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Aniseed Sep 2018
There are days where I sit on my porch
And watch the sun hang in a low,
Lazy bauble with
Spun sugar lacing the sky

There's a day I've set up a lamp
I've bought for myself
And then wash the dishes
Where pomegranate scented bubbles
Soak my rolled up sleeves

Days I force myself to do laundry
Because I hate the monotony of it
The necessity of it
Even though it's a breath of fresh air
When done

Days of filling the silence with
Gentle croons of blues and jazz
And the feeling of wet, cold paint
Between my hands and a canvas
Or the stickiness of cookie dough
Between my fingers
And the wash of heat against my face
When the oven door opens

In these small ways, somehow,
I am healing,
Though I do not know what from

Just that these scars are paling
If only a little
And the pain in my chest settles
Into something like an echo
Or a memory
Something tolerable

Something bearable.
Obligatory note.
Aniseed Aug 2018
These words are fingerprints;
A momento of the fleeting seconds
Where I overflow with emotion
Like a glass under a faucet.

True, these portraits are usually
A collection of broken mirrors,
But let me write when I am howling
At the moon in my car
As the man on the radio makes love
To his microphone
And the glow of streetlights light
The path home.
Let me write when the floors are clean,
Lemon cleaner and sunlight pouring in,
And I'm trimming the ends of flower stalks
For a vase that paints these walls of mine "home".

I am not entirely fragmented.
My ankles may weaken
And my spine my stiffen
And static might overwrite my thoughts
When the sun retires,
But against everything, I stand.

I stand.
A moment of clarity.
Aniseed Aug 2018
It's a dance I've forgotten the steps to
An equation, a misplaced formula
A melody with lost lyrics

Forgiving myself is as easy
As putting my hand on a hot skillet

Loving myself might as well be
Rocket science

------------

Bitter are the memories
That marr my skin
In unwanted scars
And paint my prose
In purple flowers

Give me an IV
Of rain-soaked November nights
Or dry heat against my skin
And fresh earth between my toes
Or the feeling of a hand
On my shoulder
Maybe I need to talk to someone.
Aniseed Jul 2018
Advertising loneliness
Highway hypnosis
Always staring at this white ceiling
I can't paint

Aspirin doesn't take away the ache in my soul
That spreads to my mind
That spreads to my words
That stain my fingertips
And seizes my ankles

-------------------------

27 times I've been reminded that
These bones aren't going to hold me forever
And these feet will forget how to run
But I told myself they never found a need to
Instead simulating a universe
Where they had power

--------------------------

There's a cruel joke in there somewhere
That playing House as kids
Didn't include a guide on how
To reach that threshold in the first place.
Learning that hands were made to be used
When cooking
And compromise was the cornerstone of love
When cleaning

-------------------
I haven't really sat down to compose something that sounds coherent. Have some recent thought rambles from the last few months, instead.
Aniseed Nov 2017
You didn't know I saw you
Watching my train rumble away

A perfect stranger
Arms draped through the barred gate
When everyone behind you
Heaved lumber in indifference

I saw you curious
And I wonder if it lingered
When we disappeared

You see, every time an
Opportunity leaves me,
It leaves me violently
Like a bullet
And it scars,
Torments

Then I'm left with purple prose,
Nostalgia,
And bitterness over what
Might have been
Prepping for a move and stumbled across one of my newer old journals (Is that an oxymoron?)
Aniseed Sep 2017
And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of love
Of regret,
Of sisters,
Of mothers,
Of happiness,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical *******.
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.

But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.
Circa 2012
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