The city streets of Cleveland were cluttered with hate filled riots
Night skies glowed orange with piping mills at U.S. Steel
Lake Erie was a stagnant pond floating toxicity
Yet 3047 Wilson Street was the house with curb appeal.
A decade of harsh winters was the time that I spent there
Daddy's cancer took him away at age thirty-three
Yet in his suffering he made a plan for my future
That included a move to the mountains of Tennessee.
He must of known the mountains would bring healing
To the brokenness of girl slightly shy of thirteen
It was at bedtime the hills would whisper his goodnights
Resting my anxious mind and bringing peaceful dreams.
Safety rested on every road and in each rolling pasture
Stars filled the darkest skies and the streams were pristine
My home rested at the end of a bending hollow
With a swing on the porch picturesquely primitively serene.
For this, and too numerous the reasons
I cling to hills when I've lost all sense of me
For in them my questions are answered
In them I regain my sanity.
this just in from the white house
positive positive positive
the right moves in this enviro
you got what you want
bush milked it for 7 years
they got away with torture
we Americans are stone immune
to killings, so kill people
add purpose to a culture of death
big lies small lies scared shitless lies
witnesses die at an alarming rate
the first impressions, the spin of tragedy
set the stage for popular opinion
but not for this guy
there is some advantages of being a poet :
the government kills people
and directs incidences of war and terror
to insure world order that benefits
the devil himself
if you make a concrete judgement of somebody without fully getting to understand them, that's a sign of stupidity, and that's what she did to me
and my family, without even knowing my mother and father, she didn't even bother
to recall why she'd often dismiss, them as just religious, freaks who took care of their kids, and didn't get divorced, stayed together through the weather
she claimed they only did it cuz of the kids, but they're out of the house now, and my parents are still together and in love
what she couldn't find, within our family, and her simple mind, is that they would have loved her too, if she would've accepted them, or got to know them, or had a talk, or just listened, but instead, she placed them in a class with the rest, of the people she thought she knew best
but look inside and you might find that she don't know her self, and that's why she has to place, this label upon those who say grace, before they eat dinner
my mother and father, i love, so much. and that's why it hurt when she said they are weird. and that they're the reason my brother smoked crack.
fuck that. tears come down my face are dried, the stains from her lies still infiltrate my eyes. but it's okay, i live and forgive another day, just like my parents taught me
move on and pray
I picked an iris
deep blue and purple
from the little patch of forest
that lies behind my house
two days later
(that is, today)
the shriveled mass stands pitiful in the clear base
dripping blue blood
that is, watery flower pigment
I would assume
I took some paper and recorded this
the substance that left the flower
so forever I can see it as an example
for if I remove myself
from situations in which I can grow
I wore a red dress
and you took a picture of me leaning against the house
smoking a cigarette
I said I didn't like my face
you said you did.
that's when I knew.
so I sat on the arm of a chair and you handed me a fan
and asked if I would take it upstairs
it was all yellow light and people spilling beer and
and touching each other's legs
I smiled and said yes
and knew you could see it burning in my eyes
just sizzling there, hot
two drops of boiling water hissing on a stove top
I took the fan upstairs and put it in your window
the air blowing the bottom of my skirt
just a little.
and things were still blurry
so it's good that I wanted to close my eyes.
and I did.
and I was reminded of the feeling of another's hands
in the morning I picked my red dress off the floor
and put my face close to the fan
feeling the air hit the sweat on my cheeks
and on my forehead .
we smiled at each other
and I meant it.
because hands grabbing drunk in a small bed by a window
didn't have to be any more
It starts with drifting. Having no time for one another. Then it's a fight about how they didn't call or decided to go to their friends house instead of being with you. Words are spoken that have been bottled up for months, just building up; truths are revealed and tears are spilled. You go into a blind rage. Breaking everything that comes to your hand, ripping every picture up with him in it. You scream out into the empty abis about how you hate him and he was the worst. You no longer feel that empty hole that has been eating up at you for days, the feeling of him not loving you. It is only filled with hatred and fury. Then it hits you. You find your favorite sweater of his that you slept in every night to feel like he was holding you, the smell of his cologne that would cloud your mind, or the first love letter you wrote for him, but never gave because you were afraid that he didn't feel the same. Everything comes back in floods and flashes. How his hand fits perfectly in yours, his crocked smile, the way his eyes shined in the sunlight, how he wiped away the tears when your whole wold was falling apart. Then in that moment, your eyes blood red, tears soaking your face, you realize no one in the world could love you more than he ever did.
I have no qualm with Christ,
insists the common man or woman,
My thorn lies with "Christians."
Interesting. It makes me think.
Perhaps there is a difference, then
between "Christian" and "follower."
One can deride a "member"
as one chortles at an arrogant child
for presiding over a tree house.
His father planted the tree
and his father nailed the boards to it
yet the child excludes as he sees fit.
One cannot demean a "follower"
for the follower acts the part of his father
and invites the other children in.
He learns their names and smiles
and shares his sandwich and cookies
with the dirty, hungry faces.
So many among us will
step forward and throw the first stone
at the stain glass of a church
Yet who among you would
pluck that same stone and hurl it
at the face of Christ himself?
I'm sorry for trying.
I'm sorry for standing up for what I believe in.
I'm sorry for breathing, talking, writing, listening, wondering and for being happy.
I'm sorry that you don't understand that you don't need objects to be happy.
I'm sorry that you don't understand that you don't need loving parents to be happy.
I'm sorry that you don't understand that you don't need a house to be happy.
I wish I could teach you to be happy but, happy cant be taught.
You have to find happy to feel it.
I'm sorry that you don't understand how I can be so happy even when am left with nothing.
Silently weeping tears run cold.
By myself in this empty house.
No one to hear my whimpers and cry's.
By myself I have no one to relay on.
Trying to call but no one answered.
I'm left here with nothing but the echos of my tears as they hit the ground.
Were tears run cold.
In this empty house.
Is were I lose all hope.
Slipping away with the razor in my hand.
Were the floors are stained red.
Silently weeping hoping someone saves me before I end
My head tilted back like I was
But what fell to my mouth was you
Cradling my jaw in your hands
As if I were a porcelain doll you might drop
It felt like goodbye
Because it was
And now I am afraid to turn corners
Locked in a haunted house
What will drop from the ceiling
Grab my leg
What will scare me back into submission
Besides you mounting someone outside
Which is perhaps
The most disturbing of all
How you wanted me until suddenly
And how I didn't believe you
And how you fed me excuses like pacifiers
Quieting. Comforting. Soothing.
But I spit those out
Realizing their purpose was to
Quiet me into letting you go without a fight
But I took out my fists and fought like hell
You held them and pleaded with me to put my guns away
Surrender my weapons
And let you go in peace
This was all for you.
It was easier
And only you
But what about me.
Grabbing at every part of myself
Pulling hair from my head and scratching flesh from my bones
Slowly and painfully pulling myself apart
Abandoning parts of me in gutters and streams
out windows and in ditches
I can't be myself anymore
Every inch of my flesh has your name written on it
Scratched in a pen using your own blood as ink
You sacrificed for me
And I for you
And we sat on a rock and smelled ocean and let the water spray our faces until we were sticky and wet and still we sung.
We had songs
Some silent, but I could hear the music when there was none.
I still do.
I can't look up down left or right without some yellow light telling me to
Slow down to a stop and take caution,
for a reminder is coming hard and fast your way.
Bitch-slapping me in the face for being stupid
For having been smart and throwing my morals to the wind
I'd like to regret you
But I don't
I'd like to hate you
But I can't
This makes me weak yes I know this
I gave you all the parts of me that were strong
And mere visions of you take the wind from my lungs and you use them to set your sails
You're a deep sea diver. Swimming. Living. Lying.
And I drown here.
You told me once that when I jump from a plane
The moment my parachute refuses to open
You'd be there carrying me to the ground
I won't let you fall, you said.