen anybody more beautiful in my life. Her auburn hair was streaked with red and waterfalled perfectly over her delicate shoulders, that were on that day cloaked in a blue jacket. Her long graceful fingers bloomed from slender palms and were crowned with and elegant black nail polish with a cracked silver finish. To this day, I have never so much as imagined anybody more perfect than her. So what's my problem? Well Doctor, she hates me. I can see it glint in her dark eyes every time she looks at me. Why is this? Why I have not the slightest idea. All I have ever been was polite to her. All I have ever been was kind. When she shivers I give her my jacket, regardless of how cold I am at the time. When she is hungry, I use my last dime to feed her. I do everything in my power to make her happy, make her laugh when the pain adds weight to her shoulders. But I guess it just wasn't enough in the end. What do you prescribe, did you say? An entire bottle of pain pills and a slash down each wrist? That sounds about right. Thank you, my dear Doctor.
how do i say
one last good night,
after that day
of our last fight?
how can i give
you one last kiss,
and tell you i love you
in pure joyful bliss?
how will i hold
you one last time,
and feel my cold
wrapped in your warmth?
how can i see,
your beautiful eyes
shining under the moon,
so full of glee?
all the stupid arguments--
mean nothing now
it's all too late
and you are gone.
now i'm left with
these last wishes,
to say, to give, to hold
just. one. last. time.
Mr. Coffee, who just today
Sent Margaret Thompson a bouquet
Of Birthday Lilies, green as tea,
Just shared a bit of news with me.
How odd he seems when he is near.
So daft at times, and very queer.
He told me just today a grim
And spectral spirit is haunting him.
He told me how it steals the light,
And how it keeps him up at night.
And then he said, "But I don't know
If it is friend, or it is foe."
Mr. Coffee's Ghost, says he,
Fancies his Cranberry Tea.
For he's spied it, quiet as can be,
Pour itself a cup, or three.
He suspects it fiddles with the Loo.
He's heard it flush a time, or two.
Though he figures it just wants to play
In its ectoplasmic way.
I fear, I do, our gentle friend,
May have finally met his bitter end.
That he may not see the here and now.
That he's lost touch with us somehow.
I fear his mind perhaps is spent.
And no one knows just where it went.
As though it packed its bags one shifty day
And lumbered off to Paraguay.
I fear our dear and troubled friend,
Has slipped right off the deepest end.
As though he's lost his crackers and his cheese
In tons and tons of black-eyed peas.
Or, perhaps it's but a jest? A way
To put us to the test today?
To find if we can fairly see
His little play at comedy?
He said he asked his Ghost one day
If it would kindly move away.
And it spluttered out, quite unrehearsed,
"But, truth be told, I was here first!"
Mr. Coffee says he has a Ghost
That likes to steal his raisin toast.
And when he leaves the living room,
He hears it toying with the broom,
Shaking corner cobwebs fair,
Dusting things from here to there,
And sweeping clean the Parlor screen.
Aye, it's heard, it's just not seen!
The oddish way he looked today,
He seemed just a wee bit gray .
Asking if he'll ever comprehend
If his Ghost be foe, or it be friend.
He says, "Of course the floorboards creek."
He hears the murky darkness speak.
He feels the curtains move and sigh,
As evening slowly tip-toes by.
He says, "The place is rather drafty, yes.
And it's a madhouse, I confess.
The sounds this house makes in the rain
Are never easy to explain"
This Ghost will turn the heater so far down
All it gets is cold.
And then tap tap tap the attic wall
Whenever it feels extra bold.
It will shadow every little room
With a phantasmic potpourri
This spooky little specter
Mr. Coffee cannot see.
This spiteful spook, it flickers lights,
To express it's ectoplasmic rights!
It rings the doorbell in a way each day
That scares the neighbor kids away
He'll spot a restless shadow dance,
Whenever he nods half a glance.
And Mr. Coffee feels he's in the right to stay,
And does not want to move away.
So, Mr. Coffee has a Ghost
A fair bit ghoulish of a Host,
Who thinks itself a China Rose,
And keeps poor Coffee on his toes.
Reminding him most every day,
His Ghost will never move away.
And in this Peculiar Poltergeist's parlay,
His Spectral Specter's here to say.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
"The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill
crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses
and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house,
full of gloom and haunted by ghosts."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfello
my cold hands against my neck
a new blouse on
a sad empty feeling
your sad empty smile
a clock without numbers
a clock without a body
a ghost on the opposite wall
it could never be a pocketwatch--
a young girl’s lip trembled
--neither could she
the door was swinging open
winter the storybook villain
had turned to winter
the armed robber on Washington Street
sad and empty had turned from something
to all we are