I'm not the first survivor,
Just yours

Don't revive me,
Let me be

Your adoring pitiful pitiable survivor,
I'm not the first to be left behind,
Not the first displaced by ego

I've accepted my cessation,
A long lost love that once was perfection,
Soiled by your foolish ignorant indiscretions
Beaten by your cowardice, conniving, ache and craving.

I once tasted your good nature,
Drank in your laughter and longing,
But now I rest,
Deposited,
Worn out by over a decade of cardiopulmonary resuscitation

Don't trade my peace for your conscience
Reviving a love that should have died a decade ago,
Along with my ego

Don't revive me,
Just let me be

I'm not the first survivor.
Just yours

He looked for the gun but couldn't find it
Frenzied angry,
Emotionally wrecked
Desperate to get his hands on a trigger,
Cold familiar handle and feel
He missed the days of passive purpose,
A father's love felt from wars gaze
His thoughts fixed
One shell to end the arguments forever
Inside his head,
Inside his bed,
Inside the lead
But he looked for the gun and couldn't find it.

A deep breath escapes his sinking ribs,
A quiet captivating abandon
Under a crisp cool cloak,
His deep veined arm stretches over my shoulder
Wrapping my figure,
An inert force flexed under my cupped palm
Effortlessly pulling and pinning me,
His assets kept safe under silent supervision.

All my journals disintegrate to poetry
I begin a rant,
One point, two points,
Three in my head
Happy, angry, silly or sad
Rhetoric fully planned,
This happened, then that,
But soon, I begin uniting the words,
Sentences connected in meter and time
I'm lost in rhyme, pentameter, prose
Sublime
Lines flowing,
My mind rolling,
Memory erasing
Lost in something,
Distracted by creativity,
Fulfilled by a need that's in me,
Drained of the pent-up energy
Satisfied, sated and understood by the page.

In the grass,
At my knees
Between my legs
In spite of protest
At his desk,
Beside my waist,
In their closet
Against the wall,
By the pool,
In his __
At the game,
Beside his in-laws
Beneath the table
Next to his wife,
Near his son,
On his knees,
On my car,
With absolute disregard,
With complete abandon,
With brazen enthusiasm,
With unabashed passion,
Without limitation,
Without reservation,
Without a yes
He begged me.

My mother grew up poor and strong,
Wild and kind,
Unsteady and prime.
Black curls and brick house,
Stealing for her supper.

My mother can push and fight,
Claw and brawl,
My mother is a warrior in lamb's clothing.

She stands upon walls,
Falls,
then finds her footing.
Because my mother is a warrior in lamb's clothing.

At times she's insecure and unsure,
Unknowing that
My mother is a warrior in lamb's clothing.

She pushes, bows, cares and bares,
She can endure all things, conquer all things and renew all things,
For my mother is a warrior in lamb's clothing

Kissing, you
Pressing, you
Every day, I come home to something right and true
A life, + you