Take your concerns, sweet mother
weave them with your hatred,
your bitter contempt of youth
Take your forced confessions
like poison from my Judas tongue
while you sigh in eager disappointment
at the damage done long before.

I was not made in your image
this was not my crime to answer
I was the cuckoo in the nest
a child of a wayward child, 
given in hope of more
in many ways gaining less

Affection in monetary value
a room full of treasures
to hide my empty heart
loveless and longing
for a connection with something other than your stinging palm

My rebellion, taken in personal tones
was against my existence, not yours
Unwanted, unloveable girl
my constant internal monologue
screaming above the screamers
that made my speakers bleed.

my need for you has not diminished
nor will my love for you fade
there is no understanding
for the misunderstood it seems
we remain locked in battle
bathed in tears, questioning love
your scars deep, my gratitude deeper.

Come every morning you're up with the sun
with hundreds of questions before breakfasts done
like what is a rainbow and where is the dark?
what's that? and why's? can we go to the park?
the beach? the woods? as I sit here and dream
must we have cereal? I want ice cream!
You sit at the table, eyes wide, mine half shut
and chat to the cat about dinosaur stuff
how you like pterodactyls but school, not so much
you rummage through cereal in hope of a toy
one way to amuse such a curious boy
the cat swipes  the box, makes it fall to the floor
"there goes our breakfast!" as sweet laughter roars
you slurp at your juice as I sip at my tea
so it's ice cream for breakfast for you and for me.

The song took flight on whispered breeze
and fled the warmth of nest and home
infusing dusk with sorrow sweet
to soothe the village down below

swift passed the pious mourners now
that weep where beauty lays 
near crumbling stones of pitied souls
in decadent decay 

Onwards it soars o'er sideways streets
clean steps in tidy rows
dark windows lit with single glint
locked doors show no remorse

the melody it rests awhile
then builds again reborn
no joy is found
where sadness blooms, for she is here no more 

but death he will not linger here
his reaping swiftly spent
and in his wake on whispered breeze
the nightingales lament.

~

Sad Existence


It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings in an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the league's average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their own dreams

You,
(Like the ink on my skin)
Are indelible.

Take me home on broken bones
tiny steps o'er jagged stones
lift your star filled eyes to mine
breathe me in and drink my wine
sip it from my broken cup
as burning yearning lifts me up
to shake within your calloused hands
and scream your name at loves command.

She is gone
yet here I linger
within this cruel twist of fate
watching boy become man
alone.