I stood on the side of a mountain
And screamed, once.
My sports bra was soaked through
And the skin on my lips ached
And my thighs burned and burned.
I'd climbed two thousand feet
And heard the wind bustle in the trees,
Birds holler and screech,
Branches creak and leaves crackle;
But no one was there to hear
Me but me.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
When I was young I thought I'd lean in
And help everyone I saw.
I'd take on troubles and burdens and
Cares like a postman scooping up today's
Mail from a big blue letterbox.
But I found the metal singes my fingers and forearms
And the envelopes leave paper cuts.
My blood drops in crimson drips
On the letterhead you carefully crafted.
The stamps unstick and amble, impotent,
Down the sidewalk,
Blown away from me
On the slightest breeze.
It took me too long to learn--
Other people's troubles are their own
To pass along.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
Imagine a world in which
you lived in a little house
in the middle of the woods --
an itty bitty cabin with creature
comforts and small necessities,
and paper and ink and tables and chairs --
in it
you slept and wept and dreamt,
and would walk and walk
never finding anywhere else...
always returning to your teeny front door.
The cabin sits in silence,
in semi-darkness most of the day --
the path of the sun moves
l a n g u i d l y
through the sky
and the neighboring trees
cast puddles of shade.
You wish for
companionship,
though you
aren't sure
what that means.
Sometimes,
along your garden fence
you find little bits of paper
or tissues
or wind-swept bottles
butting up against the slats.
The papers have names
and bits of stories:
of shootings and stabbings and
conniving schemers,
of donations and creations
and family boat-races;
and you wonder who these people are,
or if the pages are ripped
from some book you don't own --
and if the wind blows in
toward your tiny little home...
mustn't there be a way
to get out?
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
I live in a vacuum.
I exist in a fundamentally
misunderstood airspace
inhabited only by a
lonely soul
who is
shouting and stammering
senseless pleas,
thinking,
"Who can this awful,
lonesome creature be?"
Never realizing,
"Oh,
it's me."
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
wanting what
you can’t
have
is the
#1
cause
of
broken hearts.
look it
up.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
We've been apart
For too long
I want to
Crumple, collide
With the emptiness
Between us
A separation of
Miles and minutes
Mapped down to the
Second
If I leave now
And drive
Dangerous and swift
I could be home
Before your
Head hit
The pillow
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
in the corner of your
mind
waiting for morsels
of memory on which to
munch.
The monster likes
the happy thoughts —
the ones that bring
bubbles to your belly
and an upward crinkle
to your lovely lips —
He gobbles them up,
chews the goodness right
from their marrow,
breaking their fragile
skeletons,
twisting them into
terrible creatures
who
scuttle
and
whimper
and
whisper.
They live
in the shadows now —
the memories that
once brought you joy —
rent and broken
by the jaws of the
Monster in your mind.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 6:14 PM UTC