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 Aug 2016 Sarah Michelle
When you paint your walls
with nonsense, and the sky outside
reflects your feelings, sensations
tiring, discovering floors and no ceilings.

And the faceless poor man
doesn't want your tips
but your hand, he wants to try
standing, because he's tired of kneeling.

When you insure the beggar's
confidence with a dime, hoping
he will ask you to stay awhile, then
you see he's not the freak, you are.

It is your mind that is on trial,
the beggarman dying, you slowly
take up his cup, and begin the eternal
begging for just one single smile.
 Aug 2016 Sarah Michelle
someone once said that if you love something,
you should set it free.
as if this is something done so easily.

they could have explained a little about
the tide of chilly, bittersweet memories
that greet me every morning
making my socks wet all day
Lovely though it was,
the grace of wakefulness
took that light from me.

The more I try to grasp it back
the more it seems to evade me,
receding deeper into my mind.

But my body still remembers fine,
sweaty and aroused with a throbbing
sensation down south of my equator.

Good morning life,
good night sweet love,
may you return tonight.

Return to my sleeping eyes
so my body may remember
just one more time.
 Aug 2016 Sarah Michelle
I have compared my love
to the lazy, the no good
and to crazy girls of the past,
to my first truck, to a spell,
a moth and a bottle, to the hell
bending moon, if you could tell,
and to a Captain - if not a ship,
and to ways you'll come to know
too soon, but I have never, ever
compared my love for you.
the Nth culling
she gentled sleeps besides the imperfect poet,
who has wandered the hallways since four am,

retuning his returning

to their temple bed,
to cull, pluck, her each precious breathing sound,
source material for his
love poem

smirking at his own
Nth foolishness,
weeping tears at the consequences
of human interactions,
he wonders,

why does he worry,
searching to distinguish
between the black and white of life,
hunting for meaningful words

when all the while
he has the vein of her breathing to mine,
as if he were a
following behind
the harvest reapers,
culling a bounty of
dropped grains,
fallen unto him to
garner, imbibe and memorize

those Nth breaths,

that last but seconds,
but here memorialized for
his own
all time
It's 2pm and it's pouring outside.
Mother Nature is singing of sorrow.
I am numb, for the most part.
Until that ache in my chest begins.
I've never felt anything like this before.
I can feel my heart being ripped in two.
After so many years we merged together.
So nicely you couldn't even see a seam.
Now we're parting ways and trying to find ourselves.
Trying to distinguish what part goes where and with who.
Trying to leave it how we found it.
Trying to figure out which parts are me and which parts are you.
And I guess I should feel free.
I should feel a weight being lifted.
I should be something...
But I am not.
I am invisible.
Hiding in the shadows.
Watching my life like a television screen.
Covering my eyes at the gory parts.
You won't see me anymore.
That piece is dead.
I'm sad to say, as much as I don't want it to be...this is the end.
And I'll write you one last goodbye one hundred times over.
I'll say I'm really letting go.
That it's easy.
That I'm fine.
But deep down I know I'm not.
if I thought I could keep you and be happy I would...
I did.
Many times.
But at some point you have to accept what is.
And it's not what it was anymore.
We're at our crossroad.
You in one vehicle and myself in the other.
I'm looking at you in the rear view mirror...
And I'm driving to a home I don't know.
Sometimes in April
When the rain pours
And makes mud of the earth.
I think of Brenda Fassie’s “Too Late For Mama”
Lingering on my sister’s vibrato
An attempt to forget that,
Once again,
A family member had lent us their back.
My three sisters and I huddled,
Under the night sky,
A mild prayer to keep us from shivering.
A ‘let us find the mercy of a couch”
But it rained hard.
We used our limbs as umbrellas.
Laughed loud and sloppily
To hide our shame

Sometimes in April.
I think about the wet ground
How it felt against our feet.
How poverty turned into homeless.
Into needy.
Into “don’t cry, we’ll be okay soon”
Into my mother being a beggar
And us, just open mouths.
Wrestling with the pitiless relatives
Who call us out of our shared last names.

I think
Haven’t we lost enough
Haven’t we known an empty hand
Haven’t we despaired enough.
No shelter to speak of
Just a song to keep us warm
And the rain does not care. (Neither do the people)
It comes.
In April.
 May 2016 Sarah Michelle
 May 2016 Sarah Michelle
I want to open up his chest and hide in his rib cage so I could hear his heartbeat all the time

He grows inside of me like lilies and now I feel a forest there.
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