I'm telling you that's it, I quit!
A year on now I weigh a ton,
drinking my way out of this pit.

Hotel meals with a book I sit,
a woman on her own must be fun...
I'm telling you that's it, I quit.

Day after day sleeping a whit,
puff in the lungs and pulse on the run,
drinking my way out of this pit.

Monday drive bawl or afternoon fit,
abusing I yell before the sun,
I'm telling you that's it, I quit.

A ring and a promise, we almost split,
I never home or seeking to stun,
drinking my way out of this pit.

I will admit I learned a bit.
Of colleagues and business I knew none.
I'm telling you that's it, I quit
drinking my way out of this pit.

It did not happen
    it would have happened
        it could have happened
            it should have happened
     but

It did not happen

a large hand from outer space
descended to the Earth's surface
and with a finger and thumb,

grabs me by the belt at the seat
of my pants,

hoisting me straight up like
a fish out of water for
viewing with a great
concern...

He turns my tinyness toward Him
and looks me eye to eye, frowning
in disapproval—

"I dunno, maybe You should
just,
                 toss me away??"

His face then smiled a little,
and with a sigh ,

i was gently lowered
back down...

"Intervention"
©2007-2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

sea waves blue, smooth as a silk sheet are
gently lapped by chilly December air
my skin prickles as the air leaves
goosebumps on my bare arms. i try to
ignore them as the frosty gale bites into my clothless skin.

boats are tethered to shore, no longer
roaming far at sea, they have a home at least
though only temporary, but a safe sanctuary. i wonder
where the people are, perhaps safe and warm and cozy
in the comfort of their fireplaces and families.

i lay down on the barren grass,  now mere stubs that too
***** my skin, they were once lively and green under the shade of a once blooming tree,
now limbless and leafless,
a mere trunk of wood that stands stubbornly on a patch of forgotten ****.

as nighttime falls the boat lights come on, setting patches
of deep blue ablaze, like a fire it spreads and spreads until
you can no longer see the depths of aquamarine,
and maybe just maybe pretend to yourself that they
never even existed.

maybe grass needs to be barren before spring brings shrubs and
trees decapitated before they can bloom again,
maybe matches need to be lit
and places burnt to ashes
before the past can fall away like a brittle husk.

I look up to the cloud-filled sky, blue dotted with specks of white and
perhaps there is no heaven beyond those clouds,
no god near welcoming doors, and
if all prayers are just a shout into the empty void
then perhaps all we can do is
shout.

You ask me,
how can you be happy and sad?
Or Joyful and mad?
All at the same time

It’s pretty easy, I say,
Easy as seeing my parents
In the screen everyday
for my city I fled
and I don't get to hug them

But they're fine, you see
and that makes me happy
and my friends live their lives
as well as I live mine
and their news make me smile
make me joyful and then perhaps mad
for I wish I could be there
and I know that can't happen

So, yeah perhaps I'm mad
cause I have no future in my land
but I'm happy where I am
and the contradiction starts
So, I'll make peace with my mind
let my feelings aside
I'll be thankfull for what I got
and shut everything aside

my life left far behind
in the bleeding of my mind
what remains
for the sunny vine
to procure?
the bleating winter
shall endure

When I was young life came at such a pace that choices were often ill-considered.
Now I am older the pace is easier but the important choices are all made and they can only be made to change by actions ill-considered.

Normally this isn’t the way it goes, but this time I’ll do differently
And so I ask who are you? What is your name?
Do you like running? I do as long as I can breathe

I dream of a day where I can run freely in silent poplar forests without my lungs weighing me down

What is your favorite kind of music? Do you like pop, rock, or hip-hop?
Is your soul kneaded and worked by tender hands like Jazz? Swing?

I may not look the part, but I love classical music; there’s something about listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes that makes me feel as if I am right there with him, sitting in the pews of an abandoned church whose dead parishioners long ago grew bored of contemplating their sins. I feel as if I am gently sipping his breath like one would coffee that’s still a bit too hot, savoring the stories he weaves out of thin piano strings that taste like moonlight
It is a flavor that seldom is tiresome
I wish I could cook some for you

If you could go anywhere, anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Would you roll into an airport with your luggage in New York? Tokyo?
Would you brave the crushing heat of Cairo for a glimpse of Giza?

I would go anywhere, anywhere you’d like, as long as we come home
I’ll open the door and immediately turn on the space heater—I can sense you hate being cold
While the tea is warming on the stove, we’ll talk about your favorite artist’s best album
Listening until we’re interrupted by the shrill shriek of a teapot needing attention
And that night I will dream that my footsteps will never be lonely

I’m terribly sorry, who are you and what is your name?
I do not know; you are there and I am in here; my mouth is so dry it hurts

Neither coffee nor alcohol can spur me to action
There is nothing I can drink
I can imagine, but I will never ask
I already have, so many times

If I loved you more like grace did
would we have made it?

                                                           Hey you, guess we're talking again?
                                          I can't say I understand where this came from.


Me.

I could say I am sorry,
But I am not.
Because on the one hand it is a choice,
(But then again it isn’t.)
It’ll take me 3 months and 22 days,
a caloric deficit of 700,
7 hours of gymnastics a week,
half an apple instead of one,
skipping lunches three times a week,
discipline, motivation and strength,
but one day, I will be where I want to be.

I have a goal, a very specific number,
and as for now, it’s all just in my head,
and –actually- I’ve never really liked numbers ,
in school I always hated maths,
but - since I’ve started measuring every inch of happiness,
since I keep my feelings locked up in measuring cups,
I cannot imagine living without them anymore.
It feels good to have a goal again.

So, when I pinch my skin,
and cry myself to sleep at night over a *******,
when I hate myself for being myself,
I could say that I am sorry,
to me, to anyone.
But the truth is, I am not.
Not yet.
I still have a goal to finish.