Am I just absurd
Or is it inbetween the words
That those tiny spaces shout
What this relationship’s about

The pause before the sigh
Or the sparkle in your eye
Just before you crack that smile
And once more put on the style
Of a life that’s just a breeze
And your role – of course, to please.

For I think it may be true
That, inbetween, you feel it too.

Joy’s innocent lovely face
Kissed with wrath
By deceitful lips of sorrow
Naive heart touched by the hands of woe and greed
So began the planting of hearts seed

Frail scented blossoms
Despairs purple flowers
Fall headlong helpless
Into destinies misty tomorrows
Bitterness ever grown
In sour soil
Broken soul tears were sown
A bouquet of sadness
Melancholy’s songs
Despair’s garden


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright                    
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby April 9, 2014

We're cooking up a thought stew
A mindful casserole
Compassion the sauce that our hearts impart
sad tales sieved from our souls.

The base of the dish is hope
seasoned with laughter and tears
we stir in empathy to the mix
and we plan to allay crumbs of fear

Our stew has a dollop of knowledge
jugs of experience
ears that are prepped to listen,
Spiced with strength and resilience

But we won't prescribe your recipe
for  journeys are made with choice
your life's kitchen tools, your recovery rules,
empowered and mixed using your voice.

1290

The most pathetic thing I do
Is play I hear from you—
I make believe until my Heart
Almost believes it too
But when I break it with the news
You knew it was not true
I wish I had not broken it—
Goliah—so would you—

when you crawl through broken glass
just to prove something
but what are you proving?
i broke all my dishes just to make a point.
i didn't have a point.

Our bed the paper
Our hands the words
Our lips the verse

Dribbling poetry
Tenderly caressing prose
The ink flows
This play is closed

We're onto something
We create magic
Between the sheets of love
Fireworks, sunsets, sunrise
Lust, passion
In our eyes

Our bodies entwined
Yours words and mine

We write together
In time together
We compliment eachother
A romance, a tragedy,
You and me

Our bed the paper
Our hands the words
Our lips the verse

The skeletons of clocks will always haunt these hallways
And I can never remember anything you said to me
I suppose the problem is the rope around my neck
Never mind the fact that you’re the floor under my feet
Maybe I just hate the idea that everything I touch here could become a memorial
All for a lost soul who never learned how to properly read a map
But I think I’m just scared of my candle burning out before its lit
I’m tired of the silverware tied to my wrist and the paperclips under my fingernails
We walk on eggshells and all we ever do is **** our own young
You hurt me more than anyone and my lungs still bleed everyday
This is not on me I blame you both for it but not for the tremors in my hands
I still remember that hospital room
And the twenty seven hooks that held up the curtain
Those condescending looks stick with you
After all I’m just another stupid kid spilling his guts all over your floor
I still remember that the part that hurt the most
Was when they took all the pain away
And I think about that a lot more than I should
Maybe that says things about me that I could never tell you
There are a lot of things that I have trouble saying
And I’ve never been fond of needles
Or the bed they told me I was meant to sleep in
This is not my own creation I know I didn’t work for this
I was aiming for the church bells and all I hit was the flagpole
Can you still fall asleep without my skin these days
Do you find yourself lying in bed reaching towards the ceiling
Almost as if you could cradle the stars in your hands
Because I do and I like to think you’re doing the same
*~W.C.

1339

A Bee his burnished Carriage
Drove boldly to a Rose—
Combinedly alighting—
Himself—his Carriage was—
The Rose received his visit
With frank tranquillity
Withholding not a Crescent
To his Cupidity—
Their Moment consummated—
Remained for him—to flee—
Remained for her—of rapture
But the humility.