Square
Bland
Insubstantial
Brittle

with a kiss
sever the chords of my throat
play a melody while i choke
take my breath
somewhere far away
beneath your skin and your face

i feel 2018
the way we breathe
as our spines collapse
and fall beneath

and i pray
to no one
that you and i
will still be
after all

I cannot explain all the pathetic measures
my eyes will take to avoid your gaze,
all the paths my legs will journey to avoid bumping into you on my way home.
All the ways I knead my hands to the bone and all the toothpick excuses skewering my tongue.
And I cannot explain the way your presence deflates something inside my chest.
I don't know what to do with all that empty space. It echoes.
I fill it with the thimble's worth of pride that I scrape together,
every meager flake of validation I pick from the floor. I shovel slopping handfuls of sawdust
to try and soak up some of the shadows
but everything dissolves in that oily void, green and hideous.
God, it echoes, and everyone hears it.
I muffle it with my radio silence.
I look at you and I see everything I hate about myself
under a microscope.
Every blemish, every scar, every gaping hole
that you lack.
Stop, look. Here. Wrong.
Hear?
I blind myself with radio silence.
I don’t know how to live with an eternal reminder that I am incomplete.
You, and the place you hollowed without even knowing it.
Green and monstrous.
It echoes and everyone hears it.
I love you, but I cannot explain my radio silence.

I dare you.
I dare you to breathe.
I dare you to think.
Think about yourself.
Do something for yourself.
Because you have the rest of your life
to do things for everyone else.

Balloons will fly to Heaven
Every shade of purple for you
Candles will mark your memory
Yizkor will be attempted
365 days will have passed and like many the world has changed
Too many losses and not much gained
We have cried tears that we have not shown
Your children are married
Your grandchildren are married
You lived to see two great grand children
One you never got to hold
The other isn't even three years old
We will tell them stories and show them photographs
2020 broke hearts and minds
Somehow it doesn't want to leave us yet
We will get through this Tuesday
Just letting you know we miss you, Mom.

C@rainbowchaser2021

What is it about sad poems,
or poems about love,
which are often melancholic,
that I love so much,
well for a non-alcoholic,
I need an escape,
cause I sin,
and I bleed,
and it's always my fault,
but when I'm writing,
my pen bleeds,
and these lines don't judge,
the page has no choice,
but to love me,
why would I come here when I'm happy,
no need to comfort someone with a smile.

Is my car really that good on gas?
I mean think about it...
And, what's that spltoch on the ceiling that's been here since I moved in a decade ago, and is now starting to look like a gigantic two-headed cherub? What is that brownish stain actually made of?
I mean think about it...
And, is Philip Michael Thomas still alive?
I mean think about it...

Mind blowing