Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd. He nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence. But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
Mothers day, to me is just, another memory, gone to waste.*
A day to stop and pause and remember a lost cause, only to move on, again.
Because to me, mothers day is "my mother left me" day, so, not a joyous occasion.
And try as I may, to hear the words, "but another is near" it's just not the same.
Because while I found another home, my heart still tends to roam, to other places.
And my thoughts just can't forget about the life that I didn't get, no matter how bleak.
But still I try to push past, and make the smile last, even if it's fake.
Because I know that someone loves me, even if she did not birth me, and now I call Her *Mom.
Mother's day isn't happy for everyone. It's hard remembering that I have another mom out there that gave me up but as any good poet I try to convey this frustration to all of you. Thank you all so much for the support. Love you guys! Smile.
A fire raged in the darkness that resembled a postcard sent from hell It was destroying the once beautiful vision that was the old town Carousel Large striking white horses that in the past stood like angels in the night Were all now fiercely burning as they cast an eerie sight The smell of the charred wood and the plume of ash in the air Left a tearjerking memory to the workers on the fair A disturbing insight into mindlessness certain people possess The flames rose in the air caused by those who couldn’t care less Blistering heat was getting stronger with every hour that past The sounds of loud sirens finally filled the air at last Gone was the wonderful paintwork resembling times gone by Now there were black patches that made the ancients cry What now for the old Carousel? With so many stories yet to tell
I heard about them 'bout your cries 'bout your weepings and your tears
I've heard about them bumping into everything on the sleek narrow bridge on the frail dock by the bay on the gutter when it rains
I've heard about these muffled screams below the sheets and silent sobs beneath the moonlight and the pitch black darkness of tonight
I've heard about you, too walking through the sharpest stones limping through the darkest shores drowning yourself in deepest points of misery
As I step up close to them on those gloomy sights of yours and let myself be lost in the agony of the tune that you keep humming through the doors, I felt the worst
There, in that very moment, I've heard just one solo cry One so devastating One so heartbreaking And in that one moment I know just the reason —and that reason is me.
I know. I am. And will be. The reason why your heart breaks. And I'm sorry for that.