We, birds in pain, Put our trust in branches Too weak to hold the weight of these dreams This saffron grief is too fragrant For our evergreen pine noses. The everyday calamity The everyman dream Burns through the soil in our lungs, Memories of summer are now lost in September rain. I am here dreaming of mending hearts That have braved more than they can bear But these drooping eyelids Are stuck in endless night cycles Of listening to the sounds of misery
i no longer wish to be exceptional. be boring. be ordinary. do not stand out. be real. be authentic. cleanse your mind and body and start over. it’s never too late to start over.
i only wish to exist, that’s all. it takes a lot of strength to exist when sorrow, disruption, and misery follow you around, swirling like a black fog that constantly engulfs you. it takes so much willpower to see through the fog that when i stumble out or gasp for breath, i realize that ordinary IS exceptional. to survive the absolute hatred of being forced to live, i only wish to exist, that’s all.
I pray God will take my life first, Leaving you alone in the shadows, To realize the price for our own blood… No more your life for mine to thirst, The times you tried me at the gallows, Noosing your own neck for tears to flood… Slow martyrdom of death to march, No one to save our scars lost of time, Burnt screams of you telling me to stop… Withered wrinkled bodies turned to starch, mimicking dancing demons to mime, Cry the souls yearning our bones to drop… Long lost tainted blood for salvation, a world to witness our damnation…
She wrote poems about sunflowers and about the colors of each of the different flavors in her afternoon tea.
She wrote about the foot-worn path in the concrete floor of the history museum; About a stranger’s dog who licked her hand at the park.
And to her future child, And to the boundlessness of love she knew but could not fathom that existed in a forever-expanding space inside her, And about that brave and resilient seed shared by all of science and art, the interconnectedness of all things.
In radical joyful tones, she documented the goodnesses of her Ordinary on scraps of paper and deposited them into a small chest, her Memory Bank.
The people pointed at the lonely beergazer The outraged wunderkind The housebound widower Each lost in the past or in the future. Ah, misery. The father of poetry. They would shake their heads, A shame, they would say.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town or maybe the world, the mother of poetry, undeterred, sat in her garden singing to the souls of the vegetables.
weary eyes sinking deeper into sheets that are so heavy these pillows suffocating and holding onto every drawn out breath a pillow for my shattered bones lay to rest i break delicately falling slowly in and out of all that i know and all that seems to be a woeful slumber my darkest dreams meandering through sunken hills the feeling lingers and then it is lost