Don’t coddle me. I don’t like to be coddled. In fact, I don’t like to be held. I don’t like to be touched. In fact, don’t breathe my air. I’m coming down with something, it must be from here or there. And please don’t try to conversant about the news like its traverse You cannot sit at the table without a place to put it first.
Don’t coddle me like a child. We both know we lost our way Don’t speak to me in such numbers Where it seems I’m not okay Don’t twist my words or quarry About my younger days As if I don’t quite ponder what will become of my wicked ways
Don’t coddle if I’m so intolerable Don’t call if the time is not just right Don’t feed me to the world Just to hide me from viewers sight
And grace reflects my mere impeachment Lets not forget about my lucky stars Don’t count them in their glory, Then question where they are
Don’t nurture me into success just to strip it all away Don’t treat me like a doll Then give me of which no house to play-
In fact, you shouldn’t coddle; when heavied from all of which I’ve weeped What use is it to coddle- when the wicked get no sleep.
in a swift turn of events I found myself thrown upon a fire burning burning then doused as abruptly as when you’d pulled the sneering twist from my lips you left me little dignity and not a single kiss
The eyes that follow. Down the hall I deeply swallow. Is something trying to hurt me? What are they trying to tell me? The eyes that follow just beyond my bedroom door. Do I dare to follow in horror? I feel dizzy. Quick has something stricken me? The phantom questions that are neither seen nor heard. I dare to question every spoken word. Am I among the living? What am I seeing? Apparitions appear to me. They are sending a message apparently. They infiltrated my mind, body, and soul. I used to take refuge in my home. Now everything seems different. Tell me who or what sent this. My body has been taken over. All I hear or see my system can not recover. The eyes that follow have not released me. Now my feet have hit the ground fleetingly. As I try to flee. The eyes that follow so evenly. I have finally made it out. The eyes that follow will they ever find out?
We are all dealing with it together sitting on these chairs side by side. Therapeutic Counselling; it's that general motion that lonesome melancholy Grieving people flocking together likened to the Vietnamese phrase 'Same same, but different' And every now and then, Someone, quiet and unassuming will whisper words That strikes a chord In your heart
We're no longer playing those single notes on repeat Blame, pain, hurt and defeat It resonates so deeply A whole symphony erupts In your lost thoughts
Dvořák final moments, Notes cascading down your face. Eyes wild, eager and hungry for more tears, mingled with a melody of vulnerability of the human race
Beethoven Fidelio- an operatic shuddering possession. Body breaking, mind astrewn. Rhythm of rapidly crushing sanity
Tchaikovsky's Sixth white keys masquerading as happiness overlaying the sound of sombre black keys striking suffering and grief and everything else in-between in the greying colours of your mind.
Music of your stricken heart lost in the underground, In these chairs next to you
Woman who also grieves With a warm embrace around your body Our wet shoulders Absorbing the sounds of your dying souls Until we're playing a single courageous lullaby once more Heal heal heal And heal we shall
We are at the mercy of the city, they said. Trapped and bound, it wasn’t pretty. We are the kids who have accomplished nothing. The kids who lived too fast. The kids who didn’t live at all. Wanting to be something, facing the fall.
Laughing in the face of darkness. Pretending to do our jobs while they drop pennies. Here and there, bounding everywhere. Facing the end of the map, Opportunities landing everywhere but our laps.
Then the lights come on, at the game’s end. The charade is over, no time left to pretend. Pretend to be grown, happy, and alone. Together in this land of the infinite unknown. Cliche’d and replayed and lost in the many quotas. Not enough going on anymore to really take note of.