I can sense your foot steps on my door
I hear your whispers like your sitting next to me
I try and confince myself that your gone
but this heart doesn't believe the truth
I laugh and wish your here to laugh with me
I cry and wish your here where you can hold me
I miss your touch , your hug , your kiss
people tell me that your not gone
then where are you ? are you hiding ?
okay i'm sorry I don't want to play hide and seek any more
I want you now , I need you now
more and more every passing day
i'm sorry that i'm not like her
that the only thing i can do
better is to be a little less sad
that she was the sunflower
and i'm just a little dandelion
who wants your attention
that she was the moon
and i'm just a little star
who tries her best to sparkle
that she was made of gold
and i was made of little dusts
nothing but a burden
do you remember how we met, when the air tasted like the sea and you were heading where you swore to never return for the love you could not have, but made you choose the choices you made, then with the leakage which tasted of the ocean only wishing you were seventy not seventeen or fourteen or -teen— that at the second we never touched, the greeting we never exchanged, the lives we could not save flowed all behind the day we did not happen— but hey i know your story as if inked under my skin where your sun does not fade and your sky does no harm and the sea no more than the sea— us on different frequencies of never ending rain- behind our eyelids i saw you in all the times you existed without me— you are not alone you who did not want to be remembered but wanted only to live; we never crossed- never crossed but i found your heart in the way it tried to beat- to beat through the chaos and the voices and the shadows that were not yours, i also know of the sorry you repeatedly whispered inside and whispered out loud- then you were gone— your story your heart i found them inside my veins in all my air and bones- oh i know of the bones and even the shadows, those with no masters— i discovered you who i did not meet- and for having remembered those memories that are not mine, for having recalled you your story your pain: i am sorry
To bed I took, in habitual slumber,
cursive prayers die at my cynical tongue,
all pinned badges of the day cast-off
to the floor, only for my sorry soles to
impale upon, come morn. ‘Come morn!
I called, to the chasted walls;
‘come morn!’ I sang,
hoping to fill the thinned curtains
with a filter of light.
In oil paints, old dreams coloured themselves
in patient, kaleidoscopic hues. Though
withered of form, they delight in me,
promise to deliver in utero joys,
connection to the Great Mother;
all that was lost in the fall.
The fall of man,
so gravely reported, and so
limiting to humankind.
I fell. I fell to sleep as Romans did peace.
With grudge, with dissonance; mind-silence apparent
only upon the death of the day.
With stubborn regard, my ears tarried in vigil,
I awoke to each pine of the hallway,
each tremor of heart, pulse of thought,
and Lord of sound.
‘Come death!’ I sighed,
to my life’s rushing blackness,
‘come death!’ I cried, to my stars.
In cannabis, I attune, only to calm;
to bask in the light of some meadow-less dawn,
and in pains, I pray only for dullen thoughts,
to poison my days in some indolent mess.
And of Ávila, Teresa
shelters my mind. She comes to me
in sorry demise.
‘My child,’ she calls, voice echoed since,
‘fellow child,’ she pines, entrusted sphinx.
Spawn of Thebes, she riddles through centuries,
all panicked pores, all sickening spirals,
forgotten in the present, all-eternal.
A shepherd am I, amongst my thoughts,
she calls thus that I am not my mind,
rather, a chosen observer,
to be confused not upon the
idiocratics, more, ‘what is.’
A lowing at my window, she calls unto me
in reverberated tongue, nutritious tone,
a cyclone of holistic power.
Bright glimmer of light, she calls once more, ‘my child!’,
she cries, ‘my fellow child of the Lord!
Please, rain unto me your sorry state,
lack of appetite,
cooling plate. Oh, you that live so solemnly,
you who knows not of the arbour of life.’
I call not in terror and I call not in my fright,
upon the window, that ghostly glimmer,
she heals the walls in half-light, swimming
in opal reflections of ripples and chimes.
And, she is calling for beauty,
she is singing unto me,
‘come morn!’ she weeps,
‘come morn, and with it, the tidings,
of your blessed life to be!’
Stumbling, I trip over the apparition’s words,
she speaks not in life’s shadows and sinister plot,
but only in those that speak like a God.
In the awful haze of light-polluted skies,
auspicious streets and government plot,
her prophecies fair, but yet
‘Come now!’ I say, in no hope, ‘come
now,’ I say, an adult.
‘There’s no space for me here in this lifetime,
there’s no soil for my roots to embed,
in painful years past, I’ve been in sorrow,
and I’ll be expecting them in all the years, hence.
So what, if I’ll join the army,
or some other capricious,
All tributaries lead to the river,
as all humans to their torturement.’
Teresa, she radiated with colours,
and Amy, who lived within my chest,
they called out as one in my silence,
as a union, a conquest of the childhood mind,
to abolish the present tense.
As one, they sang unto me,
They sang, ‘be born!’
under the moonlit streets, ‘be born
to all that you are, and ever you could be!’
And from this dream I came out in denial.
From this dream, I appeared to awake. I awoke
to the song of the starlings, and to
the precious pleasure of life’s augment.
With this groggy thought I’ll admit that,
in separation I fell apart,
I call, ‘come out!
‘come out and greet me!
Old Eden, my eternal womb.
The union of mankind and nature,
and the union of our pasts combined.’
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to, I had to do it, you made me, made me want you, need you, it wasn’t my fault, he just, wouldn’t let me have what I need.
There she is my angel, my sweet, sweet woman. I wouldn’t hurt her you know, I’d never hurt her, I’d kill anyone that tried to hurt her, I swear it, I’d have their throats within my grasp and I’d squeeze, more and more, tighter and tighter. Until every inch of hurt they caused her was paid back, in triplicate.
NO! Why, why did you do it? Why do that to him, he didn’t do anything. He didn’t touch you, he told you to go away, he told you to leave us alone, you should have, you should have just went away, far away.
There he is, he’s really creepy, I mean seriously, he just stands there, staring at me. What does he want? Well, I guess that’s a stupid question really, it’s obvious. But why is it, when he stands there staring, he looks angry and sad all at once?
I’m sorry! Why!?
He’ll pay for that, I’ll make him pay. He shouldn’t have tried messing with me, he shouldn’t have touched me, and he shouldn’t have grabbed that knife. It was his mistake messing with people who he should fear, he’ll realise that soon enough.
I swear if he doesn’t stop looking at us I’ll kill him. He’s just stood there, fists clenched, staring at her, she’s not his and I make sure to remind him of that every day. She’s my girlfriend, and they both know it, I make sure of that, I make sure there’s no question of what is mine.
I’m sorry! Why!?He’ll pay!
* *You’re under arrest; you do not have to say anything… You made quite a mess in there kid, I don’t remember the last time I saw something that bad outside of the cinema. Tell me son, what drove you to do it? Why would someone as hopeful as you ruin your life by ending another’s? Straight A’s, plenty of social groups, hell you could have been anything you wanted to be, but. You chose murder. Sweet Jesus, I’ve seen nothing like it in my life. They say it was only that lad, poor boy doesn’t realise what’s gonna happen. They’ll see him hung for this, that fella he killed, son of one of the richest families I know. Looks like a blind fit of rage, if we can get a reason, it could save that kids life.
I’m sorry! Why!?*He’ll pay!
* You’re under arrest. **
We gather here, to bury he who killed another.
They destroyed his home, they broke his heart, and they eviscerated his body.
Justice served. In triplicate.
Anne crutches herself into Sister Paul's office. The nun is sitting in a chair behind a desk, hands folded on the table, eyes stern, lips a straight line. Anne stands before the desk, taking in the huge crucifix on the wall above the nun's head.
- You can sit down, Anne, the nun says, eyeing her firmly, watching the 12 year old girl, as she manoeuvres herself with one crutch onto the chair.
Anne sits down and puts the crutch beside the chair and pulls her red skirt over her knees, covering the stump where her leg had been.
- Do you know why you're here? Sister Paul asks, unfolding her hands, and laying them flat on the desk top.
- No, Anne says, looking at the nun's black and white headdress, the thin features of the face, hawk-like nose.
-There has been complaints made about you, the nun says. She watches as the girl fidgets in the chair, lifts herself with her hands, back further, on the chair. - Are you not comfortable? She asks.
- No, Anne says, My knickers are too tight.
The nun sighs, looks at the wooden ruler on her desk, wishes she could, but knows she can't.
- Complaints made by other children here and staff members, the nun says, toying with the ruler with her fingers.
-What sort of complaints? Anne asks.
-The worse sort: bad language, insolence, rudeness. It has to stop, Anne, do you understand? The voice sounded like grit poured into a bucket.
Anne fingered at her backside. -Ah, that's better, sorted it out now, she says, putting her hands together in her lap. - I can't recall any rudeness, she says, acting miss innocence, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, kind of expression and pose.
The nun looks at the girl and inwardly is glad she never married and had children, especially if one had been like this.
- Sister Bridget says you called her a dried up prune, the nun says, looking at the dark hair and eyes of the child, the insolent way she sits and looks.
Anne frowns.- Me? To Sister Bridget?
-Yes, to Sister Bridget, and Sister Mary says, you exposed your bottom to her when she asked you to take your afternoon sleep. The nun looks at the girl's expression, her frown of brow.
- No, not me, Sister Paul, must have been some other kid's backside she'd seen.
-Are you calling these two nuns, liars?
The girl looks at her hands in her lap, raises two fingers upwards, out of the nun's sight.- No, not liars, just mistaken. We all make mistakes, Anne says, we're all human, after all.
Sister Paul's eyes darken, she grips the ruler tighter, pushes her toes to the end of her sandals.
- And some of the children have made complaints, too, the nun says, the words hard as nails from her lips.
-Ah, you know what liars kids can be, Sister. They couldn't tell the truth if it came wrapped in yellow paper saying, TRUTH. She smiles at her wit.
Sister Paul doesn't smile; her lips tighten, her eyes scan the child, if the girl at been at one of the schools, rather than the nursing home, she'd be well on her way to a sound caning.
- I know children, Anne, and liars, the nun says, eyeing the girl firmly, tapping the ruler on her palm. - You are a liar, and I know you. I have read the reports on you before you came. I was reluctant to take you in, but had little choice. You will behave yourself or be expelled from the nursing home. Is that understood?
Anne senses a fart coming on, but holds it in. - Yes, Sister, sorry Sister. It's my leg you see, it gives me pain, and keeps me awake at nights, and I get tired and I get irritable. She puts on a hurt expression.
The nun sits upright and stiff, an expression of dislike etched on her features.
-We are given pain, by God, for a purpose, Sister Paul says, it is a gift we ought to shoulder and bear with gratitude.
-Like haemorrhoids, you mean? Anne says, fiddling with her fingers, a blank look on her face.
- You know what I mean, young lady, pain in general, not in particular. At that moment the nun feels a great urge to inflict pain on the girl sitting in front of her. She can picture it, the whole scene, the satisfaction.
Anne shifts in the chair, steadying herself. - Can I go now?
The nun sits back in the chair, eyes focusing on the girl, her face straight and stiff as a board.- Your leg has been amputated, so how can it give you pain? the nun says, her words pushed from her mouth as if they were sour.
- Nerve endings, they don't realise the fucking legs gone, oops sorry, about that it kind of slipped out while I was engaged in thoughts, Anne says, looking at the nun's reddening face. - Didn't mean to, it's my leg you see, it gets me all uptight, and wound up like a clock, and then ping! Out it comes.
The nun sighs deeply. The word hammers inside her ears and brain. - I won't have such language, do you hear me, not another rude word or expression.
Anne clenches, the cheeks of her buttocks tightly, to hold in the the coming wind. She nods, gives an expression of remorse, allows her eyes to water, takes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wipes her nose. - Sorry about that, don't mean to be such a bad girl, my apologises to all. She wipes her eyes, lets herself go, does her acting bit, slumps her shoulders, weeps softly.
The nun is confused, sits up, feels an urge to go around to the girl and embrace her, say, there, there, dear child, but she doesn't, instead she stares at the girl, at the slumped shoulders, at the dark hair, the sight of neck, and wonders what kind of mother she would have made had she married, would she have coped with the nappies and sickness and foul smells and dressing and undressing a baby and the disturbed nights, and a man touching her, and doing things to her. No, she couldn't have married, nor had a child. She sighs and softens, -OK, Anne, lets say no more about it, and she gets out of the chair and walks around to the child weeping, in the chair, and puts an arm about her, feeling the shallow shakes, the sobs, the sight of the one leg, knowing a stump was beneath the skirt. - There, there, calm down, it is all too much for you after losing your leg, I'll have a word with the children and staff and explain about your pain. She holds the girl close to her breast, feeling her there, the catching of breath, the sobs, the shaking shoulders, and plants a kiss on the girl's black hair and head.
- Sorry, Sister Paul, Anne says, between her acted sobs, sniffing, wiping her nose, feeling the fart go away silently, like sneaky hound, all without sound.
The nun feels her heart open and close. - All right, Anne, you may go and rest your leg or stump, she says, going back to her chair and sitting there, watery eyed.
Anne lifts her head, pushes her hair from her eyes, sniffs and wipes her nose. -Thank you, Sister, you're like a mother to me. She pulls herself up from the chair with the crutch, feels the pain shoot through the stump, rubs it, pulls a face. - I'll go and rest it, she says, soft voiced, sobs held in check, head lowered. She crutches herself from the room slowly, sensing the nun's eyes on her, feeling a sense of fulfilment, like passing an audition, and lets the door click gently behind her.
Sister Paul sits and fingers the ruler. Sniffs and coughs softly. Feeling the girl's shoulders in her hands, the gentlest of touches, the sense, momentarily, of being a mother, compassion, concern, yes, it is there, she says inwardly, maybe I might have made a good mother after all had it been God's wishes, even if I had to put up with a man's touch for the duration. Thank God, she says softly inwardly, for my vocation .
Because every little thing in my life reminds me of you. Everything. I see you in the books I read. And the songs I listen to. In the movies I watch. Every thought that goes through my head leads back to you. And I can’t help but think that you are the answer to my problems and the end to the pain. But thinking like this is a dangerous trap. Thinking like this gets me hurt. And I don’t think I can take any more hurt. Liking someone like you makes me realize that I will never be good enough. I will never be right and you will always deserve better. I know I can’t be that for you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m just a messed up, talentless, ADHD teenager who has no control over my feelings or words. I’m sorry that I’m not all you want, because that is all I want to be. But I know there’s no point because you’ll leave me anyway. Everyone does. Everyone just walks away with no goodbye. I am always the second choice, the back-up plan, the alternative until you find someone better. And I’m just tired you know? I’m tired of trying to put up with all this shit and telling myself that there are only 3 more years till I can leave this fucking state and leave all the pain behind. But a lot can happen in 3 years. And over any other emotion, I’m just scared and lonely in this nightmare that I call life.
I traded the Midwest for West Coast sunsets.
I left my home.
Some people said they were so sorry that I had to uproot.
I was not.
My home was my prison.
My cellmate was the red faced, foul hearted man I'm supposed to call father.
Who used his fists to persuade me that I was not good enough.
I hung my head low.
I started dancing with razors and the thought of death was my only solstice.
I left behind self esteem stealing girls and fire breathing dragons.
I clawed my way out of the hole in the ground that I was tossed into.
My body is littered with scars and my eyes are dull, brightness stolen
but still, I carry on because I traded the Midwest for West Coast sunsets.
I don't know how to feel.
I'll be okay.
Hope is still within' me.
There's just too much to learn how to deal.
It's as if I'm reading the Yellow Wallpaper again.
As she walks around the room, circles, circles.
The paper learning her routine.
My mind taking the same route, man.
Allow me to smile for you;
I'm trying so hard.
And you walked out, holding hands with her.
Don't worry, that was my cue.
Told you I was going to bed.
Both of you.
It's as if my hands were behind my back, bound and tied.
I'm gonna let this week go by.
Music and studies are calling my name.
And you all will see me around, but not for too long.
I'm sorry, it's just all one big lie.
The world bleeds colors for a girl who can only see shades of grey
She sees in particular 50 shades
She walks with pain and dignity
The type of dignity that screams
the type of dignity that is silenced by tired fingers with a smack to the lips
She is a walking contradiction
Her conscience fumes with words that only she can hear.
They paint her canvas with colors so dim that it is surprisingly impossible to hide.
She wants the world to know of her pain; she is seeking.
Acceptance but Approval.
It is with precision that she is
It is with precision that she is
Her canvas is a replica of Da' Vinci
Carefully crafted so that enough smiles can hide her tears
She blooms with effortless screams.
She does not walk to be seen
But to be heard
And she cries
Only because her comfortable canvas has now been brushed with
And for the first time in a long time
The world bled Red for a girl who is used to seeing grey.
She can not find words to express what's been drawn.
She cannot lift a finger to the skin she has..
-Galleries of displayed art
she is seeing 50 shades of colors
Not only on herself but on other's
she stops in the middle of the street
Her pupils look at the ground blurry as she falls sobbing.
She pleads for grey-
As if the color would respond.
"Please, I'm sorry"
Mutes the women and paints
A new canvas on her naked body
"Anything but red"
The woman said.
"If you wish for grey,
stop painting red"
The woman opened her eyes,
looked at her stained knuckles,
opened her shackled hand,
Scoped her Canvas,
Felt the delusional ground,
Her mind screamed of colors.
RED RED RED
"Put the brush down,
this is not Art."
|And she did|