Sticks and stones
may break my bones,
but you'll never
see me quiver,
when I wither.
Into the forest,
Red Ridinghood
sing your chorus,
the "Bad Wolf", allured,
becomes your victim secured.
Goosey, goosey, gander,
tied me to an anchor,
thrown down your stairs,
someone hear my prayers,
to survive the refiner's fire.
Old Mother Hubbard
throw me your bone,
no more of the unknown,
look at what we have sown,
dark and deary tones.
At the Mulberry bush
we'll go round and round,
hand in hand we're bound,
inflicting unsealing wounds,
we never belonged together.
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
What's this inside of me?
Tell me when did I agree
to become a host for something
attacking my temple, my body.
Chastened by my lack of breath
trembling like a nervous wreck,
this feeling is not who I am,
bombarding my simple abilities,
trapped, I really cannot see.
Reflections of life flying past,
anticipate that my memory lasts,
that I won't simply disappear
collecting my thought, all my fears,
while wiping away poisoned tears,
Somberly fighting against
the trembling of my lip,
as I listen to the slow
tranquil, cisplatin drip...
falling are poisoned tears
as I float on out of here,
so low at holding on,
not always feeling so strong,
yet I'm not ready to glide,
help me, find a place to hide,
my will to stay is being denied.
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 10:27 AM UTC
Reach your arms out
and hold me down,
don't let me ascend,
pull me back, to the ground,
clouded skies of slate
please pass me by, deny my fate,
radiation leading to the decayed.
Hear my pleading call,
wipe away the tears,
that fall into a pool
enveloping me as I drown,
lost within my screams,
I really don't want to leave.
Hooked to tubes that feed
repulsive toxins, being freed,
assaulting this disease
destroying my now fragile body,
nausea followed by nose bleeds,
looming, overwhelming adversity,
clouded skies of slate
hanging over, attending me.
Don't let my children see
the fear intensifying inside of me,
build up my crumbling strength,
I beg that some part of me remains,
rather than clouded skies of slate,
broken will, I feel so drained
under the clouded skies of slate.
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 10:09 AM UTC
I stood by a boy
and his mother at
the bus stop on the
street corner block.
He and I had a grand
conversation about many
a thing,
when all of a sudden
he farted,
he looked up at me
and simply said it was a
course of nature we couldn't
contend with.
Such wise words
from someone so young.
Charles Bukowski tribute poem
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC