Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

The heat intensifies with my lonesome tendencies, and
I fear palpitation from innocently brushing arms with a stranger.
But when I find myself in a stranger’s bed
(or a wineshop,
a car,
a park)
the thrill is missing.
I am a stereotype, a masochistic statistic. I am becoming the 20-something-sleeping-around-to-stave-off-boredom.
I am an archetype that’s been romanticized to death.
Save the romance, it’s greed and it’s hunger and it’s pure boredom.
These men become gold. Thread after thread
of secret affairs solidify into a piece of treasure,
Like 14 karat chain necklaces that get tangled
into an unfixable knot of links and claw clasps.
I carry it in my strut and that is exciting.
My walk is confidently direct at 3 in the morning.
In the summer, when the heat is outside and not in my bed, I am unsatisfied.
Yet when the promise of romance approaches, I allow myself to make poor decisions out of fear.
So I make a different poor decision to get me through the next hour.

As swarm of aggressive multi-coloured ants,
Evening traffic charms the highway,
Eerie tree shadows haunt the carriageway at three o'clock,
Shadows will reconfigure and extend as time passes through the sundial of my trip,
This burning night, on the way to smoky city,
Inflames the melting tyres, smoking as if sticky molten caramel,
Bathes highway with red hot haze,
I jump as air conditioning, kicks in,
Conning me my journey's nearly done,
In the heat of the evening sun,
Wakes me from my slumbers doze,
Traffic slows through rush hour jams,
Dances,weaving lane to lane,
Through rush hour congestion's indigestion!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

They took me away from it all..
Made me start over
Took me to the hospital again and called me "Crazy"
Told me to take my medication
Told me to sleep without any worries
Told me that everything was going to be okay, if I **** my... pills
Forced me into therapy
Made me talk about my "Problems"
P r e t e n d e d ..
Like I was going to get better
Or at least humored it
Now I sit alone
Like usual
I told you I needed you..
That
I needed a place to stay
S o m e o n e
S o m e t h I n g..
But no..
You told me you had to much "Anxiety"
That I needed to "figure things out"
That you wouldn't "let me in your door" if I ran to you
Because I needed you..?..
Who says that, when someone needs them?
What kind of a person..
And then you go and write a poem about me the same me you wouldn't even open your door for..
I mean seriously can I not... trust anyone..
And I love how after all of this I'm still considered the "Crazy one"
After what you did
Did you even take the time.?.
Did you know that I was going to **** myself?
Maybe you did..
But you still wouldn't open your door
You
Didn't listen...
And now..
Now..
Well, I think I'm going "Crazy"..

When you say insomnia,
people think you’ve had too much caffeine.
That it’s something you’ve eaten that day.
That maybe you’re just a little stressed.
Those people do not have insomnia.
Insomnia rolls off the tongue.
It is a noun.
It is four vowels and five consonance.
It is staring at your ceiling at
four o’clock in the morning praying
to God that maybe you’ll sleep tonight.
Insomnia is knowing ahead of time
that you aren’t going to sleep tonight.
It is drinking four cups of coffee at 1:30
in the morning because your eyelids
are so heavy they feel like anvils
are holding them down.
It is seeing shapes and figures in the dark
that aren’t there.
Insomnia is dying a little inside
every time you see the sunrise.
It is watching the moon reach it’s pinnacle
and sink beneath the earth.
Insomnia is your mind working at the speed of light
and taking sixty years.

Insomnia is running a triathlon without training.
It is wondering how long your body
can take the stress before folding in on itself.
It is wondering what the hell is wrong with you
that you can’t function like a normal person.
Insomnia is taking pills that almost make
your waking nightmares look like children’s play
compared to your sleeping nightmares.
Insomnia is having waking nightmares.
It isn’t the inability to focus.
It isn’t easily fixed.
It isn’t something you deal with.
It isn’t caffeine or something you ate.
Insomnia isn’t just a noun.
It’s a disease.

~

Crimson clover round the bend
Parted of a sorrowed tool
Planting phrase on what is said
Who now stands the empty fool

In this garden, sheer delight
Wilted from the summer heat
Fenced in by a stone of white
Destined to be incomplete

Oh the beauty it hath lost
When your eyes did cast away
Counting change amidst the cost
Of this bloom now gone astray

On this bench of marble form
Headless statues bid adieu
I shall sit her in the storm
Clinging to the thought of you

For this rain shall find my weep
Fills the puddles of despair
Deep within their hollows keep
Nothing less that I’m aware

Loneliness, this garden seed
Found of hedges twist and turn
Taken from the soiled need
Am I ever soon to learn

Here behind an iron gate
Draped in vines so long now dead
Brittle touches prove too late
Of the love my heart has bled

As the sun does set the field
Now as darkness comes to play
Time I find my fate is sealed
Lonely gardens I will stay

Promise Yourself

To be so strong that nothing
can disturb your peace of mind.
To talk health, happiness, and prosperity
to every person you meet.

To make all your friends feel
that there is something in them
To look at the sunny side of everything
and make your optimism come true.

To think only the best, to work only for the best,
and to expect only the best.
To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others
as you are about your own.

To forget the mistakes of the past
and press on to the greater achievements of the future.
To wear a cheerful countenance at all times
and give every living creature you meet a smile.

To give so much time to the improvement of yourself
that you have no time to criticize others.
To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear,
and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.

To think well of yourself and to proclaim this fact to the world,
not in loud words but great deeds.
To live in faith that the whole world is on your side
so long as you are true to the best that is in you.