she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell

simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs

and so it is -  the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas

the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-

and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below

- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-

leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go

the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...

i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -

- autumn, you know?

r ~ 10/6/14

Don’t tell me being numb
hurts less than a scar.
Don’t tell me feeling nothing
hurts less than a bruise.

After a while nothing
is, but not caring
turns to more pain
than you can imagine.

The only reason not to feel
is because of pain.
I’m told to feel nothing
because words don’t hurt.

Words hurt more than anything
the names I was called
changed who I was
and still hurt now.

You may say it once
but I repeat it.
over and over
until I believe it.

It turns to reality
my whole life story
'till it’s all I see
when I think of me.

And you can say it’s me
who picks up that knife
to hurt myself
but it’s not my fault.

It’s your words
that lift that knife.
And it’s your words
that put it in my arm.

And it’s your words
that I repeat
as I search for death
in everything.

It’s your words
that make me hate me.
And it’s your words
that made me this way.

Your words
take the form of a knife.
The knife that hurts me,
The knife I now need.

And I stand here
wondering how
you could possibly
not know.

Am I really that good
at pretending I’m fine?
that the words you’re saying
aren’t cuts in my arm?

Or is it just
that you don’t care?
That I’m really a no one,
just like you said?

Because to myself
I’m just your insults.
I’m just what you call me,
a person to hate.

All I am is your cruel words.

Every time  I close my eyes you always come to mind
I try so hard to not think of you
I try over and over but i cant break loose from you
I m not saying that i think of you constantly, but i just cant deny the fact  that
every time my  mind wonders it always finds a way right back to you  
You are the first thing on my mind when i wake up and the last thing   when i go to sleep
I think of you every time I close my eyes I dont know what it is about you that makes me feel the way I do
Why am I stuck on you why cant i break free why

You, get out of my way!
Let me drive further!
Summer is gone, it's already May.
Don't drive me to ******
Life is too short
To waste time
With people of your sort.
This life is mine.
I want to live it now.

so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"