Come here girl, you know there’s no point
in skulking.  This is what you deserve.  You know
I’m not responsible.  It’s not my fault
you can’t cook right.  Don’t hate me
for my sense of duty.  
                    You’re so frail;
even that chicken-wire crosshatched skeleton
can’t hold you up.  Get my newspaper.
                    There’s  simply no point in weeping.

A color scheme settles, into the black and white.
The areas once shaded, crosshatched, and scratched out
Have been evenly filled in with vibrant colors.

A yellow sets itself within the confines of lines on a page
As the dense blue stains heavy paper, with a bold sincerity.

Details without color, drew out texture and description.
Greens brought out life in these lines,
Red, added a thrill and suspense.

I am black and white,
I am simple, but complex to the detail.
Let's not ruin a good thing,
Color is complexity.

Swollen eyes of sleep depreieve
With giant black bags underneath
Bright red cheeks huff and puff
Raggedly pained air that I breathe

Tear stains appear on my pillow each night
In dozens of crosshatched lines
But I drudge out of bed to wash them away
So that nobody knows they were mine

From here on out- I refuse to sleep
to be forced into nightmares again
Coffee and lights as my main support
Why should I worry my friends?

She was afraid of anyone ever seeing her naked, because then they would know;
they would know all of the brokenness and all of the things that she was afraid of and every mistake she had ever made. They would be able to see the insecurities she held like glass in her crosshatched palms and the lies she lived in the sutured remnants of her torso, a thousand stitches of regret sown haphazardly along her sagittal plane.
And they would know that this decimated shell housed her disfigured soul;
The ultimate humiliation.

Crosshatched tower of black ropes
Spiral towards poofy marshmallow clouds
A tempation for each passing youth
To gather around in crowds
All together the creatures, they climb
Grasping rope and some stranger's limb
Bodies fall to the earth like potato sacks
No limits in order to win...

I recall counting the
crooked lines that ran the length of your palm,
noting how each and every one
ran on and on and on
before petering out into crosshatch
and creases.

Remember when I came to yours,
that first time?
We watched an inconsequential film,
made inconsequential small talk
as we lay on that  
rough-lined sofa of yours.
I stared into your bright-blue eyes
as you glanced up at mine
(murkier, sea-floor brown tinged with green -
“Harry”, you called me, jokingly)
and we kissed
because at the time
it seemed of consequence.

Later, we petered out somewhat
(creased and crosshatched as we were),
but even now,
as I trace the lines of my palm,
I can’t help but feel that
something that day
was of consequence.

We are two people with flashlights for hands
rooting in each others rib cage

showing off the bits of broken glass we swallowed

I will try to make mine pretty
and you'll laugh
cause everything *****, really.

I hope you think that what you've found between my crosshatched texture
one winged birds and fraying rope

**** a little less than most things

The first time a boy told me he liked me
I was 19
I had never heard those words before
foreign to ears that endured
nineteen years of crosshatched scars
on my self-esteem
from broken records screaming
things that made my knees weak
years of you’re not worth it
made me think that no boy
would ever see me as anything
but ugly written repeatedly
on brittle bones.
What was worse
was when I told him we wouldn’t work
afraid that no one could ever love me
when they saw the disease growing in my mind
self-hatred against darkening rage
for a world that never understood
what it meant to be less than its expectations
it was letting myself down
denying sunshine into my mind
that spread lies like stars in the sky
whispering things I misinterpret as truth
wondering why there is a war against
my brain and my body
rotting with the thought
that I would die alone
against black landscape
that would someday swallow me whole

She gave him life in the whim of passion.
Drawing lines of pleasure. All of her pain that she's felt over the years.
The very existence of all she's ever dreamed.
All in the hopes that he'd never do the same.
He and he alone would stand the test of time.
The portrayal of locking eyes, deep shades of gray.
Drawn and retraced.
A homesickness suffered from the gift of tender eyes.
She remembers the nights the rain wouldn't cease.
The creases her face made in grief.

In the end. All she had was the sketch pad that never left her side.
He alone took each tear and rested his head beside them.

Her sketch pad.

This vigorous sketch that stared off into the distance.
She screamed of warning to the oncoming flood.
The beads of blue that traced every drop of rain.
Blending bright and dark hues to the paper of her pad.
Wool combs of hair colored in, blending into the background.
She thought long and hard.
First filling his hands with roses then taking them away.

Deep marks left behind from a couple of flicks of her wrist.
An eroding eraser.
The blossoming of a new sketch, a tremble of thought.
The rain came back even harder.
More fierce the next sketch she made.
Paved and coated over and over again.
A fear that she would never become the recipient of all she's dreamed.
Someone that would love her for all that she keeps hidden.
She reacted to the woes of thunder and lightning.
A tear made deep then covered.
Resistant to all shes felt.
A deep pain struck against the burrow of her heart.
Every flower in the valley of her screamed in anguish to the water that continuously fell.
The valley becoming a gutter in front of the driveway she drew.
Blue and gray hues crosshatched across the page.
Surrounding him in the background.
Here he stood outside in the rain for hours in front of an empty house.
His heart replacing the roses that filled his hands.
Within the confines of her sketch pad she illustrated her best friend.
The best friend she's ever known.
Someone that she could trust.
Made her feel whole.
Here within the confines of her sketch pad.
she illustrated how he made her feel.
She drew breath into his lungs in true fear.
Knowing that somethings aren't meant to happen.
Of all things that she loved. She loved herself the most.
Promising that she would never feel this hurt again.
The torment of having something precious ripped away.
A homesickness suffered from the gift of tender eyes.
She remembers the nights the rain wouldn't cease.
The creases her face made in grief.
It was that night she made the promise never again.
She drew her best friend in a world.
Cold and alone.
All within the confines of her sketch pad.
Where she felt she could be herself.
Illustrating the exact way he made her feel

I Am So Grateful [Anybody Reads This Stuff]



I am so grateful anybody reads this stuff.

Exasperated that most others don’t.

And even with an inner miff

I carry on, pushed by an inner drift,

(some would add an inner gift)

Ambition not my motivation.



A brainstorm popping from wherever popping up pops up from.

You will recall it’s happened to you all;

You know, thoughts over which you’d no control.

And yet you thought them, acted out on

Drives beyond what’s called

Free will.



So, am I grateful or detached?

Dispassionate, disinterested, crosshatched?

Standing alone from strength

Yet obstinate from weakness’ lack of confidence.

I’m sure of this:  the length

Of life that’s left to me,

I will persist in poetry.

(One must

When it lies in the guts)

Tampering with syntax, spelling, yummy slang,

Choice aesthetics in good taste/

Choices ****** and a waste;

Writing with a rhythmic sense,

Caring very much for tense,

But not for meters recherché;

I, utmost mystic and most earthy:

Quelle dichotomy!

Hypocrisy?  No, contrast only!



I am grateful for and to the one

That read Ms Corwin.



I Am So Grateful 11.14.2017

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; I Is Always We Is You;

Arlene Corwin

The sun stays later
And rises higher,
It thaws the first flowers
That open like my chest.

Today spring is here
And the radiating light
Reminds me of your wide grin
How it shines,
Your voice excited to have a day
Calling me sweet names
That still echo in my head.

I drive with my windows down
Feeling the warm breeze soothe my crosshatched raw skin.
The sensation pulls me back
To last years melt,
When we walked hand in hand
Out of the dark winter
And into the river
Into the woods
Onto the beach
Over the mountains.

Now even sunny days make me cry
Thanks to you.
Even the sweet smell of spring
Sours in my nose.
And the promise of longer days
Sounds more like a threat.