"ounces" poems
In crowds of shade,
In the place near the start.
There is only one face.
And she said with her last ounces of blood dripping from her face, with the last gasps of air she will ever know…
“There is a moon, there is a sun, and there are the stars. You were the moon among stars, I was the sun chasing you around the world.”
The words poured out like my tears as I held her closer turning her chin so I can stare into her fading eyes...
“I may have been with all those stars, but they’re all the same. They burn out fast, so it won’t last. You were the star of stars, and I was chasing you around the world.”
I watched the glow from her face leave as it walked off with my sanity. I pulled her in closer, tightly, with all my might.
I was hoping I would be able to hold her so tight that she would become apart of me.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
This pink mass of mist
it glows when we touch
my waking has surrendered
it belongs to you
but the boulder
this crippling weight still sits
misty fog can't fly
can't float
never could
that rocky weight
it finally caught a cloud
and pinned it down
i didn't mean to show you
i never wanted you to see this
this amazingly heavy burden I carry
please don't let it catch your cloud
maybe I too often feel like a burden
only because I have lived as one
and this fear of being what I am
it adds ounces every day
maybe that's what I've been trying to get rid of
not my earthly weight
but the one that caught my cloud
Is that the one I've been trying to starve out?
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
In an instance,
I felt a calmness sweep across my body.
My body free of any restriction.
Her being my release.
Sweet liberties
Utilized by the touch of lips.
A period punctuated by perched lips.
Released in ounces of color.
The way she loved.
My tongue swirled around hers.
Fingers wrapped around her waist.
Brown peach flavored skin.
My addiction a place for her to stay,
Her bag broken down; piece by piece.
A home away from home.
Until the day she left.
I consulted family, I reached out to friends.
They say that she's no good
They say leave her be.
Truth be told
My vacancy left colorless.
Bland.
My tree grown fruitless
Revealed to me in bitter hunger.
The realization of perception.
Nothing left to fill my hands.
This vacancy punishable by death.
A ****** filled by her alone.
My fingers around her waist.
Her love sticky, sweet.
Swirling around my tongue.
My eyes left low
Anticipating her return.
They say that she's no good
They say leave her be.
Truth be told
I haven't spoken to them since
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC
#STICK’EM UP with LIQUID NAILS
DANGER ! EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE
See Other Caution on Back Panel:
I’m hot for you Cowgirl – you’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby – I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces – pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight. Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you… stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl – and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier – there’s only one side of you… your GOOD side. Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose.
YEE – HAW ! Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet – be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset…
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
The recipe reads:
2 and 1/2 ounces dedication
To 3 pounds ********
To a gram of work
To a ton of cheating
To a tablespoon punctuality
To a gallon procrastination
All with a base of
Genetic Luck
Success,
Success,
**** this
What's the big idea
Of having to succeed?
I don't need to succeed,
Not by your standards.
I write my own formula
For a successful life.
One
Bitter
Shot
Of
Not dead, Yet.
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Leave my Nan out in the rain, it'll be right.
She's having veg later with some meat, on a bone but meat.
No gravy, she's too lazy. She will not thread it.
So what do you think? Shall we fold it the other way?
Do it tonight, it won't be today and not quite black but definitely not grey.
If it smells like cheese, just wear one and keep one eye open!
Then, we may even finish third.
Remember, listen for the sound.
It's crucial, like a twenty pence piece.
Dust! Always dust. Grams and ounces of the dustiest dust.
Never before six and never after six.
Just continuous with no bends, bubbles or any of that material you really like.
Because when he'd finished speaking (The Italian) I didn't understand a ******* word of it!
"Sorry, I don't speak Italian", shrugged my shoulders, did that thing you do with your bottom lip and ****** off.
THE END
(FINITO)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
I have accepted the heart you held in my hand.
I wished to fit it with my own.
But in the process, you kept deliberately cutting my fingers
Was I going too fast? Possibly.
Were my pieces too small? Possibly.
Were the edges too sharp? Possibly.
And yet, I continue to clutch at your shards with ****** palms.
I can't let you go, even if you hurt.
I accepted your heart, and I can't go back on my word.
I will, one day, form a beautiful stained glass portrait of you and I.
No matter how many ounces I bleed, I'll attempt to complete this work of art.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
So many chiefers and not enough Indians
There Yosef go with that ******** again fools can't comprehend
Cuz them weeds they choppin' put all thoughts to end
So come again like ya repeating the same thang
Ghetto Twain rhymes like boomerang leavin' welts on the back of the membrane
My topics ain't meant for population
So if you don't like change the **** station
So fools keep on puffin' and I'm.keep on stuffin'
My minds with nothing knowledge I learned nothing college
But to party and ******** shut and take a hit
Let the dogia explore your deepest mind terrains
Got ya hooked like a crane invoking much pain
Time is suffering people offering up sacrifices
And claiming they just being nice for the right price
They'll sell out they soul for few ounces of gold
So you see what's happening blasting like rocket
Coming for pockets of fake prophets once I'm set I'm a raging bull so ain't no stopppin' it
Then next thing ya know I stare at the floor and the window
My third eyes enlighten
Thinking to myself I gotta go
but I got buzz contact off that fake indo...
Shaking my head looking at these young studs
Laughing at em smokin'them fake budds
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
He came,
He left,
She followed
Turquoise paintings of purple hues
Often bring about madness
4th degree burns turn blue
In sunlight
Breaking 4th wall
**** in hand
Third-leg stand
Exhaustion creeping over bones
Arthritis
Hepatitis
C
The vitamin
Makes a graduation
From the bowels of the high
Schooler
Rulers
Exact measurements
My ***** is this big
Preschool measuring
There are 3 cups of juice left over
How many ounces in a cup?
Pig pen
See men
Wafting around in filth
I.
Await for something post period
Pregnant pauses
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
Petite arctic terns
navigate the sky
on epic migration
wings clocking
45,000 miles each year
it seems they know
how to go
with the flow
by thumbing a lift
on atmospheric airways
that crisscross the planet
adding thousands of
seemingly needless miles
to an already
arduous journey
flocks congregate
in open ocean
to rest and fuel up
on fish and krill
for the last push home
these tenacious birds
understand
the cliché
it's all about
the journey
they synchronize
with invisible currents
because to beat
into the wind
is a futile expenditure
they pause
in community
to re-energize and feed
on unfathomable
bounty
four ounces
of feather
and hollow bone
instinctively holds
these truths
there is much
to be learned
from an
arctic
tern.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Commit ****** then flip an ounce, a nonchalant verse that promotes the internal joust, with
pride earned as the only badge that counts.
Tap the snare drum for a bar, or vibing melody,
our backwards society stereotypes "thugs" as, "what drugs are they selling me?"
Rap is art in raw form,
intended to excite the youth who see death as a norm, the daily street storm.
Women de-humanized for a buck,
men taught to only treat them good if they **** and don't run out of luck.
The concrete jungles can only have just one king upon a throne, as the vicious cyclone continues destroying futures of the youth unless they succeed in the booth.
Youth commit ****** then flip an ounce,
pride earned needs to be denounced.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
Love:
Affection, Admiration, Lust, Adoration...
There are at least 65 different definitions of the word.
Feelings that inspire books of poetry or expressions of love unheard.
How is it measured?
Perhaps with a caliper
to measure its depth and breadth.
Or with a sound meter
To measure the volume and decibel or the whispering of a breath.
Could you measure it in pints or cups or ounces in a measuring cup?
"My cup runneth over"
Can it be measured with a thermometer?
"I'm burning up."
How heavy is true love - can it be weighed on the scales?
Can you measure love with a compass - to what degree does love prevail?
Can a speedometer track the speed by which one falls in love?
Or an odometer measure the distance at which love can still be felt?
Can you use a syringe to limit your doses of love before it's lethal?
Can you attach a heart monitor and check how a lover's heart beats faster
or the health of their love - strong or weak?
Can the rhythm & harmony be counted out on a metronome
Can a polygraph test prove it is true?
Can the magnitude of love be measured using a microscope, binoculars or a telescope - maybe Hubble. How does one know how to bring it into "focus"?
How mysterious that love is so indistinguishable, so immeasurable, so evasive & yet SO BIG!
Yet no one - except for God - knows the true measure of Love & its ability to heal, to hurt.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.
Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Get out of my heart
Get out of my head
You're not what you thought you were once
And even then you weren't that
Beauty is within
And without
And you're rotting
Rotting from your exterior to
Your core
You are a rotten apple, not a bad seed
Do you know how much sewage water it takes
To contaminate a glass of drinking water?
A drop
You're a gallon, baby
A gallon of sewage
Tons of nasty
Packed into eight ounces
Of Falsehood
So keep faking
Maybe someday, you'll find soemone else
Some other idiot who, like you, has no respect
For themselves
Or others
Or society
Or humanity
Or progress
So keep up your act
Act well your role
For you are our ***** STD
The thing we never want to hear about
But that reminds us of how much
We want better for ourselves
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
There is a history, could be called their story,
But the clouds,
To the dirt beneath,
Their finger nails,
All were lined in silver,
Or other precious metals,
Smelted with treasured memories,
Weaving silver through all,
The storms, along every cloud,
Each raindrop and teardrop too,
They labored,
In veins of mineral mines,
They smelted iron ore,
Got more troy ounces then they
Bargained for, by the millions,
Gold and silver for those linings,
Precious and semi-precious metals,
From deep holes in the ground,
To a furnace that evaporated sweat,
Under the fireproof suits, they worked hard,
Honestly while wearing protective lenses and
Not rose coloured glasses, it was a good life,
Memories and faded glory days,
Until the Company, took it away, bit by bit,
Leaving,
Flame but little glory,
To those special days,
And bygone days,
There are still a few,
Who survived modernization,
There are many more,
Whose best memory,
Is the pension,
Crew mates are gone,
Spouses are gone,
Yet the special days,
Are celebrated anyways,
In the Silver City,
That joy is almost,
Tangible, to when,
Generations of men,
Went home to their women, children
Broke bread, drink vino and shots of grappa,
Sharing day shift or afternoons,
And graveyard shifts during the boom,
Today many years later, more than 100,
Now the fireworks light the night-sky,
While figments of the past, stand shoulder,
To shoulder, with those who remain,
Shared memories of silver linings.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
bleak reality
meaningless amounts of me
i can never compare
to the love that you both share
you need her and she needs you
one without the other is just not fair
destroying one another
plumes of smoke
ashes of hope
ounces and ounces of love to ignite you
without her there would be no dreams to die to
fearing the flight
motionless we lay
she awakens you
and into her you divulge
deep and low is where you converge
somehow she pleases you
never having to tease you
her body releases you
her voice pleads with you
high and wide is where your pain resides
tempting you with unspoken promises
lighting the sky
she fills you
and into paper you merge
mouth open
lips relaxed
her memory fades
up and away
up and away
this is the part that hurts
releasing her remains
up in smoke your love for her will never change
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
A feather floating,
this feather is me and it was a pound heavier.
This once heavy feather merely floated.
I found solace in weighted thoughts,
my heart was born a feather
and it personified me
but it felt too special in all the wrong ways
when this feather aged and changed
many felt pain and this poor feather floated
but it added a few ounces to normalize itself
this heart of mine added weight by the day to
identify myself with other with ease.
I tried to float in this new chapter of my life,
but the feather floated ungracefully,
the feather lost its fluffy bits, bit by bit.
Crunch time and I dropped a pound of weight from my heart,
it was sudden, almost like losing baggage in an air plane terminal.
I use this feather as a saber,
it floats gently around conflicts that are blinded by shallow intents
and cuts the air.
It dances and spins,
this feather truly floats.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
We add speeches. Then nod our heads. We swim as if shipwrecked, but I wish we could be forgotten. I never have had you as much as I'd like, but I dream about your hands touching my face. We are like fish in prohibition, caged harmonies unbalanced by fake friends. I know your lullaby, I can't sleep it's ringing in my ears. Trust me and let us tie our legs together. You filled in my lines and have left me for deaf. I can't hear the words you've learned to lie together, you are intensifying and need attention. I can give you your spirit animal and sanctuary. Put your skin against my soft lips, your head pressed against my mouth, can you make a seashell out of your tongue, or wrestle an argument to the ground with the touch of your palm.
There aren't enough points for me to keep playing these games that I already beat you at. If I was half the dancer you keep telling me I am, then where do you keep your high heels, I've never seen you in high heels. Every time I see you push bangs from out of your face, or toss the strands from off your nape, I want to give you a crown that doesn't fear the pronouns that spells us two teas and our laptops sitting across from each other in the 1980s pour-over palace we remark on often. I collect stickers and old homework assignments. We both grew up with dolls, Playdoh, and Legos. You might only have one sister, but we both live in small houses filled with huge ideas. Homes of wit and sarcasm. I've cut ounces from your meat and I still can't sleep well.
I will steal your blanket, bedspread, and your pillows. Given the chance I will touch your ears, your face, and the lengths of your legs. But before we have our first to last kiss. Let me talk to Paul with this once in a lifetime opportunity. If he wants a life line he'll take this opportunity, and seemingly uncircumstantial; you recollect yourself in a Margherita and an advance that lands you to sway your ground.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Cold Diet Coke
Administered intravenously
Injected into my veins
And fueling my anxiety.
First, it was only a few
Drops to keep me ready,
But now it's full gallons
And even that's not quenching.
People always ask me,
"Why push milligrams and ounces
Of cold Diet Coke?
It'll make you choke.
After time, you'll croak.
You're such a stupid bloke,
Pushing Diet Coke."
To this I have to say that you
Are quite mistaken, sir.
I only do it because I am
Addicted to the tiny bubbles
In my fizzy bloodstream.
I know it's very dangerous,
But I haven't died quite yet.
I might just try some other kind
To fix my upset stomach.
"Zero calorie soda,
Amazing as it is,
Though it tastes delicious to you,
Isn't healthy food.
It's gonna cause an issue.
You're still depressed and blue.
Your face is green in hue."
Again I must say you lie
To steal my fleeting happiness.
I need the drip, drip, dropping through
My swiftly closing arteries.
I don't have much time left,
And I'm at Death's bright doorstep.
I'm taking my final breaths,
And I'm on my deathbed.
I just want to tell you
You made me do this.
It's your fault.
You're to blame.
Yours is the shame.
You outlive yet another son.
You could've saved this one.
My chances are slim to none.
I approach the glistening sun
As the fungus and rot outrun
The weight of death o'er a ton.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 3:14 PM UTC
After we used to call you piglet
And after you liked celery,
After the eighth of December at eight o'clock
And after you were eight pounds eight ounces,
They took a photo of when I first held you.
You were crying your eyes out,
Like your mum was in the living room
After she found out,
Before I scurried away.
But you've grown up
In your old *** Pistols t-shirts
And your scribblings screenprinted onto new ones.
Copper hair loyally trailing behind you,
You glide around the house en pointe,
In between embroidery at noon and fashion design after lunch.
Too cool to have sushi at ten years old,
And nearly too old
To hug your big cousin without reluctance.
Like an ordinary kid.
Minding your know-it-all brother
With his resounding echos of 'youknowwhatyouknowwhat'
Making sure he doesn't burn a hole through the floor
With his new chemistry set, that he won't admit
He doesn't quite know how to use,
But will continue on nevertheless.
And you will roll your eyes.
Like an ordinary kid.
But your adenosine triphosphate,
Can barely lift it's own molecular weight
Nevermind the energy you ask it to carry.
In comparison, the ordinary ATP
Of your ordinary classmates,
Is a strongman next to your weakling cluster of N, H, C and O.
So you take your small grey spheres.
And don't drink full fat milk
And your father's taught you how to cook
And value food.
And use your nebuliser
And clean and dust and sterilise
So your glass lungs
Which clatter when you cough
Don't shatter.
And after all that
You twist your hair up in a bun
And carry on.
Not falling down the rabbit hole,
But bounding gracefully.
Like the extraordinary kid that you are, Alice.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:19 AM UTC
Not since the days
of shooting ******
into the artery in my armpit
(too many blown out veins
in my arms and feet),
have I spent multiple nights
pacing and sweating…..
**** you simple carbohydrates. –
In the first months
of being a non-cigarette smoker
I would see folks light up
and near instantly collect
a chilled film on my back
and fingernails…
forget about it;
but the other day I drove
by a pizzeria
and had thoughts of ski masks
and 45 caliber pistols…
**** you simple carbohydrates. –
Once upon a time
I drank near 200 ounces of
Mountain Dew
each and every day.
If I missed a day,
I would have massive headaches
combined with serious irritation;
while it has been more than 5 years
since this body ingested caffeine,
last night I could not fall asleep for anything
and no amount of cannabis oil
or ibuprofen
had the ability to curb
my aching noggin….
**** you simple carbohydrates –
change is the only constant
and humanity has evolved
amazing adaptability
while I know I will be fine
at this moment only one thing
really runs through my head:
**** you simple carbohydrates! –
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
August 4th, 1992
That night
My heart began beating
To the rhythm of
Two words
Samantha Shea
My baby girl
She was 9 pound 6 ounces
Of pure love and joy
Her mother’s eyes
My ears
But her smile
Was all her own
She seemed almost wise
Just staring blankly back
At me
Like she knew me
Better than I knew myself
I have never loved anyone
So much
I tried to give her all I could
Make her feel like a real princess
Make her feel safe
And loved
She grew up with things
Her mother and I
Only dreamed of as children
But she was never selfish
Never unkind
I never knew
How much she hated herself
Until I noticed that her arms
Made her look like war veteran
And her eyes
Like those of a ghost
A lost soul wandering around
Lost and Suffering
Could it be that hard
To be a teenage girl
Could it be that hard
To have everything
Handed to you
Everyone love you
That night I saw her as
Nothing but selfish and unkind
I mean how could she do this to us
To herself
I looked her in the eyes and asked
Why
With a single tear running down her face
Resembling a winter’s first snowflake
Or a desert’s first raindrop
She let out the words
“I wasn’t meant for this world”
No you were meant for me
You are my world
I wanted to wipe her tears
And heal her scars
Her years of fear and self-loathing
Was no match for my love
My compassion
My understanding
I spent the next two weeks
Helpless, lost, and confused
By the time we had found her
The bath water was as cold as my heart
The floor stained with drops of
Complete sadness
No note
I cried until I was
Red in my face and
Blue in my heart
A parent should never
Have to bury their child
So we had her cremated
We figured that
She spent 16 years
Stuck in her own box
She shouldn’t have to be
Buried in one
I’ve never loved anyone
So much
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
From the beginning:
It’s a new year and I quit my job
**** it, I’ll never be good at serving
Directionless in 2013
January.
It’s unusually warm.
Your presence in the room is a rock in my shoe
You’re so cool
And I’m a mess.
Remember, you called me Heather in bed?
And I made you go home?
Well.
I forget.
Now we’re crossing the street
For your birthday, it’s your birthday,
Makers Mark, count ‘em, 2 ounces at a time.
Stacked up like unread texts and why don’t you like me’s
I don’t remember
But I’m probably crying
Flash in to outside
God it’s like 60
Deciding to go with you
Asking you to kiss me
(I had a long term boyfriend in my 20s
And his mother would buy me toilet paper for Christmas
The gift of hindsight is kind of like that:
Practical and helpful and a ****** of a gift)
Today is 9 years to the day
My parents know and they’re on their way
The nurse thinks I might be paralyzed
11 broken bones and two black eyes
This is the end of the beginning
Which is the easy part
I’ve never been able to write it all down
Spin it into art
Be warned, I can’t guarantee poetry
From a patched-but-still-leaking heart.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 9:21 AM UTC