"crumples" poems
I breathe in this silence that is not
Silenced,
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Wait.
Calm.
Be patient.
Tick...tock........tick...............tock
I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
Interfering.
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Death.
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
AIDS.
Oh God.
Breathe.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity
Alone.
White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.
Tick..tock.....tick........tock.
White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.
Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.
Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.
Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?
Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.
Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.
Camille: You are boring.
Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?
Camille: I love another.
Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!
Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.
Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?
Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.
Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.
Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.
Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?
Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.
Camille: …
Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?
Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?
Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.
Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.
Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.
Rodin: What have I done wrong?
Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.
Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?
Camille: No. The lion’s cage.
Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
On cold, October evenings, you can hear the rustling of leaves being blown by the wind.
Your neighbor's dog barking with an echo down the street.
The giggling of children as they play games under the glow of dim street lights.
You are not alone.
And then there's the sunset,
Colors grazing what is left of the autumn leaves on the trees,
it is time for you to situate yourself back into your home.
There's a quietness to your house; bodies lingering nearby but don't present themselves.
You scale the stairs that creak with each step like an eerie tune that brings brief life into the home.
Bristly fur of a cat brushes against your goose bumped skin.
You are not alone.
The stillness of your bedroom,
The hall light peeking through from under your closed door creating shadows in the darkness.
The light representing someone is still awake in the quiet house as you're trying to close your eyes and shut off your thoughts.
Quiet sobbing turned into hyperventilating as the blanket you're clutching, crumples as your grip tightens.
You feel cold and helpless fighting internally with the dark shadows making their way into your mind.
Your gasping breaths are abruptly stopped by the beat of rushed footsteps.
The swinging open of your door creates a wave of light that masks out the nothingness in your room.
Their arms wrapping tightly around your shaking body,
as you gurgle your fears out of your throat,
is that warmth you craved.
"You are not alone."
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part
Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
naked heart's
thunder
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
“but if you have to move your best friend’s body…
…you’re on your own.”
Your best friend dies
Before your eyes
Somehow stays alive
Then what?
***** salt-licked hair
Brittle and frayed by medicine
World’s unfathomable weight
Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree
Her whole being crumples (arrugar)
But her life-force remains intact
Body bone
Running on spirit reserves
Why is that?
She stands and cries
Staring into ether
I sit
Wringing my hands
Her tears strike the ground
In tree-gecko unison
'''
Pacific parasite super-strains
Blood coated throat
The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts
for decades
Attempted assaults, ****
Dengue
Giant Centipede venom to the skull
But worst of all
Rootlessness and fear
the monkey on her back
had a monkey on its back
and was smoking a cigarette
'''
Have you ever seen someone
Completely broken?
Corpsic shell of a woman
Gaunt, wan in the tropics
“Don’t put your trust in walls…
…walls will only crush you when they fall”
Brick-bludgeoned body
The shrapnel lay like
Sun scorched
Novice-woven baskets
At her feet
But now she can see
And breath
Real breath
'''
Genocide’s a ***** yes.
Africans seem fatalistic to Americans
Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield
“They’re your babies”
Short-lived, yes
But now they have peace
Witnesses still weave the jungle
What do you do with a friend who’s
Seen real atrocity? Evil?
'''
I’m learning.
Prayer is power
Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.)
She serves realness only
Her seeking hands unweave the sacred
Time is of no luxury right now
Serve people through love
and Grace awaits discovery
'''
I’ve never carried a bleeding body.
I needn’t “fear the terror by night,
Nor the arrow by day”
But I saw someone perish
And resurrect
What a gift
What a gift
Gubaadagem, Tinmad.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers
Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself
He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man
To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces
He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes
He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished
"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching
A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 1:19 PM UTC
this
sweet-eyed
breathtaking
catastrophe
of mine
hoarding
clutter to the
ceiling fan,
filling void
somewhat
while
trying to
understand
how involuntarily
she crumples
like paper
littered
on the sidewalk
of my brain,
riddled with
scribbles
and nonsense
words,
her ink
blotted
voice like
feathers
under pressure
being
pressed against
whatever
white knuckles
her neck
and
hot talk
from
cold chests.
ingenious
security
boarded up doors
and
one-way glass
windows
to
watch
from inside.
for a moment
she calls
out to me from the
woodwork.
she almost
reaches
for the lock,
she almost becomes more than just paper
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
~
remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.
~
post script.
*"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.*
***for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere***
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
Custody,
first a checkerboard of red and white squares
trapped between thick black bars.
Days of the week,
prisons,
and I was wrongly convicted.
My fingers reach for help through my metal cage,
yet only receive paper cuts
on the corners of divorce letters.
Letters drowned in blood bleed off the page
and stain my Saturdays and Sundays.
Custody,
now neatly separated into red and white columns,
walls dividing weeks and weekends.
National borders barricade one house from the other.
Two countries clash in a
war waged with
two atomic blasts burning
my culture into ash
white as paper.
Custody,
the absence of red and
the erasure of my father
from the calendar taped to
my mother’s refrigerator,
and I’m frozen in place.
Custody,
a vast snow-white plane:
One step forward,
nothing in my future.
One step backward,
blizzards in my past.
Custody,
ground made of paper so thin,
with every step,
life crumples under my feet.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
Harvey sees the sun for the first time
without history--
the worn leather, unshined shoes in closet,
the ex-girls off the telephone--
the beams blow kisses, taunt, and beckon.
Harvey folds a paper with half a sentence
and puts it in his pocket--
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be, a void..."
he knows the end but doesn't write it.
Harvey dreams of calm waters,
salt, sundresses, and eager toenails hammered into sand.
A waitress's reflection in the coffee shop glass shakes Harvey from trance.
"Another cup?" she asks with a crowbar forehead.
Harvey stares at her wrinkles, prying for exposition--
while her voice melts over innocent questions.
Harvey thinks about taking her home.
She'd talk of her ex-husband.
They didn't have kids, but she wanted them.
Harvey couldn't give her kids,
but he could give her him--
a favor.
She wouldn't die alone.
"Did you hear me? Coffee?"
He'd make her feel tall.
She'd find new, fast-talking, book-n-tabloid-munching friends.
Harvey would nod and "oooh" and "ahhh".
Harvey would itch for wrecking ball.
The waitress pours the cup despite his silence.
"If you need anything, let me know."
Harvey nods.
The coffee shop contains the hustle of a mad race track.
Elderlies at the bar, youngsters on the tile floor,
moms and dads hoping to choke with each bite of doughnut.
Harvey doesn't pay much attention to the other patrons.
They are reds, yellows, blues, and noise to him.
He unfolds the piece of a paper and writes,
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be,
a void in search of a void to sink and share
the blackness."
He leaves a tip on the table.
He pays the cashier.
He leaves the colors and the noise.
He crumples the paper, and gives
it to the wind outside.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Dear heart. I am the one in charge here. Neuroscience has long taken the responsibility of handling emotions from you. I am in charge of everything in this body, dear heart, I tell you what to do, and you do it. I think we both know I'm the better thinker here.
So why must you ache, why must you suffer for what I do? For every scalding thought you recoil in your cage and pound on the bars of your prison, wishing to be worn on someone's sleeve, dear heart, you've been hidden for too long. You don't know how this world works, and I do, so you must obey me when I tell you what to do. I know it hurts to keep beating despite of how the chemical reactions in my mind may affect you. For every feeling I take as a thought, every thought you mistake as a feeling, we both protest. For a long, long time we refuse to communicate with each other and I know you are tempted to rest, to stop beating because you're the one aching. It's not me, dear heart, that clenches like a fist, crumples inward like a useless scrap of paper, collapses on itself like a star on the brink of a supernova, it is not me, dear heart, that gets hurt.
Why do I only ache when I'm facing a mathematical problem, a complex theory, a questionable logic, a memory-loss crisis, why do I only suffer when I think really hard, even though I am the one in charge of emotions and feelings? Why is it you, not me, that a knife buries itself in when there is emotional pain? Why is it you that has be shredded into blood strings and crimson feathers of sinew, as if you were plucked from an angel's bleeding wings while heaven screeched its protest? Why are you the only one that is punished?
Dear heart, I am sorry. I didn't know why the body is made this way, that you have to be the one on the edge of a cliff while I sit somewhere safely plucking your strings. You are the one facing the endless plummet into a chasm of fangs and jagged rock, and it is up to me to make sure you stay alive, why, dearest, dearest heart do you have to be shackled to me with a silken collar? I can control you, but you have the freedom to fall, and if you do, I will be the one to grab at a protruding edge somewhere on the face of the cliff, and I will pull hard to get us back up.
Because if I don't, we will both die, and I'm the thinker here, I'm the one responsible for both of us, dear heart, I am the one in charge here!
You won't survive on your own. That's why I'm here to take care of us, because neither of us would exist without the other, without me you will be dead, without you, I will be worse than dead, so dear heart. Dearest heart, let me take the reins, let me hold the strings, let me tell you what to do, I'm sorry you can't be free. I'm sorry I hurt you with the thoughts and the memories inside me.
Let me control you. Let them call me abusive, let them call me terrible, let them call me cold and cunning, let them tell the world I am foul and violent, I don’t care!
I am here for you. I will take care of you. And when all you wish is to cease the wearying repetition of living, I will give you reason to keep breathing.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
so much like the paper, it crumples
it remains untouched but has been molested
trying to close itself up, until you came and
tore open the stitches and shed the
protection
so much like the paper, it falls
leaning on the words of another to live
their inscribed marks upon its open skin
scars not marks, wounds not scars,
because the wounds have not
closed yet
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
•
Every night
I strangle the sun
He crumples before me
But every morning
He rises anew
•
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
Elaborate a little on the empty space.
canvas
Fill it with spills.
It all seems so accidental, did you bring your credentials?
Passwords linger throughout the discussions,
reason & recognize
Act with the valor of lightning and they will stumble like thunder... Timber.
Down falls another point on the pop chart.
Playing tic tac toe till the the tacs tic down by the toe, action falls into a drifting memory and crumples at the custodial hour.
Feet pounding time on the tiles
Repititions, turning inches to miles... Progress??
Does the diety of a paragraph outshine the novel drifter??
I mean, both read only one line at a time...
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
She looks at me and I know in that
quickest
of
seconds
something is wrong.
*"Mom?
Mom?!"*
And she
crumples
against my sister.
I saw the
confusion
in my mom's eyes
and now I see the
panic
in my sister's.
My mom, limp on the ground,
isn't responding
to my repeated pleas.
*"She's having a stroke!
She's having a stroke!"*
Panic makes my sister's voice
frantic.
We've been here before.
All around people are crowding
waytooclose,
but the shouts for EMS can't
drown out the
burst
of silence suddenly in my head.
My sister and I lock eyes,
transported
to when this happened before,
wondering...
worrying...
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
When he comes around, my girlfriend crumples in pain. Period.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
The sky rips through itself with ease.
Self-destruction is an art form when
you are nothing but constellations and wonder.
Black holes tear
through the fabric of the universe
and celestial hands reach through them,
scratching at God's flesh.
Stellar voices echo
through these pits of imbibe
asking it's creator
one question:
"why?"
Fistfuls of stars thrown into
the jarring teeth of inferno;
a flame that feuls more fire.
Planets are crushed
under gravity's legs,
and, like a child unsatisfied with a drawing,
the space between galaxies
crumples like paper.
Tired of being a feast for human eyes,
and being
Poked, Proded, and Penetrated by People
God's first and best creation
consumes itself whole
to satisfy
the hunger.
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 9:55 AM UTC
From Marlboros, and thinkin horribles,
Each time I think of you is another cigarette gone from my pack.
I start my pack full, I test the weight, loving the feel of a full pack in my hand,
But with every thought, they start to slip through my fingers like sand, and find their way home on my lips, where my tears just fall off and drip.
I started with 20, doing so far so good.
Wait whats that? you called?? there goes my mood.
A thought of you, a image plus two and then Im done with a few.
(17)
I choke on my fears, while I clench my hair
I called you my dear, and now im done with a pair.
(15)
Anxiety is something which I so not lack,
Giving my breath to this dwindling pack.
(13)
You feed my addiction being the flame,
my heart burns black, while it bears your name.
(10)
I sit and ponder on these thoughts I wish to behave,
Two more ignites, to feed the darkness in which I crave.
(8)
My pack is now dwindling low,
As I struggle to maintain a steady air flow.
How else can you sleep, when you've been hit with such a harsh blow.
(6)
I have clipped my wings,
after i have fallen oh so low,
in search of my name in your voice, but it is another mans love in which you sing.
This cigerette is now the only thing that glows.
(3)
(Braxton) I remember from where I came and god its a shame,
I just wish the addiction never screamed your name
Empty. Like my heart, the hollow pack crumples in my hands, wishing to be filled.
But the self destructive cycle repeats again, and again. .
And I begin my pack full, yet again testing the weight..
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
The thing about falling out of love
is you have to be just as careful coming out as you were going in (if not more).
Too fast and you’ll crash.
But too slow and you’ll be stuck like that forever.
I guess you have to take care of your heart
like you take care of all those silken shirts in your closet.
You have to let it cool just right or it’ll wrinkle.
Those crumples and crinkles left imprinted on you.
A fold for each lost love,
until your heart is nothing more than a creased mess.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
would i even recognise myself
without all these accessories,
layers upon layers of mere tissue paper
that crumples under the softest touch
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 1:40 PM UTC
YOU ONLY EVER KISS HIM WITH THE LIGHTS OFF. YOU RUN YOUR HANDS THROUGH YOUR HAIR; IT WAS CUT A FEW DAYS AGO AND YOU'RE NOT SURE IF YOU LIKE IT. YOU FEEL LIKE YOU'RE JUST KEEPING UP THE PRETENSE OF THE PERSON YOU USED TO BE. YOU'RE NOT SURE IF YOU'LL EVER FEEL LIKE HIM AGAIN.
HE, AS USUAL, LOVES YOU AND SOMETIMES YOU WANT TO RIP OFF HIS ******* CLOTHES AND TAKE HIM AND SOMETIMES YOU JUST WANT TO SCREAM AND RUN AWAY AND NEVER LOOK HIM IN THE EYES AGAIN (AND SOMETIMES YOU WANT TO RIP OFF YOUR ******* SKIN AND HOPE YOU NEVER BREATHE AGAIN). YOU NEVER TELL HIM THIS. YOU ADD IT TO THE PILE OF SECRETS. RINSE AND REPEAT;;;
AS THE DAYS GO BY THE BLUE EYES START MIXING WITH THE KIND OF REDNESS YOU CAN'T SCRUB AWAY. YOU TRY TO LAUGH BECAUSE YOU'RE LIKE HIM NOW (RED WHITE AND BLUE YOU'RE A ******* BANNER AND HE'S AN ICON). IT COMES OUT BROKEN. YOU DON'T TELL HIM WHY.
YOU STOP SMILING AND THE CIGARETTES PILE UP AND THE BOTTLES PILE UP AND THE SECRETS PILE UP. HE'S STOPPED LOOKING YOU IN THE EYES AND YOU'VE STOPPED PRETENDING NOT TO NOTICE. HE DRAGS YOU OUT OF BED AT TWO IN THE MORNING TO YELL AT YOU AND IT TAKES ALL THE ENERGY YOU CAN MUSTER TO LOOK AT HIM.
HE STOPS SMILING.
WHEN HE SAYS HE LOVES YOU HE DOESN'T MEAN IT. THIS IS OKAY; YOU HAVEN'T SAID IT BACK SINCE HE SAVED YOU. WHEN YOU SAY IT BACK ANYWAY YOU MEAN IT. HE LAUGHS AT YOU.
YOU TRY TO STOP BREATHING ONETWOTHREEFOUR TIMES. YOU STOP RETURNING HIS PHONE CALLS. YOU DON'T BELONG HERE THIS BODY HASN'T FELT LIKE YOURS IN SEVENTY YEARS BUT YOU STILL WISH YOU COULD CRAWL INSIDE YOUR OWN SKIN.
HE SHOWS UP AT YOUR HOUSE AT TWO IN THE MORNING AND ******* SCREAMS AT YOU. THIS IS THE MOST ALIVE YOU'VE FELT IN AN AGE. YOU TELL HIM THIS AND YOU LOOK AWAY WHEN HIS FACE CRUMPLES.
HE KISSES YOU WITH THE LIGHTS ON.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
one thing I’ve been unable to completely reconcile
is the ability for humans to turn cheek when one’s face simply crumples.
you know the moment
when the muscles around the lips tense and their throat tries to work as they begin to squint.
there’s a harsh inhalation and then the eyes well up with tears.
the cheeks flush and the nostrils flare and all you can see is suffering,
from the way their shoulders tense then droop
and to the raw defeat that washes off them in waves.
how does one merely avert their gaze when this happens?
how does one not immediately attempt to console the sufferer?
how does one manage to swivel around and walk away,
shoulders hunched, head down, hands balled in pockets,
one more slump of misery and the picture of one that has weathered just a few too many storms,
when there is no greater act of kindness than to extend an offering of faith
and perhaps some meager comfort to those that suffer?
how do we sleep at night when
our friend, our neighbor,
our child, our parent,
our coworker, our teacher,
our fellow human being
can crumple before us
and we do nothing to help?
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC
I feel the sadness creep back into my bones and I whimper.
All of me crumples to the floor like a fallen autumn leaf,
trapped by the asphalt and the air,
with the impending fate of being trampled on by wandering feet.
I can do nothing but watch
and wait
as every bit of my being succumbs to this plague of past participles.
I long to be saved, to be rescued,
but when your savior is your victim,
when your hero is the fallen,
it's a lot like trying to write with no ink.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
Walking through the silence
I see her weary face.
She gives me a smile with no happiness,
And walks with miserable grace.
Flowers of force bloom on her face,
Etchings of pain and tears.
And yet she speaks not of it,
She bows her head in fear.
She relaxes when in company
And drinks her whiskey neat.
But when the people leave her,
She crumples at his feet.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Everything is done
All that I have tried to say
Voiced, unvoiced, crumples.
This place, inconsequential
Hangs above me by a thread.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 5:07 AM UTC