Can I pull you back? Again? Once more.
Can I have you again? Can I?
Can I have you back here in my life?
Can I ask you to stay and never say good bye?
Can I hold your hand like I always do?
Can you hug me from behind, like what you always do?
Can you kiss my forehead again as I sleep?
Can you ask me to eat again and tell me not to skip.
Can we go to church like each Sundays that passed by?
Can we drive crazy in highways, as if we'll never die?
Can we laugh again, and again as if we're insane.
Can I be your girl again?
Can I wipe these tears with your hands babe?
Can I borrow your arms and wrap the to mine?
Can I wear your shirt again so I can feel you
Can you be the one that I would say, I do.
Can you be my forever bestfriend indeed.
Can you be my enemy, but will choose to defeat.
Can you mine again like the old times.
Can I have you once more and forever be mine...
But I know, that will never to come again... :(
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
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin near transparent covering.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths of years of toil,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.
Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.
Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s used out Oklahoma way.
And he would know, he'd cowboyed there.
His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocket knife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Could pick silver coins right out of my ears.
His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged life traveled.
Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.
But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touch of tenderness.
I shall never forget my Grandfather’s hands.
I'm cold cold cold.
My parent's house is not the escape I was looking for.
I lock myself in here without the heat to prove a point.
What point, you ask?
Well, uhhhh, I don't know.
I dug out an old sweatshirt from 6th grade basketball.
It's still too big.
If I stretch my arms out towards the lack of sky
My tiny, chubby, baby hands peek through.
They are very cold.
I wonder if our babies will have my hands or Javin's.
I could never be a communist.
The theoretical kind of communism, of course.
I am very territorial.
Literature lulled the longing; left some life.
Eliot spoke of hollow men that could be mutilated but whole. Tempting!
Auden lamented that despite the wish to turn back time we cannot stop clocks,
Volatile as we are: love does not last forever.
Every word etched upon the page made me realise I was not
Miss Havisham; but in my pusillanimous dress I kept close
Every touch and promise, and the deepest secret nobody knew.
Heaney enticed me with warm thick slobber; yellow in the sunshine, but
Eyes not mine own met me in mirrors and I felt sad that
Reality is not a poem, or a piece of prose and despite looking deeper
Each desire reflected back at me were ones I dare not meet in dreams.
Tennyson's Lady of Shallot weaved its magic but not enough for you to keep an
Old wife. I lost my glow, although even now, my lights still twinkle on dark nights in
Dickens' London. Red lights in dark doorways telling tales of a wronged
Rebecca, Jane or Moll all with different dimensions and
Each with her own story to tell, like me,
Although none of it really matters in the end does it?
Maybe now it is time to yield.
"Don't you ache from all you carry? It could be light, easy."
A little kiss on the spine. A fractured sigh in the blue dark.
"Its become my whole body. Where on earth could I set it down?"
Thunder rolls up her silk stockings.
Rain lets down the fringe of her hair.
Somewhere, a reptile is unwinding,
its old skin left in the long grass.
"Love, let it loose. Give it to me."
boredom is a tight shirt,
a blanket shamefully pulled over it
boredom is how whiskey learns how to taste better,
chum steeps in the waters constantly,
the fragmented dregs of flesh dance and so we catch them cautiously
with our gnaw of impatience
boredom is waking up early and laying in bed for an hour or three,
occasional outbursts of "fuuuucccckkkk" - and then it's coffee
rolling cigarettes out of abandoned butts - a true old stogie
television, pornography turned down in volume,
pot, movements of no virtue
more whiskey and then the pillow and then things get interesting
Today my mother looked at me and told me I was becoming someone,
I smiled back at her pretending that my smile didn't have a gaping hole that let the happiness seep out.
I was 7 years old before I knew who my father was,
I tried desperately to be like someone, anyone, clinging on any similarity I could find.
At this time I didn't understand that some pages remain unwritten, I'm still not sure if I do.
I had the same question for every black man that walked by,
Is that my daddy?
Is that my daddy?
Is that my daddy?
A child can't hold the whole world in their tiny fingers.
Because kids in a 2nd grade classroom don't know why I'm different,
I don't know why I'm different,
I don't know why you can't write a letter.
How was I somebody if I had no idea who I am,
its like trying to build a house with no dimensions.
Today I was asked to make a family tree,
my teachers stare was almost as dark as the color of my skin
when my answer was that I couldn't.
Because my dad never bothered to show up.
Now I am forced to look at myself in the mirror and ask where I come from,
That one mole over my left eyebrow,
The beat of a drum in my heart calling me home but I keep my feet firmly planted on the ground because I don't know where home is.
Don't ask me why it matters, if you do, come back to me when you don't know half of who you are and tell me why.
I cant stop apologizing because no matter how many times I'm told I'm wrong, I know the reason he didn't come back was me.
So I'm not becoming someone, I'm left wandering in a dark room with no furniture.
All because you couldn't even write me a letter.
I am caught between two sets of chains;
One digs into my flesh with patches of rust
Entering my bloodstream through old wounds
I gave myself in years before…
The toxins take action ever so slowly.
Another is of satin,
Gently caressing my knuckles
Making me happier—
Than I’ve ever been in my whole life,
But there’s pressure on my clavicles
As the pull becomes stronger.
I have cried over you
All the while I’ve been saying:
‘I love you’
For I know that I feel more deeply
Than you could ever feel
I see farther forward
Then you’ve ever dared to look,
And I’m trapped here with my
Adoration for you,
And I already miss you.
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....