Home screams "42!" in red and white
Push it to the side
I have no time tonight
We are all separate, but wholly one
They are all separate, but wholly one
Father, Ghost, and the Son
Strange meetings in the middle of everything
Stare at the ground,
while your gaze starts to sting
How old are you?
How old am I?
Why did you grab my leg?
How did you notice my movements?
Where are you?
I want nothing to do with tomorrow.
Because self pity of today is overwhelming.
Knowing better doesn't change the actions
And my hip wants to pop out of its socket
On the streets of whe'ever the fuck in Oregon
Loss and gain
Measure the same, but one feels so much
heavier than the other.
Push beads back
Hold her hair back
The only difference is sharing loneliness with another
I'm not saying that I understand, fully what's happening here.
[Soul searching, or so I've been told]
But I know that you and I are worlds apart.
Is there this great of a disconnect between the rest of the world and I?
Because the Internet
This is my letter to you,
you will never read it
unless by some tragedy
my phone is laid open to the world.
I want you to know
You worthy of love,
and a father,
and place to call home.
Lay your head down
and let me tell you a story
of a boy who felt the weight
of the world.
Nothing like Atlas
But he felt the weight
of his very own,
He dealt with the issues
that plague us all.
And he took them all in stride.
Sure, he made mistakes
but who can throw a stone?
He feels the haunting
of his past
The remarkable thing is,
he keeps going.
This boy stays strong.
He believes in something more
even if he doesn't believe in himself.
he feels hurt those who care for him
because they know that he is so much more
than the ugliness he sees reflected.
With head a-spinning and feet unsure
I try to do daily tasks ;
My slow-motion movements hamper work
My face feels more like a mask
I really don’t like to feel this way ,
Don’t like what these pills do and yet
Without them the tears come spilling forth
For the things I need to forget.
Forget? O Lord , won’t you show me how?
Wash these feelings out of me !
Give answers to the questions I’ve asked
Show what the future’s to be.
postscript: about lithium ...
... I have the original hand printed in pencil
found amongst other personal treasures saved
in an old book of guitar cords ...I remember when and where I was
during this writing at 17... but I am still unable to say it out-loud
The stigmas borne of honesty, at times are a heavy price to be paid ...
this poem below went right on by this past July ,
like much of my writing dealing with darker realities ,
likely because of the stigma of the title and the mood disorder.
I just don't care anymore and keeping our secrets hidden
just causes a habitual ache too deep for words... I am not waiting anymore.
There is an isolation from these imperfections that leaves you feeling like ,
no mater what you ever do we are never enough.
This is why I remain alone as many others like me.
Few will understand this , but if you do it was written for you too !!
You are never alone in spirit and never forget that !!
This writ and I will be here until the social anxiety hits
... another struggle linked and misunderstood
Nobody sees clear of the flutter
of a thousand swallowtail’s wings
Soaring so high above beyond the bounds
from the dark shadows lurking broken wings
Free to sing the delicate colour,
a voyage with fragile paper wings
Tall enough to look down
in a moment’s blind eyes blink
seeing mountains move on high
Zooming afar enough to touch gravity’s dark azure,
the paper moon’s passionate kisses taste;
a swellen appetite, intimately unfolding paper airplane wings of fate
There are two sides to every wishfully tossed coin ,
both sides can be smitten
like a weeping butterfly gone wrong ,
caught out in the summer rain's passing tempest throng
Climbed the highest high enough, to fall so low
spiraling down, way down deep the rabbit hole;
what goes up must come down,
a metamorphosis of another familiar kind
Hark! the herald angels sing and sigh
Tomorrow's tears will once again drip dry
rain cleansed paper winged angels
and a thousand paper winged butterflies
forever free to soar again,
reaching for the vast sapphire sky
The coming of the light was disorienting at first, like the shimmer of the surface of the sea when viewed from beneath. Ossie Mae was swimming up to meet it head on with the fearlessness that only the children of the Great Depression possess. That stark light called out to her bones.
Ossie Mae could hear faint sounds of work: the crinkling of cellophane wrappers, muffled footsteps, and an incessant chatter of beeps nearby. She broke the water's surface and spied a silhouette moving gracefully around the room's only bed. The lights' intrusion subsided, and Ossie Mae was able to recognize hospital scrubs as the silhouette's garment of choice.
"Am I dead," Ossie Mae ventured feebly.
"I don't know," the silhouette responded. "Do you feel dead?"
"I don't know what dead feels like."
"Then how do you know you were ever alive?"
The question hung in the air for a moment while Ossie Mae gathered her wits. "I don't reckon it matters, does it? What happened? Where am I? What is your name?" Now the questions flowed like water over the falls.
"I am Nurse Cassandra. This is a hospital. You are here because you fell and broke your hip. You came in alone...is there anyone you would like me to call for you? Family? Friends?"
Ossie Mae's pupils dilated slightly, as if looking past Nurse Cassandra, searching. "No. My husband, Jack, passed away eight years ago. We never had children and the few friends I have are all in nursing homes or moved away to live with their babies and grand-babies, or to Florida. It's just me now...," Ossie Mae said, her voice slowly and steadily trailing off.
Nurse Cassandra, who looked to be a woman in her early fifties, set down the clipboard she had been scanning while Ossie Mae spoke. She sat down next to Ossie Mae and took her hand. Ossie Mae thought to herself that for such a young woman, Nurse Cassandra had old eyes. They were kind and gray, but seemed old and out of place.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Ossie Mae," Nurse Cassandra asked gently.
"Well...my daddy was a simple man, and he always told me 'Ossie Mae, you ain't got to know what you want in life, but it sure does help to know what you don't want.' I sure do miss Daddy...but I reckon what I don't want is to stay in this hospital any longer than I have to. Could you get me out of here? Please? I don't belong here no more."
"Are you sure? Really sure that is what you want, Ossie Mae?"
"Yes'ums. Yes ma'am." Flatly. Definitively.
"Then of course, Ossie Mae. I can help you with that." Nurse Cassandra stood up, reaching into the pocket of her scrubs. "One escape, coming right up."
Nurse Cassandra turned to Ossie Mae's I.V. drip, moving quickly with practiced hands, emptying the contents of the syringe into the port on the line.
And so it came to pass: Nurse Cassandra, Ossie Mae's Angel of Death, sent her home to Jack and Daddy.
i am still undecided if i should continue to pursue this genre....
forcing her knuckles
working them to the bone
she writes poetry
in verse and in rhyme
she keeps to the beat
she keeps to the time
her hands will never stop shaking
her mouth will be sewn shut
but as long as her poems are truthful.
she feels good enough.
I feel horrible
I'm functioning normally but
my head feels weird
I'm scared the world
t o s
I don't know why
I feel like I'm at sea
The waves washing against me
I'm bobbing up and down
I just want it to stop
the fear of it
the cloud of it
You're as bored as I am.
I can tell.
I can see it in the grind of your hips.
And the ache of your fingertips.
I know you see it in me too.
We've been tumbling for what feels like hours.
Every so often.
Your name shows up.
I know you see mine too.
I hear it in the flutter of your heart.
That sudden extra beat that pulsates.
Where do we go from here?
In this empty room
Blade in hand
Cold, and numb and senseless
It feels like these walls are my worst enemy
But they've been here since the very beginning
And will be here until the very end
every poet may be on a kind of deathbed
always sensing that unexplained urgency
writing what feels as though their last poem
while fastened inside a room with a window that won't open
and another that's sealed shut
detailed hidden purgatory
behind a firmly closed door
with ample enough light passing thru the keyhole
to find and slip thru
at a time
feeding what they can only imagine
the hungry birds
on the other side
Its midnight again
It's the twelfth midnight you've spent like this
Because you cant seem to remember what the back of your eyelids look like at this time
But you remember too well how it feels for them to be soaked
You remember time before you started counting
When your midnights were spent intertwined in the sheets
Sharing midnight with your lover
But now its the twelfth midnight you've spent under cold sheets
In a cold room
With cold thoughts of the chance of a thirteenth midnight