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Why is it
That I am at my most creative
When I am in the most pain
That I produce as I labour over the emotional debt I've been building up for one too many years.
That is unfair.
Why is it that
All these tortured teenage girls
Cannot sleep
Cannot eat
Cannot drink
But can choke
Choke on the pain like they choke on the ***** they will become addicted to
Cough up their lungs because of the drugs their parents told them not to take
Shudder as their legs are pried open by fingers that do not belong
Fingers that are attached to those you thought that you could trust
Cry, in the shower
So nobody can hear you
See you
Feel you
Taste you
Breathe you.
Build it up and up and up
And you are untouchable
Nobody can tell you
It'll all be okay
Because it is not and never will be.
The anti depressants you were prescribed can numb the pain
But not eliminate it
It will always buzz on the back of your brain
Like a bee flying into the cold glass of a window
Again and again.
You are trapped.
"Don't buy me pretty presents. Write a poem for me instead."
But nothing whispered in my ear, so out I went to clear my head,
Considering words to write her.

I found a mug from her alma mater, bound it in air wrapping,
A gift of love that might hold water, coffee (weak), or Christmas seasoning:
A cup of love and note of cheer.

So, Mother, Dear, this Birthday poem's for you, but just in part,
A poetic message from your Minnesota crew, to cheer you as you start
With vim and vigor, ninety years!

Love Always,

Don and Melody
Amazing woman, my mother.
she encourages me to draw the curtains
i'm on her couch for an hour or so
explaining to me that, "all men aren't serpents."
even if he's slithered in my bed... around my throat

reminds me, "isolation is a birdcage
he'll never know you if you're ruffled and shy"
yet, i cannot find the courage to engage
my craving for adventure is... out of supply

she listens to stubborn reasoning and woe
allows me to sit in unanswered silence
she's heartening every wednesday even though
my distaste for growth is shown through defiance
For myself

It's been a while. Growing is hard. Opening myself up is even harder.
He was five or six when he first challenged her
To play a game of checkers.
Fresh-faced and eager from battles with friends,
Young master of jumping and double-jumping,
Connoisseur of cornering and kinging.
Ready to wreak havoc on his grandmother,
A simple farm wife, unskilled in the battle of the board.

He didn't contemplate that the checker set
In the old farm house was hers....

Their battles raged,
Sometimes every day,
With, "Want to play again?"
His constant question.

I would watch her lose,
Seeing what my little boy,
The often conqueror,
Could not see in victorious glee.

Twenty-five years later,
We sit again at the old farm table,
And the two are pitted in their checkers game;
The same, but wearied box waiting
While the battle rages on the old scarred board.

Her hand, uncertain, moves the pieces slowly
As though she is off somewhere thinking,
And he, now patient, waits in a treasured time,
For her to contemplate and make her moves.

He is twenty-nine, and she is eighty-nine,
And though the opportunities rise,
Through my misty eyes,
I see my son, pulling punches.
Braden and my Mother, in their annual summer games....
Incessant, nervous breeze,
Gray mornings scudding in,
Branches, stark and thin,

Rain and flurried snow
Blended now, as if they didn't know
Which way the sky must go,
Warming now, but slow.

Bleak skies and weathered land
Beaten colorless by Winter's hand
Seem silent in these days of gray,
But I know fair Spring will have her say.

A neighbor rang, reporting her first robin;
Two trumpeters flew north without stopping,
And geese stand waiting on the icy pond,
Rememb'ring open water just beyond.

This is the time when old ones sigh,
Wondering will winter ever die?
And some decide that it is best
To turn toward eternal rest.

So left my friend this early spring
Before he heard the robins sing,
And I remain to live the winter out alone,
Awaiting green and coveting bird song.
RIP, Fred Arndt
When she looks you up and down
Like the men you cross paths with on the street
Do not cast your eyes to the floor
Stand tall; despite the heat

When your mother tells you to keep your tiny jeans
In hopes of shedding weight like snakeskin
Cut the denim in strips
And place it all around her kitchen

When she throws your baked goods away
And replaces them with everything sugar-free
Send dozens of cupcakes to her doorstep
Then proceed to eat as a hyperbole

When your mother purchases running shoes and sports bras
Walk around the house in your under-things
Lounge in the bathtub with a bear claw
Do not let her control your way of being
For myself

"Well, if it's too small, you can keep it for when you lose some weight."

Recovery is hard. You make it ten times harder.
 Feb 2016 Molly Anna Sartor
for we,
the broken,
it is a gift
to share our laughter,
but, love,
it is a much greater gift
to share our tears,
to expose our sadness,
to make vulnerable
the darkest
the dustiest
corners of our minds,
the places where
we sit
and think
and stay
the places that
are our homes
My car rumbled
Outside your house
Last night

Searching for
The bedroom light
Through your curtain

Knowing your car
Was cold behind
The garage door

Unsure of why
I decided
To drop by

Perhaps I believed
You would feel me
Looking in

Maybe I thought
You were merely a dream

Wondering if we
Really continued
To live separate lives

I was back
In Bloomington
Last night

Loudly playing
Your favorite
Rock rhyme

Swore I could smell
Your e-cig
From the driver's side

Maybe I stopped by
To beckon you

Thinking I was
A siren
Able to lure you

Perhaps I accomplished
Whatever I
Set out to

Sang my
Sweet song
Led you to doom

But I don't think my call
Seeped through
Your bedroom walls

Either I
Was too quiet
Or you were
For NM

"My life is moving forward in the right direction and I can't be more happy."

You'll regret your selfishness.
I had a scrapbook deep and thick
I read it in the night
I burned the candle to the wick
A precarious light

In it there were photographs
And clippings by the score
Of every wrong and every shaft
That'd pierced me to the core

I kept my quill at my right hand
And in the margins wrote
My hourglass had lost its sand
My eyes began to float

This book was worn with constant care
The dogeared pages bent
I was constantly to share
Of those I did resent

Time came 'round to find me sick
Ailing from the frost
Of a cold poison dark and thick
I knew that all was lost

I bent closer, smelt the book
It was the book itself!
I'd recover, all it took
Was to place it on the shelf!

And so the scrapbook lost allure
I closed it with a snap
The health of soul I then assured
I placed on pen its cap

Close your books, my dearest friends
And in the end you'll see
Your spiritual health you will amend

You'll finally be FREE!

I went to a small prayer meeting yesterday.
I told them of my pain and angst
due to unforgiveness I my heart.
They told me of the analogy above.
They used just this metaphor.
You don't FEEL forgiveness.
And when unforgiving thoughts come back


I have found praying for enemies the
Single greatest tool to forgiveness.

Remember, you aren't doing it

I help everyone,
I'm always there when they need a friend,
When they need to talk to me,
Just me
Because I'm the one who listens.

I know all of their stories,
I know what everyone's going through,
I know what makes them sad,
And I know what makes them...

I'm there when they're crying,
I'm there when they're happy,
I'm there when they don't even need me,
And I'm still there
Even when they're gone.

I know my friends
Better than I know myself,
And I can read their thoughts,
Their emotions,
I know exactly what they need.

But, ah, alas,
Nobody knows a thing about me.
They say they do,
Do they?

They only know what I've told them,
They only know what I pretend,
They've only met
The happy side
Of me.

When I'm crying
I run to nobody.
I stay and deal with it myself
They don't need to know
That their protector is breaking.

They don't know that I have heaps
And weights pushing down,
Things that are threatening to **** me,
To drain every ounce
Of my happiness.

I fight on for them,
I smile so they don't have to know
What I go through.
I smile so that way
They do too.

When I'm crying, yes,
I type happy thoughts.
Behind an Internet screen,
Nobody knows,
Yes... nobody knows.
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