Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I am clinging to you like a steady rain into my palms,
On my knees, in the damp ground,
Putting my entire soul into the act of
Never dropping our love
Never letting it fall like something that is not treasured
Beyond all measure.

Your touch cascades across my face like
Rain in August, when it is
Still warm, and honest, and true
And we are bathing in a storm that is immeasurably beautiful,
Exceeding words, exceeding all of our attempts to define;
To contain it.

Our love rushes like a torrent of wild rivers to the sea
And we are blind to its source and where
it leads,
So, I am here grasping at water as it seeps through my hands,
Trying to control that which I never can.

I don’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose you.

These doctors come and go
And the testing was good and did not show the worst
Malignancies,
And if we monitor and test and treat
and treat and monitor and test,
I may never have to watch you
Fight for your life in a
Hospital bed.

And yet, as I sit in each, cold waiting room
I know
There is only so much we can do to break the flow
Of the rain,
When the skies open up and say,
It’s time to go.

Still, I will hit my knees in the flooding ground,
Arms locked tight around your neck,
And I will tell them, firmly, and without end:

No!
No!
No!

.
I will fight forever for my husband. Fight for his health, his well being. Fight against a system that wants to brush people off. Fight for diagnosis and treatment. Fight against time. A losing battle for all of us. It becomes more real when a loved one has a major medical issue, but I will never give up. In sickness and in health. I will be steadfast through all of it. Wesley, I love you more than every star in the sky.
He cried, “Out!”

(In the darkest corner of a small wooden landing at the top of the steps to the fenced back yard of a rented home currently occupied by a trio of underpaid shift workers whom, as a kindness and in response to the predicted overnight cold snap, have taken into their foster care a destitute stray, a man of roughly 40 clearly hard worn years kneels doubled over and wailing mournfully to himself, his head tucked in and down toward his chest in an undeniably penitent posture similar to the pious prayer of those who heed the daily call, and face Mecca. Apropos of nothing, he just so happens to be faced to Mecca at this moment. This is, however, purely coincidental, as our pitiful subject here is not a man of clothe, nor one of great or even minor faith, much less a man of daily prayer or mindful meditation. Quite In contrast, He is a drinker and a drifter; drug-addicted, disaffected, dissatisfied, and dismayed. Yet he is also a dreamer of the highest order, completely convinced of the attainability of a singular salvation of creative elucidation, a dream he has been chasing unrelentingly for more than 20  years; and which he has just this very evening seen how truly attainable it is. Merely moments ago, In a vision of clarity which came over him unwittingly, and uninitiated by anything within his purview, our vagrant interloper has seen a crystallization of artistic inspiration which envisioned all the interconnections within his disjointed philosophical treatises, which he has spent the better part of three decades  composing, and in that moment he was overtaken by the sudden uninhibitable need to bleed the pressure wellingup inside his chest and his lungs began to squeeze. The noise they made directed itself toward the realm of sorrow. It is a wail of a desperation; not unlike one you might hear from fathers who’s lost there cherished sons, from lovers who’ve lost their lovers, and from children having a tantrum who need to eat and then to sleep, but refuse. He was at that moment all of these things in essence; a man rejected and alone, beset by turmoil of his own making, and both exhausted and famished; but his noise came joyfully, as it was the expression of something deep within him which he had recently freed; and so no effort was made to sequester or quiet the cries that he now seethes. It is simply the gasp and exhalation of soul which desperately needed to breathe.)

A soft wail arises quietly from silence to an open mouth, a single note, unbroken and controlled as much as one can control such a sound. From this beginning after a moment, almost a minute but something less, if you were to count; the wail completes with a sharp cutoff instead off dying back down. It ends, from an open mouth to clenched teeth and the tongue cutting off the sound. It makes a word but he did not consciously say it; it’s just the only word that could come…

Out.

GET OUT!
GET OUT OF ME!
Go the **** away!
I do not need you
I do not want you
I will not hold you
You have to leave
There is no place for you in here any more
Get. Out.
Get out.

GET THE **** OUT OF ME!

PLEASE!

(As he spits these curses and pleads, something moves deep with in him. he convulses and every muscle in him begins to squeeze and he feels as if he’s imploding and but his eyes are about to explode out, and in this seizing state, he feels the expelled energy escape, physically, through the center of his mind and forehead, like a boiler valve exploding with steam in a movie. It goes out and up and away and silently it leaves. A calm settles over the whole scene as he stills his body, still convulsing, and then he sees swirling among the phosphors on the back of his eyelids, where it burns an impression when one stares at bright light too long, something coalesce: an impression of an Iris, pulsing and folding into itself but without edge, as if his minds eye were right in front of him. He stays there penitent and quiet and keeps his eyes closed, in order not to lose it, because whatever it is he needs to know it; what ever it is, he cannot deny he sees it. He stays perfectly still while it’s centered in his vision, as if it were a wild animal he intended not to scare away, and silently he studies it and stares and considers what has just opened in his vision and what, preceding that, had thusly broken away. Slowly realization comes, as it’s elemental name is spoken silently from behind,
         “I am the one who sees,
            I am that which drives
         I am you, and you are me
                 We are together,
                   A single being
                         but You
                  are part of me”

and upon the realization solidifying, without hesitation he addresses it, directly and in a docile tone…

I see you
I see you there
staring back at me

I know who you are
I know you are me

It’s good to see you
I’ve missed you
Where did you go?

He lifts his head just a little, just so he’s holding it with his neck, it’s the first movement he has made beyond the minimum necessary to say the words he had to say and to expand and contract his lungs enough to breath. As he opens his eyes, the vision persists and he’s now staring at it outside of him, nestled into his unknowingly cupped and folded hands, like one would make to receive the sacrament of communion, which is ironic yet somehow perfect for this experience is the only religious thing he’s ever felt or known or seen. Now, with eyes open it looks to be an orb of energy without a glow, and he folds his hands closed around it as if to hold it, and he stands up with eyes closed; as yet unwilling to lose the vision and let it go. He turns slightly to the north, away from the darkness he had hidden in before and opens his eyes hopefully for the first time in ages.

He stares distantly into the foliage of a few scattered trees that occupy a greenway next to a drainage ditch called “flood street” to the people
that know, and in those last late autumn leaves still hanging on with incredulity, he sees the inner eye again, still staring back at him, and in that moment he already knows- it’s not going go, it is part of his mind, which now he’s opened it will be ever-present, even if unseen. He shifts his gaze over to the corner of a house not too far away and again he sees it shimmering, superimposed. It’s not external it is like a lens through which he sees now, and he becomes joyful.

He lowers his eyes in peaceful pause and starts to take off his clothes, he sheds his jacket, shirt and socks, flinging them to and fro and descends the steps into the yard and squeezes the grass between his toes. He presses hard down through his feet, to let the ground know that he is there and he will not sink. His stance widens. He loosens his shoulders as he reaches down between his feet, and sets his palms flat in the grass, exhaling deeply as he folds. Then breathing deeply in and upward he raises up towards the sky stretching everything inside, reaching as high as he go, and there he sees the Cheshire smile and he greets the moonlight glow

Hi how are you, I’m glad you’re here too

And then he begins to dance with it, in Meditative and intentional movement. He makes a show for the moonlight and the minds eye and he moves every muscle under his control, twisting and turning in soft ecstasy releasing decades of unwanted tension; finally letting all the build-up go. He lands down in the sweet smelling grass on his belly, arms folded and in his vision are two small flowers swaying slightly and only them, no leaves rustle because no breeze blows. It seems to him that they danced with him and he will remember this for the rest of his troubled life, though it should be a little easier now knowing what he knows.
Another short for Footnote

12-24-23 Christmas Eve
I was homeless, ostracized from the family, high strung out, sad, salty, smelly, sleepy, but indoors by the grace of  a good friend, and on the verge of being as sick as I have been in a very long time. The next day would be spent entirely in bed ill with a flu like I had never seen. It was the worst Christmas pageant ever… but the night before I was able to distill this auto-fiction from an experience that with the exception of the names of streets, happened exactly as written, it was a very poignant experience for me, and its details were summarily seared into my brain.
Mimi Bordeaux Jan 25
To Lose Everything and Die for it


Punch me know how it feels how it goes away too soon like its memory holding the pull of time holding out for something punch me in the guts how is it feels like pool of blood pressure lowing it feels like pool of blood holding a pitch in decay decades of forlorn expulsion of punch list of items in the guts free to call pulling me out of time call the feels like pool of blood holding a punch me know how it goes away too soon golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high from the closest thing to blood pressure lowing the punch me know how it feels holding on to the feeling like blood spilt on a pool of soil golden brown hasish found in my pocket and two years after that hit me in the guts feel how it goes holding a pitch and putt goal in mind to star in my own golden hours brow beaten path to gold punch me know how it feels
Holding up the rush of running to nothing a globe holding on to it like how is it feels golden blood pressure lowing the punch me in the guts how are we feeling blood holding up the acolyte it goes away too soon punch me know what you are missing golden hours on methadone climbing and closing gate to star in my own and operate a higher level than God holding on to nothing is happening fast as you running away from too soon punch me know when it comes to blood pressure lowering your thoughts down to memory card punch in the head all gone to her head now holding on my way to freedom of memory cells broken and missing like chemical reaction to antidepressants is so sad down in the morning and in my night time memory punch in the morning and night at golden hours blood pressure lowering your price list for closing gate to freedom blood golden brown hasish found in my pocket with the ticket to hell never gone through the whole day without your consent format time it moves around universe floating around your body slowing growth and you feel like punch me know how it feels like pool going too soon holding the pull out of your life holding the baby of love despite the gate to freedom of golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high good byeall gone to her head now holding on my way to freedom of memory cells broken and missing like chemical reaction to antidepressants is so sad down in the morning and in my night time memory punch in the morning and night at golden hours blood pressure lowering your price list for closing gate to time
it moves around universe floating around your body slowing growth and you feel like punch me know how it feels like pool going too soon holding the pull out of your life holding the baby of love despite the gate to freedom of golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high good bye
Glenn Currier Jan 13
Tonight after an isolating illness,
propelled beyond my darkness,
I walked into a universe of light
where stars are swallowed
into black holes
spreading their energy and light
into and beyond the shame or blight
dragged along by each
stumbling with the baggage of their histories,
then recovering
his balance.
I wish I could attach the image that partially inspired this poem. It is an image of a star or galaxy being swallowed by a black hole or at least that is what it looks like to me. The image: https://www.pexels.com/photo/red-and-orange-galaxy-illustration-41951/
Francie Lynch Jan 10
We should know better
With or without schooling.
If we willfully refuse,
If we disregard the facts;
We are ignorant.
That's below below average.
We made a choice.
A choice is not a chronic disease.
Not like mine.
It was never my choice.
I don't know if it happened
Before or After,
But the manifestation was slow, profound,
And addictive.
Many just don't get it.
Moonbeam Jan 8
My body betrayed me in ways I never thought possible
I can’t eat, I can’t emote, I can’t exist
Not without itching, tingling, wheezing, gasping for air
I’m rapidly losing control over my life
My world was already so small—and now it’s getting smaller
The list of foods I can’t eat is growing as my will to keep going…shrinks
Why must struggles beget even more struggles?
Why can’t I be allowed to be happy?
Exist in a beautifully carefree manner?
My spirit screams to express but my body says no
You’re not allowed
All I can do is tearfully write my feelings on a page while I agonize at all I have lost and will lose
I am missing out on the human experience I crave
I just want to be well
I want to breathe easy
I want to be healed
Yet I am here, in my bubble, alone
Forever
This is a poem about MCAS. I’m becoming allergic to life more each day. I have to leave behind so much. I have to miss out on so much. It’s so painful to live this existence.
Nigdaw Nov 2023
Dad
I held the door open
for the man who let me in
but he decided to stay
and grace us with his presence
for at least a while longer
a chance
to get to know who is
inside the armour
a putting down of the shield
hidden behind for so long
even after great personal loss
he gripped my hand
with affection rather than
hanging on for dear life
and every time I leave him
alone in his hospital bed
I feel a slice of the great loss
I very nearly experienced
Lyndsey Nov 2023
When I tell my therapist 
I'm writing eulogies in my sleep,
trying to piece together 
the perfect slideshow of pictures. 
Ones that show all the best parts, 
the parts everyone loves and admires. 
The things I love and admire.
She tells me they call that 
"Anticipatory grief".

I tell her,
I'm praying to a God I've never really believed in but have always been too much of a coward 
to claim doesn't exist at all. 
Maybe I'm praying to someone else's God 
when I beg "angel numbers" to heal 
with unspoken pleas to the universe. 

I tell her,
I'm signing papers to make decisions
I don't want to make,
should that become necessary.
I'm looking up environmentally friendly ways 
to bury someone 
because we always preferred the idea of 
returning to the Earth again. 

I tell her,
I'm horrified I'm thinking of any of this, 
terrified that dwelling will speed up some 
unseen clock I'm powerless to slow down. 
Like a final ******* from the universe, 
like one big cosmic karmic joke. 

I tell her,
I'm begging for a miracle, 
hoping if I'm attentive enough, 
if I am there enough, 
if I'm willing to sacrifice myself enough 
somehow I will be able to change things. Somehow I will be able to fix it. 


She tells me, 
that's normal.
Francis Oct 2023
Cornelius,
Cornelius,
I’m tired,
Want to sleep.

Cornelius,
Cornelius,
Stop laughing,
As I weep.

Stop hiding,
In the corner.
Stop lurking,
Like a creep.

The only way,
To rid of you,
The only way,
To sleep.
I’ll draw you,
‘Till the crack of dawn,
To satisfy your needs.
This takes me back to a time in middle school when I caught my best friend (at the time) compulsively, discreetly drawing this eerie, disturbing doodle face on the bus ride home. I asked him what he was drawing and he said that it was this kid named Cornelius that comes out at night in his room. According to him, Cornelius said that only way he’ll leave him alone is if he draws him a lot. To this day, I can still draw the face he drew, and wish I could share it with this poem. This unfortunately made us drift apart, as I was too disturbed to remain in contact.
Next page