In pink she skips through the grass
She laughs at the butterflies
She basks in the warm sunshine

In white she soars through the sky
She jumps with the summer sun
She runs with the winter winds

In black she walks through the dark
She cries with the midnight moon
She screams at the stars above

In red she rests in our hearts
She sits among the flowers
She stands among the mourning

If only you could see us
Together again for you
All of us in black and red

If only we could show you
How many people love you
All the lives you’ve touched and changed

If only I could call you
Tell you how much I miss you
Tell you how much I love you

You didn’t have to leave us
You didn’t have to do it
You didn’t have to give up

I’m begging you to come back
I’m begging you to stay here
I’m begging you to live

I’m sorry for all the pain
I’m sorry for all the loss
You deserved to have better

Living was hard, I know it was
I’m so proud of you for trying
I can’t wait to see you again


“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? But because I knew you, I’ve been changed for good.” -For Good, Wicked

I glance around the room eyes coming to rest blankly on the surfaces in which your essence hasn’t touched.
You’re everywhere, swirling around like a misting of mystery.
Mildew takes to the cracks of my foundation pressed for waterfalls adorned with your love - a fragment of Jupiter sprouting from antique headdress and residing softly amongst shelter of my lungs.
Mourning you is never pleasantly accepted
Forever yours, never again.
Repeating melodies crawling with June bugs and riot gear.

The war is inside us, suffer mentally into delusions.
Become the thighs of retributive policies.
Daybreak from heavens the angels are calling.
Fornicate brethren church on heathen property.
Exchange admiration for apology
Such simplistic words escape your mouth
While you critique the work I produced as heavens lost property.

Fallen archangel.
I am God’s *****.

©rhetoricalcuriosity

We sit around my aunts brown kitchen table
A scene we’ve done a thousand times before where I slinked unnoticed behind my hair until it was turn to recite my yearly accomplishments.
Back into the shadows.
This time is different.
This time my father is dead.
Suicide.
He went missing 24 hours before.
“Your fathers illness took him”
He was diagnosed with a neurological disease months prior.
We never spoke.
No it didn’t, my brain screamed.
Suicide.
I run to the kitchen in panic trying to find clonizapam which I almost never take cause I’m afraid of pills.
“What are you taking, doing drugs won’t numb your pain”.
He’s a cop, of course anxiety meds would be seen as “drug addiction”.
“I’m having a panic attack” I muster, angrily from the displaced shame.
I don’t take the pill out of spite and we don’t say anything on the 30 minute drive to his house.
I’m probably sheet white, I feel anxious.
I feel nothing.
I haven’t cried.
We had a terrible relationship, dad and I.
Terrible.
Suicide.
Hours pass.
Minutes?
I dunno, I’m dissociating into everyone’s grief.
Stop talking to me.
I don’t want to be here.  
So many unanswered questions, ones I still don’t know nearly a year later.
Silence and awkwardness.
I sit at the head of their table and avoid everyone’s eyes except my little brothers.
They’re all staring at me, finally paying attention to me after so long.
I hate it.
I want to disappear, their eyes like pathetic little daggers of sadness.
Why the **** am I here?
Someone mentions my tattoos.
Yeah.
I have tattoos.
Tattooed hands, and a dead father.
I only cry when my brother does.
Telling him it’s a suicide, a face I’ll never forget and my soul left behind at the death of his innocence.
Nothing left to protect.
Our father is dead.
6 days till the year death anniversary.
I don’t cry as much as I had after the veil finally shattered.
I’ve never known depression like that; though I was able to find myself after severe heartache.
A traumatized youth.
C-ptsd.
Pass me the join, I need to sleep.

We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist

Its headlines that read like this
“As Biden nears victory, worlds hopes
For end to American isolationism

It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie, rather than to surrender?

When the American truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views:  He pen is waiting
to announce the winner, (who would it be)

Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
But to a mad scientist: it says progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientists should be held responsible for his action.

As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as  the world  acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come

it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power: is that what we voted for?
is this what we are dying for? Is that most people dreams?

Trumps , Biden supporters face off in Detroit
Headlines like these make a poet pen trembles..

"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"
We are still waiting for the winner..