I hope you're doing fine
I hope you're doing well
I crave you all the time
but I try not to dwell.

I'm not in love with you
And you're not the one for me
But I hope you crave me too
So the thoughts feel less lonely.

Insidious doors that close linoleum floors keep the secrets of the man hidden from the poor.
It's a shame the way he makes me work for more.
Fear is the weapon of our enemies and allies.
Crying wolves, crying wolf while slaying dear.
Maybe we are better off this way.
On blue moons, our eyes turn red and we say we are done and won't take it again.
Force fed, force shaved, forced to listen and forced to behave.
It's a shame the way he makes me feel depraved.
I shout, scream, stand up and get mad.
Tear apart the room without saying a word.
***** you, you aren't my Dad.

Have my cake and eat it too?
**** me off under the table while the social network takes a stab. I don't care. F%&K; the media's news.
I see the headlines spelled a million different ways, but you are still the one that has to sleep at night, knowing you nurtured a nation that reaped and *****.

The innocent, the young, the scared, the hopeful, the dreamers, the soldiers, the vagabonds, the artists, the entertainers, the founders, the church-goers, the fishermen, the students, the Samaritans, the stay at home mothers, the policemen, the American man. His soul and the spirit they tried to preserve.
Lied to and tapped, again and again.
It's a shame the way he makes me give and take.
Inside us, inside the US.
Without asking.

The new dawn is breaking
into our home, into our room
through our window to take you
away, to take you away from me again,
to package you up in a suit and tie.
The light is invading our space
illuminating your scruffy morning face
that I won’t see again for a little while.

I pretend that if I ask you to stay,
to stay for me, to stay with me here,
here where the smoothly flowing cold sea
of sheets between my fingers fail to fill
the spaces the way your warm hands do,
that you’ll assure me that you won’t be gone
for too long, that we’ll be together again soon,
that everything will be fine, right before you pull
your body away from me and let go of my hand
because I do not, will not let go of my own accord.

Spring has come and gone
     Summer's heat is a memory

Fall brings cool winds
     Winter's not far away



©Tina Thompson

Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall.
You look up and see
an arched, hollow window
gaping like a moaning train tunnel,
darker inside than the moonless sky.

Shivering and enveloped in the autumn air
that pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn
your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved
on this chilly, moonless autumn night,
the impending fog before you thickens.
The last touch of an almost starry sky
disappears behind the rolling black clouds.

Grab my fingers, and
Lace them in between the space
Between each of yours.

The bottom of my dress
ballooning out,
like a doily on the dance floor.

Feeling like a princess
As I held Mommy’s hand.

Twirling me all around,
Like a ballerina let out of
Her jewelry box.

My greatest dance partner,
To the best drummer in the band.

You make me hurt inside.
This kind of hurt that steals my breath and upsets my stomach.
This hurt is so big that I often wonder how it fits inside my body. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much, because it’s too much, because it’s tearing out of my guts.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you hate I hate you hate hate hate hate hate hate.
I want to not know you, I want to forget you, I want to never hear of or even think of your existence again as long as I breathe.
It comes in massive explosions, this hurt.
A landmine in my body, it goes off when you touch my thoughts.
Twisting, searing, high-pitched hurt.
I want to be left alone.
Please please please please please please
Just leave me alone.

I got a call before the news even knew.
Frozen cold sweat and fear.
I stood at my desk able to do nothing.
I watched in horror at the live feed on my computer screen as I knew what she was going through.
She was there, and I wasn't. I couldn't.
I watched helpless in horror as the people scattered from the glass that was shattered.
I could do nothing but pray.
To watch people die is not a vicarious way I would want to ever live.
She tried her best to finish, but the race ended, even though she gave all she could give.

I need to watch this to get out of self.
Why must they die so we can see why?

You feel the same as I do.
Don't deny.

Ever wonder whats behind you...?
That scratch, that itch, that feeling that tells you there is more?
That there is something we're missing?
The emotion that makes us push towards something we know we should be doing?
We never know what it is, but it is always there, in every human being.
Is it the "I need more."?
Is it soul?
I could never tell, and I will never know.
Just move for it, wish for it, strive for it, try for it, drive toward it.
GO.

The Garden gives & takes, & I give to & take from the Garden. I was hungry, it gave me fruit. I would only eat it if I agreed to share it. I was thirsty so I drank the water. In return, I gave my life and now I thirst no more. A boy was in the Garden. He believed I was made from his rib, but he was not Adam & I am not Eve. He was inflicted by poison, & I gave everything I could to help him, but I wasn't a cure. I tried to share the fruit, but he refused to take it. One day, something in me had changed. I realized I had lost something important. What was once essential & something that I could do, I could no longer do. I left the Garden for a while, thinking the boy would stay there. I had hoped to never return unless the boy was gone. In my absence, the Garden still gave. I packed some fruit in a sack, & poured water in a bottle, thinking I would get by. Eventually, I knew I would have to go back. I knew I was meant to be there. I had been gone for so long. I've become numb. I came back hoping to see blossomed flowers , to feel the wind blowing, to feel any sort of sensation or awe. The Garden was just as beautiful upon my return as it was before. The boy was finally gone. I knew he wouldn't wait there forever, but now I feel nothing. The tools used to decipher emotions had become corrupt as a result of my heart's malfunction. I either can't feel anything, or I refuse to. I feel as though I have become a machine with no feeling. I sometimes doubt I ever will feel again. In times like these, I go to the Garden. The Garden's fruit gives me energy. The water heals my wounds. I still feel numb, but my life is still indebted to the Garden, & I will continue to press on.