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BLD 20h
She is a single mother
who falters at the rise
of the moon; insomnia
dictates her daily ritual,
a plethora of anxieties
dripping down her cheeks
as beads of worrisome tears.

She's watched her son grow
alongside her own maturation,
teenage dreams mitigated by
the emergence of a new blessing,
one she never expected would come.

She is a warrior in the face of struggle,
her determination overpowering
the very odds stacked against her;
her refusal to submit reflects the reverence
attached to her newfound responsibilities,
a simplistic acknowledgement that she is
more than she would have ever guessed.

She reigns in a world of capitalistic greed,
self-sacrificing her needs for those of the eyes
looking into hers each night; although each
abhorrent remark penetrates her skin,
her ability to withstand the torture elicits
a sense of unconditional love only reserved
for those holding a dim candle in the darkest
of nights -- she is a fighter, a dreamer, a mother.
BLD 2d
I told your mother
that I loved her new hair,
gazed into eyes of cousins
I thought I'd long forgotten,
chuckling at their surprise
to see me once again.
I furrowed my eyebrows
when my parents welcomed
yours with open arms, an
obscure and intrusive thought
battling with long-held affirmations,
juxtaposing with the winds of solace
wafting brazenly in the fog of my mind.  

I'm left in a state of puzzlement,
localizing the loose ends
tucked inside desolate memories,
those remaining from no closure
and awaiting death from exposure
to newfound sights and scenes,
novel experiences with no pretense
or authoritative ownership from you.

I fear the power of elongated naps,
allowing myself the privilege
to memorialize the dreams
conjured from emotions repressed;
it is here where I am most vulnerable,
receptive to the blind-sided attacks
I mistakenly delegated elsewhere,
somewhere I believed would stay hidden,
away from the realities devoid of closure.

It is closure that I most wish I had;
the absence of this finality remains pervasive,
and I am unsure if complete healing
can ever be attained. Perhaps I will forever
be splintered from the wounds of my past,
calloused patches on my skin
reminiscent of names I dream of forgetting.
BLD May 22
I love
that I don't hate myself,
but I hate
that I don't love myself.
BLD May 5
I envy the amnesia
you weave through
the fabric of your
reflective recollections;
your tapestry is ruined
by the blatant narcissism
embedded into the linen.  

You've been eroded with lost time,
stained by spilt wine,
left behind in the cobwebbed-crevices
of our mind, a struggle to survive
the depravity of your kind.

The Fourth of May
passes with ease,
cohesive stitches
etched across my skin,
the only reminder
of your tattooed sins,
the very ones I always condemned.
BLD Apr 26
I clutch a pendant of thorns,
squeezing tighter and bleeding brighter --
I adorn myself with these niceties,
selfless gifts from the generosity of my impulsivity,
timeless fragments of an era,
one that passed me by too soon.
BLD Apr 18
I envisioned these days so often,
fearful of the independence soon to come.
Repression has surpassed to grant this favor
of forgetful remembrance –
or perhaps my memory you’ve stripped as well.

Loneliness stalks even the proudest of prey,
probing the crevices stashed deep away
to betray the very promises endemic to your core.


Now do I savor the silence I once abhorred.


I lie and I listen to the serenity all around,
obscurities of the day whispering from my walls
as an auburn Cardinal serenades from outside.

The moon beckons me near, apologetic murmurs
of her needless façade from the past –
a revered box fan underwhelms the silence
and disperses my diffused Siberian fir,
crips notes of pine and aromatic wintergreen
to soothe the comfort of my nightly routine.


Now do I know myself more than ever before.
BLD Apr 15
A swaying synthetic tub
waltzes in summer’s breeze
fingers interlocked, one step two,
full of rotted leaves wilted petals,
afterthoughts of Spring’s bloom.

An underdeveloped songbird
basks in the Louisville sunlight,
infrequent chirps of language
misunderstood perceived as
barbaric melodies too primal
for basic understanding. The
song of the bird an audible
reflection of the natural world,
an epitomized version of swaying
bluegrass and beckoning bushes,
of turbulent winds and undulating
clouds, of violet skies lost in the
haze of a brackish day, of a setting
sun glancing one last time at
the eyes refusing to gaze back.

White-specked eggs soon to burst
with new life and freshly glazed
eyes; novel music awaits its
composition, written for the ears
no longer around to hear them sung.
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