He was my light on the darkest night
My love from up above
My reason to wake up in the morning
He made my world rotate on its axis
His moods the seasons of the Earth.
He was my world.

a y e a r
Improptu
As sincerely as possible He says
"Elizabeth, I'm glad I'm with you.
Happy anniversary,"
With eyes like melted chocolate

m o n t h s  g o  b y
Inch by inch,
He inched away
Withdrawing from my world
Like a terminal patient
I clung onto my God
Believed He could see my pain
What He was doing to me
He would stop!
All would be well!

My World became so cold as He withdrew
The chills
The silence
The unending tears
He became bare
To any ornament of grace I have ever known
He imploded
And I was the collateral damage

Confusion wracked my mind for weeks
Which turned into months
Which morphed to anger and resent
How was this caring?
I put in all my faith and I was let down

This is why I'm not religious.

A cat and a ball of yarn
Three women knit pretentiously
In a rain-lit corner
Beautiful they weave stories
Within the rugs of old
Then there is I
In the other corner
Attempting to piece together
Bits of my own sanity
Only to find the thread wants nothing to do
With the needle
I cry
Oh I cry
But it changes naught
The thread is free from the needle
And I am the pin cushion.

Home at home
Home at last
Words come to fruition
In the fire's blast.

I have been gone
Too many years
Expired thought
My poetic mind
But alas,
True iron wrought

My pain dribbled
Syncope drawn
To the fain of a loving heart
Gone

So, joy!
I'm here again.
Words prove to be
My longest friend.

I am seeing now what I didn't see before
You forever disfigured me
You made me question if this boy,
Who has supposedly been in love with me
Since the day he met me,
Loves me.
Do you realize how much power that takes?
Power it takes to shred up every bit of me and even when I carefully braid my strands back together to make any sort of good rope,
It's still not good enough to make a basket
Not sturdy, not solid
All the insecurities still slip through
Thanks for that
Now I don't trust any boy

Flowers bless
Corpses solely in anguish
For a next life not

Echoes ring through my head
Making it ache
Ghosts and ghouls and poltergeists
Appear from nowhere

It's all in my head
It's all in my mind
That's why I can't bear sleep tonight

Echoes play over like movies
Sight, touch, taste, sounds, smells, emotions
On replay
You wonder why my head aches

It won't go away
The ache
Someone take the knife out of my bleeding love
Please
I'm done
But the echoes play on and on

Save me

A notebook I've found
On my adventures as a journalist
Drew out my heart on the string
Of a tug-along toy.

This notebook was not one of the written word,
But of fantasy and fable,
Drawings of a forgotten child.

The boy--or girl, I could't really tell
Loved to think of Sunday meadows,
The stars of a winter's midnight
Pictures of bright spring daffodils lacing
The charm of a blank page.

As the notebook went along,
the child got older and in the sweet meadows,
children started to appear,
one by one.
In the must of the dusty room in this ancient house,
I imagined children dancing upon
The sunlight of eternity.

In the back of the house
Lay a cemetery
Stone mantelpieces subtly naming
The children in the pictures.

And at the end of the row,
An unmarked grave.
Tears filling my eyes as I flipped to the last used page of the notebook,
There was written:
"Crimson paint, the alley red, all is done and lost."


This is the tale
And the cost
Of the Doodles of a Forgotten Child.