How horrible is it to love something that can die
Yet how devastating is it to love something that can die
By your touch
It will wither into nothingness
And slip through the cracks of your hands
As a tear sheds
He stands there with the sun in his hands
No longer breathing.
No longer existing,
But the fragile beating heart is still heard
A tear should not be shed from these hands
Or it will burn the face
He has so many appointments
To keep track of, but enough time
To look around.
He sees the world as darkness
and the wounded as light.
The power filled people as fire
Burning everything to quickly
But there was one.
He saw innocence in her
Even though she was wounded covered in scars.
He fell in love
Watching from afar
He grew a desire to meet her.
He followed her like a sunflower follows the sun
She was the sun, his whole world.
His heart was Beating thunder every time he saw her.
He never knew this but his next appointment was her.
Trying to save her life.
He touched her.
The sun began to wither into nothingness
and so did his heart
As she slept in his arms not waking up
He shed a tear.
It carved a wound on his face
A memory of love that can't be forgotten
Although he is made of bones
His small black heart still beats of love
For the woman who shined.
try, try, try
you'll still leave behind
a path of broken glass.
try, try, try
and you will shine,
the shadow on your back.
you cannot scrub it off;
i implore that you keep it
on your back, and facing past.
look back for a moment--
a sculpture or two,
but keep it on your back.
all our undoings, unknown sublime
anxiety, those forehead lines,
regrets that haunt your tortured mind...
keep your vision sharp and light.
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....
Chastised flies buzz high
Beguiling wildly wind whipped window washers
While presumptuously floating on CO2 currents
Sprayed streaks criss –cross the sky presenting
Atmospheric cubism for the lonely bystander
Representatives regurgitate revolutionary stories
From broken stairs on weathered monuments
Crushing oppression fills flared nostrils breathing deep
Reigning terror from the empire which birthed us all
Media propagated horror show, three meals a day
…………….none withstanding, nothing withheld
Closeness replaces character and huddled victims
Hungrily eyeball each other’s flesh
Sweat covered dirt coated quadriceps glisten
As if to beacon a bite
Gnashed teeth clench against fists flown from children
Bent on self-destruction and socialized hate
Forever consumed by the goal of individualism and liberty ideologies
There tears create new inland seas
Justified lies perpetrated by powerful provocateurs
Looking for the next big score
Seeking the last vestige of person freedom
Loss costs the unhappy Boss
Whitey…. The man….. Corporate America as an individual god-head
Watching with predatory diligence
Us as we struggle
The laughter can be heard through-out the cosmos
Joy expressed so freely knows no bounds
We are the enslaved masses without hope
Without the knowledge that we are slaves
Smiles widen while the truth becomes clear
Eyes light up at future prospects
Hands clap and feet stomp at the spectacle
Humanity hates itself
easy there Mr. Testosterone
control your speed, put down the phone
did you light the fuse when you turned the key
rage bomb, speeding, weaving, for all to see
squeeze the wheel, music will blare
clinched jaw, your vulgar words, we hear you swear
we're stupid drivers, bad traffic you say
more over, speed up, get out of my way
rest assured that none of us care
if you text or you're a mobile talker
either way your remembrance will be a roadside marker
are killed on our roads share the road PLEASE!
If his eyes were stars she would wish upon them.
Perhaps then, he would look to her the same way.
If his breath were a poet she would hang upon it’s every expression.
Wishing for a day where her remarks would take his breath away.
She drinks in his breath, as if it would give life to her dull bones.
If he could tell her how she made his life light up like a Christmas candle.
She would blush at every line.
Her lips puckered with virgin request.
It was the most innocent of caresses. She held onto ignorance
with no wish of letting go.
Because when she’s with him, the voices don’t cry so loudly
she could write ten thousand poems about his gentle eyes.
Describing every part of it she would sweep with her damp burnt, licked lips.
Drawn into a line to stop the flow of words she wishes to whisper.
So she doesn’t open her dark bat filled mouth to his spring filled questions.
In the obscurity, she imagines his soft hand next to hers.
She sings a lullaby into his ears, and he wishes he could kiss her.
And she wishes he could too.
As of now, she’ll cry out to the voices to hush themselves.
And the dusk to enlighten her,
She cannot see the light at the end of tunnel; this façade is blocking the way.
All she knows is that she needs him closer.
If he could tell her a thousand times that the sun shone down from the heavens and through her expression.
She would glance down at the floor and hear.
He’s lying. ҉
It just sits there
Out place, in its secret place
tucked down, beneath, within
and that is a fault of my own
I know, I should be but prey
do something much like and about that
before it is ruined, or not
Neglected and broken, rusted
blueprinted and assumed tested
a job i don't like
It kills me
Flourecent light leaching
Teathered to a short cord
Eyes that wont blink
As i slowly wilt
So maybe come morning
Ill finaly find time
If i can remember
I can’t feel beautiful because I can’t feel anything at all
and the lines I’m typing aren’t mine
and you’re just reaching to see your own spine
the lies you’ve spun can be told by the light shining through the dirt filled blinds.
I’ve got nothing left so make me fall.
Because I can’t feel beautiful if I don’t feel anything at all.
I keep anticipating ghosts
to form behind closed doors,
or to slither on the walls
as though they had never dissolved
in the first place;
but I need to remember your exorcism
and how I saw you leave
as violently as you came.
I'll light every candle
to keep it that way.
But you see, I am Alice, and Alice is I.
I was always content and merely a happy child but I have fallen down a rabbit hole.
Only I found that down that rabbit hole was not Wonderland, but despair and gloom.
For the beautiful creatures were replaced with monsters and frightening beasts.
And I looked.
I searched for my Wonderland.
I worked my way through the darkness and found a little light.
So far I feel that my compass has brought me close to where I need to be.
My Wonderland is near.