"preformed" poems
Puppet Master
You crept in like a mischievious thief.
Intrigued, decieved and retrieved my son.
Influencing and destroying his beautiful life.
Diminished his hopes, his dreams and his self-esteem.
Convincing him he had no future,
No love, no value was to his life.
Your wicked silk spun web of deadly lies,
Mislead him to believe,
That happiness and love cease to exist.
This is your fuel,
This your fire.
Your one and only desire.
You will not quit until they all expire.
****** black, H or tar,
You are a seductive liar.
Your needle point claws buried deep his arm,
Dripping with your poisonous conceit.
Now you are his puppet master.
Dominating his mind, his thoughts and his words.
Your malicious acts preformed through him,
Make him look wild, insane and disturbed.
Each day in your tight intense grip,
My son dwindled and shriveled away.
Becoming your molded and trained apprentice.
Coached to perfection in your twisted ways.
You are as bad as a ******
A murderer and even more.
I hate you ******
You started a war.
I will not let you win!
Let go of my loved and cherished son.
Let him live a full and beautiful life.
I surrender to you myself.
Volunteer my own life.
Take me instead,
Be my puppet master,
Enslave me,
And let my baby live.
L. Mack
9/20/18
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:41 AM UTC
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.
I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.
After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."
Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.
After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.
The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
Seasons change and life goes on,
my scenes switch off, times are gone with words
From CT, to New York, to Colorado, the world’s voice I’ve already heard.
But not everyone can see the world’s treasures in their face,
the beauties, people, lights and sounds across this finite space.
Or felt the stars in their souls, that’ll disperse one day
It’s not the case, so please sit down, and listen to what I say:
We’re all too busy honing in on things that shouldn’t stand out
Like why I speak the way I do, with etiquette and class
why I transcend the lines between specific roles
in what I say and how I act
I say:
Why question and judge the little things I do
in my life, which isn’t yours
to the point where you cut off ties and contact that never had been forged
Because your preformed images of a bisexual, black guy
warps your eyes and makes you blind, way that can’t be right, because
across time the blind eyes symbolizes truth
so these illusions in your way, blocking you in sooth,
serve no purpose, see the light and accept the natural proof.
My hair’s not ***** my behavior varies to where
it fits no norms. I’m beyond your views, don’t you see?
It’s the eye of the storm.
I say:
It doesn’t stop at me, no, no. It spreads beyond these walls
and affects those who are different, who break society’s “laws”
Wars and fights over basic things are all I ever hear,
beliefs, gender, color, orientation,
the common fight is fear
Fear to be seen as an abomination
to break or fall from grace
To stay hidden from their true potential
for their own safety’s sake
I say:
That’s no way to live a life of
chances, hope and purpose
to live in shadows, cold and alone under
a hidden surface
I’m here to say that there’s no shame
in being who you are
to break the norm and stand against those
who dare to change your ways, to those who can’t accept
that life’s about change.
Why do I say such things? Why do I speak?
Why do I stand as one?
Our fate’s o n a string, the strong and meek
we’re all united under one sun.
I say:
We’re all human, how hard is it to understand that we’re the pieces
of one heart, united in a common band.
If we don’t accept this, how far can we go?
Surely we won’t last, but if we rise above this fog,
the human spirit will ever last against whatever
time and space may throw, whatever darkness we may fear.
Open your eyes, your ears, your heart
Because I say this: It all starts here.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
*i had a broken toy box full of broken toys
flotsam and jetsam of a childhood
filled with playthings shattered and forgotten
in later years I would open that dusty
chest filled with dusty remnants of happier times and weep
for the friends I had left behind
shattered chunks of preformed plastic that
kept me safe when
barely out of diapers my Nuclear Family went
nuclear
lead paint and lawn darts
loose pieces and lost innocence
i learned the value of love through
spending time with cast off friends
i learned the value of respect through
seeing the pieces of the stickers that I
tore off my spider-man helicopter immediately
after
my mother and father in their last
act of love as a couple spent hours
placing them exactly as
instructed
i did not learn that one day i would
be a dusty old cast off toy in someone elses
box of broken pieces
in that world
toys are replaced before their
time
broken not by love and use but by throwing
them against the wall in a tantrum looking for
the next
shiny
new
thing*
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:31 AM UTC
A beautiful world turns round again
A simple man must meet his end
A bright new baby is born anew
A cycle can do nothing except renew
But no sick cycle is meant for us few
No endless circuit to remove us from the slew
Of public discord raining down from the heavens
We only stay on track to see where it ends
A broken sidewalk is our path to somewhere
To carry us away to a brand new nowhere
But no preformed path can lead us away
Unless we walk forward to find our own feet at play
A brand new day comes to find its own end
What irony arises from the end of a beginning?
When does a fresh start turn stale and still?
Do our new opportunities hover until they fall?
Or do we have to pluck them out of the air
So thick we can’t see, what the future means us to be
Are we failures or successes?
Do the powers that be know that we
Are the next wave of an endless storm
That batters the public consciousness
Leaving it forlorn and ragged
By the dissent of the vocal minority
We will forever be we, and that is a fact
The sullen masses can’t remove our power
An urge to survive will rain down like a shower
On the poor souls without the life of their dreams
The possibilities remain locked inside heads of lead
While those without any move on ahead
A world for the doer but not for the thinker
Can doom the ideas of the intelligent and weaker
People without the urge to move and shout
Living a life of inadequacy is their only way out
A great ending for these is not in the cards
Instead the powerful push down the bards
The dreamers who knew not the hunger
To leap to the top and remove any wonder
As to whom they could be
Must lie at the bottom explaining the lives
Of those successful but simpler spirits
Who lacked the essence but held on to ambition
A world that is just never comes to fruition.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 4:02 AM UTC
I miss how we were the only ones alike.
We were the only two of that caliber, and you knew it.
Electricity flew between your lips and mine.
We were beautiful.
I miss how our voices pierced the heavy silence around us, and tangled up with one another.
I miss how we preformed for no more than one another.
I miss how your melodies kissed my face as they glided about our space.
I miss our shared breath.
I miss my voice moving in perfect time with yours; curving up to meet your highs, and dipping down to brush against your lows.
I miss the way you would look at me when I took control and owned the song-- with that sly, crooked grin.
The accidental physical touch
The longing when our time ran out
The lingering of your voice, and that crystal gaze burning into my core
The teasing and the backhanded compliments
Never too sure of what's work and what's play
But I'm sure of this:
There is a certain intimacy that comes with throwing your heart and soul into the void, and hoping it doesn't fall flat.
There's an even deeper intimacy that follows when you meet another voice, and you move and reach and swell and growl and throw everything you have into that one note.
Because without passion, we are dead.
Breathe into me.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
She started to walk away
Her little show complete
Preformed in front of everyone
But only he knew the meaning-
That she was done.
She could see the door
She had no more purpose here
She headed towards it
Never to enter this place
With trepidation again
"Wait!" Her heart stops
She feels sick, she falters
How dare he
Now she's mad
She keeps walking
"Please, stop."
And she does
But only to respond
Fury evident in every syllable
"Don't even try it."
He walks towards her
Past the people
Milling in the foyer
Some watching
They've heard the rumors
"I'm not going to try anything
But I think we should talk."
She stares at him
Glares at him
He thinks he has the right?
She stands there facing him
Rigid as an iceberg
And just as cold
If this is to be their last encounter
She doesn't want the starers watching
"We can go into my office" Always assuming
"Lead the way" And he does
He doesn't know
That the woman following behind him
Is not the girl he left behind a year ago
Another venture past wandering eyes
She feels the stares
But doesn't turn to acknowledge
Her back straight, head held high
She is ready
She follows him in
And shuts the door behind her
He speaks
"I think we have a lot to talk about,
But we don't have to do it here."
His words ask permission to continue
Permission not granted.
"No. I won't be seeing you again
So we're getting this done now."
"Please-" He tries, she snaps
"No! You don't get to talk!
Every time you talk
You spin words in circles
Until you have me believing
This is a good idea!
"So now I get to talk.
You don't get to do this to me anymore!
Because you've hurt me!
I've let you hurt me
Over and over again.
"But I'm done.
We're done.
You made your choice
The moment you set foot off that plane
And decided I didn't matter.
"Because that's what you did
You didn't call, text, write, or try to find me.
I was here, waiting for you
And you left
You made your choice, this is mine."
She left him in that office
Staring at the open door
Speechless
While she walked away, head high
She didn't look back.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Let’s say for a few years of your life, you chewed a pack of gum a day. and this gum wasn’t a gum that got old, you never wanted a new flavor. And this gum made you really, really, extremely happy. Let’s say you were going through hell but this gum brought you back from it. So then you wake up one day, and you can’t chew this gum anymore. And you're given no reason as why so you're just walking around confused and uncomfortable because you're not chewing any gum. And the thing is: you see gum everyday. You just can’t have it. And when something becomes a habit, you tend to think about it all the time when said habit is not being preformed. And over time you learn that you can’t chew gum but you still don’t know why and you still think about it all the time. Then half a dozen months have passed and you find yourself back in a good place but you still can’t get that juicy, flavorful, everlasting gum out of your head. So you try to ignore the urge but it is always there, pulling at your brain, that you need this gum, that this gum makes you happy. But you still can’t chew this gum, that isn't even an option. Then its a year, and although you may not want to chew this gum anymore you still constantly think about it, because your body is so used to it, your body is not ready to give up the hope that someday you will chew that gum again. Then one day, you get the chance to chew it. It is sitting right in front of you, ready to be chewed. And you bolt. You bolt because that beautiful little brain of yours is trying to protect you. Because yes, you can taste that gum again. But there will come a day, soon or far, that said gum is taken away. And you can’t be put through that again. This is the best way i can describe my crave for you but my unwillingness to fulfill it.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
Short sided half blinded
Slight of hand and I’m reminded
Tricks hidden up his sleeve
As well as the Ace of diamonds
always ready for the next show
As it must go on as we all know
Well suited half cocked fully booted
Well dressed and nicely suited
mischievous clever handsome gent
More confidant than the president
Well worded heavy handed compilments
Flow like honey from his lips
Sparkling smile and sinister grin
witty banter and articulate speech
Each magic trick a selfish greed
To trip you up and slow your speed
Prepared illusions well practiced form
precisly metered and preformed
Perfected evil and aptly staged
To keep you fooled and entertained
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Watching a sunset
Splay its colored body
Against a hollow, indigo sky.
Her children,
Lost glowing specks
Of iridescent dust,
Peek out from behind their
Empty, lightless blanket -
Shy and blushing.
Tongue and tooth
Clicking together,
Tickled by vibrating
Chords hidden in heated
Throats.
Stories slink
From one mouth
To another,
Tickling their
Deep limbic systems
Until every nerve
Is laced with
Oxytocin.
Laying in grass
More brown than green
With stomachs to the sky
Are bodies with connected
Palms.
Formless dinosaurs spin
In shapeless teacups,
While amorphous cats
Shift into mustachioed whales.
Bodies curl around each other
Like clay
Fusing into one piece
And two colors,
Both a shade of red.
A chest meets a back.
Its fluttering heart
Crashing through
Two sets of ribs,
To rest with another,
Both bleeding in tandem.
Love is
Not some byproduct
To gather dust
While writhing, undulating bodies
Coat the air with sweat.
Love isn't made,
Nor is it preformed.
Love is
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
The inner stitching's of my being have begun to unravel themselves.
Each thread held a piece of me that I swore never to release,
For it has brought nothing but evil and disgust to the ones that care for me.
I sowed them with a string so strong and a needle so sharp
That no wear nor test of time could break its hold.
But alas, my fingers must not be as still as they once were
For I find myself twitching at every mere brush of my hand against them.
One by one,
I pull at the stitching's of my dumbfounded self.
The master work I previously preformed has been undone by its
"master" worker.
The irony of the situation astounds me.
How I can and have wronged so many so harshly in such short an amount of time,
Yes, I once sowed these stitching's so tightly
That the devil could not sliver
his was past them.
But I was far to concerned with outside interference to open my eyes and see
That the most devious and most threating obstacle I had to face,
Stared me down in the mirror each and every morning.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
It’s a granite bench that I frequent
Your name carved in stone; eternal
It’s the ink over my ribs.
A barrier to protect our vulnerable hearts
You used to tease me for my love of symbolism
How could we have known?
I’ve been reading up on Dickenson
I’ve been keeping my room a mess
I’ve been seeing you in my dreams
I talk with you there, but I still can’t talk with you here
On this granite bench that I frequent
I kiss your name in stone; eternally it lingers for you there
The next time I return, it remains, unclaimed and cold
What was protecting your heart?
Was it that through which the bullets tore?
Two to the chest, that’s all I’ve been told.
No CPR preformed.
****** up thought, I know.
I cut my bangs after your funeral
It was a poor choice
As we both could have predicted.
You would have laughed and kissed me all the more.
They’ve grown out now
During the time it took for them to grow, I hated the sunset
How could something so beautiful exist in the same world that kicked you out so soon?
How could I find peace in that?
And, I was ****** the moment that it did
It’s not a habit that I frequent
But none the less, that night I did
How could I have known?
A symphony of blinds clacking in the wind,
A leaky air mattress’s hiss, crickets that sounded ******
And I couldn’t move
So I just listened, and composed, and
All the while you bled, your heart stopped
Your last breath
I just laid there, ****** arms spread wide, eyes fixed
Maybe like you, I suppose?
****** up thought I know.
So, I offer a kiss to your name, carved in stone
I leave it there
But I know
It will just grow cold
And my ink itches me, over my ribs, over my heart
It must be the cold
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Still in the mist of finding my purpose...Like why do I stand here...you know I use to think that i was a flower bright and beautiful...that I was something everyone would need...but now I believe they feel the urge to call me a weed...That im growing in unwanted places...And so i look unappealing to many of their faces...Haven’t i preformed a miracle didn't you want me to grow...and now that I've out done my peers you don't want me to show...Yes there are thousands of us and i hope to make more...unique like me because you told me to soar..see they've been nurtured and cared for..Do you see what i've endured...No im not in a field, a valley, a hill top or, tuffit... but i've emerged from the ground...the rough hard moldings that i was around...i stand here bright tall my own lil treat...but em' just a **** if I grow from the street ...and as i try to reach out to others... i loose my bright colors..an slowly give myself away in the wind piece by piece by piece...as i die where you left me trying to grow out of the cold concrete....But it doesn't end there...See im still in the air...Me this **** have planted some seeds..In the pieces of me..Inspiring more flowers in their places of need!!
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
the principle of uncertainty
when there were no corners
not yet
the energy of thought
preformed
the roots of leaves
preconditioned
the land of images without boundaries
I was the king of taste
this vessel took
changing forms
each minute
I was one with my hand
with my towels
with the red cube
of desire
I want was enough
to destroy
the names of dawn
this vessel knows the route to chaos
our guarding mother
take me in your sighs
hold me somewhere
in the sleeves
of thought
let's do it
let's feel one last bit
of the pulsing wreckage
we are full of promises we made
to ourselves
to take the route
to the next level
of ecstasy
we need a container
let's do it
let's chase the semantics
away
what remains is
the fruit of day
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Swallow and go. Something I can do, like pace myself or ********** You ask me what I write about. I say
famous people, and discrepancies.
Simulate applying mascara. Stainless steel reflections play tennis better than I ever could. [Yesterday] I read something that intibated me,
preformed a lobotomy without a drill.
I had a dream that I forgot my work shirt at a friends house and ran through downtown bare chested to see it serve as a shroud for the most recent saginaw st ******
At the bottom of a heartbeat you explain the grandfather paradox to me. Why wouldn't I go back and shoot the man who ***** my mother? I could have been a time capsule; could have been a light saber,
could have been a different poet who wears a lot of tank tops but calls them camisoles. Late at night my
boyfriend is more treasure chest than in the afternoon, his drunk, swollen face hooked and dark like his indian mothers.
I tell him I am unfaithful every day at three, in the afternoon when he visits the crows nest to regurgitate tequila and recyclable fibers. I wear camisoles that I call tank tops; let some neighbor feel me up over a periwinkle floral pattern when I was trying to change my life. We then shared an avocado sandwich and
peddled the fattest grams on the east side.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Stunning sightings of a stark reality
Made boring as the playhouse sleeps
Watch the show pleas from the beak
The crow doth speak
A tellers tale of the human folk
Whence they both still walked and spoke
He cries in squawks of sheer wonder
A show he'd say loudly frayed
The people evoked only slain opinions
From the mouth black liquid pour
All the pride they had built, split
Release of their very souls
In surrender to the grandeur of the theater whole
So bold it preformed as the creatures sunk deeper
Into the folded molds of their seats
Thus sang the crow the tale he told
Of the how men became stone
At the precipice of only the greatest of shows
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
I have tried to ****** Time.
To bring an end
to the movement of the spheres.
I spun counter to it's pull
but fell to the Earth
before the grave deed was done.
I have tried to slaughter God.
To wash the stain from my memory
Cossacks, draped around me,
habits dutifully worn.
Keep the others away from
that one.
He's not the same.
I have tried to fell a Giant.
Pushing back with every
ounce within.
Muscles tearing from the work,
and all the while coming to find
I needed this more
than I would like.
I have tried to drown a memory.
To dig a well so deep inside myself
that the bubbles will one day
simply stop.
As though somehow this one act
would forever redeem me.
I have tried to rewrite history.
Each swift movement of my pen
erasing the things I've done
the places I've been.
This clean slate will be all that
is left of me.
I have tried to overcome.
To find that place
where all is well and
my work,
such labors I have preformed,
can finally be
done.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
Do you know what's weird
Silence
Like why do I have to keep my voice down when the world is sleeping
Just to be woken by
Cars
Trains
Planes
People
Heartbreak
Whatever
Like why should I hold my tongue just so others can speak their mind
If they wanted to speak their mind they would talk over me
Yell at me
Something
Instead I have to keep quiet
Quiet my mind
Quiet my passion
Just so I can sit in silence and wait for you to think of something meaningful to say
Let me help you
Today I said goodbye to my ex girlfriend
You might be thinking why when she is already my ex
She died June 22nd
And I still have conversations with her while I'm making food in the kitchen
Like she's going to walk in and tell me how her day was
And now I will have to deal with silence
I preformed my own funeral for her because I could not attend her real one
I wrote her name on a rock
I talked to a **** rock
I told the rock I loved it and that I was sorry and all I heard was silence
Really?
That's all I get rock?
After everything we've been through?
Well alright
I threw the rock in the river and watched it sink to the bottom
After the deafening splash came silence
I now hate silence
I stood on a bridge and waited for something to happen
I walked off in silence
I thought my words would resurrect her
I thought my apology would bring a more relieving feeling
So do not tell me silence can be a good thing
Silence leads to over thinking
So if you plan to talk over me, make sure you have something decent to say
A story to tell
Mine ends up being about a rock
A rock as a metaphor for my relationship
And nothing more
Goodbye rock
Now I can be happy with silence
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
Daniel raced some ****** in the year of the monkey
For a brand new set of vintage strings
Beat the ****** real easy, took the vintage guitar
And smiled “hey man it’s just one of these things”
Placed the guitar over his shoulder, like a baby he held her
Closed his eyes and played some chords
With the chords came some lyrics, in the darkness he sat
In the center of Jensen Grand Concert Hall
The ghost on the piano, she preformed a haunting solo
Behind him was a phantom band
In front a phantom crowd
In the pre-warm up show, he rocked the empty old concert hall stand
Outside some kids from Coltman,
Drinking some beer and just smoking some crack
He and the phantom band headed home
Past the house of the Pocatello Nymphomaniac
Daniel walked up the stairs, sat on his chair, pulled out his guitar and played
Next door the neighbors sat with their ears to the wall listening to the midnight serenade
The old boy across the road in Jasmine Street opened the window, to hear the guitar crying
Listening to the sound of the junkies strings and the, silent neighbors smiling
In the morning he was still playing, his fingers red, they were getting tired,
The audience next door exhausted on the floor but, still smiling
Now back to the grand concert hall for his first ever gig, and the posters all around the town
Read Daniel and his 6 ****** strings are going to bring the house down
The local poet society, were reciting poetry to me, empty chairs in the hall, I stand on the stage looking for familiarity,on this day I’ve waited for
The first ones through the door were the neighbors who made love to my music
Tears still in their eyes from last night’s show, they took my gift of music and abused it
And the man from down the block he’s here too he shouted “Daniel this world needs more **** musicians like you”
Fat Shane from Mobile Alabama who’s just come out the slammer on day release to just see me
Soon the hall’s filled with 1200 faces all crowded in this space but there’s just 2 empty seats
One is for my mother who’s 3 years passed and told me son always follow your dreams
And the others for the ****** and the Monkey who lost the race and gifted these vintage strings to me
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
We sat on the back porch reading Bukowski to each other as we
hid from the sun.
Even the overgrown wasp from the summer before
feared the heat.
And I watched you blow smoke as you preformed and
as the shadows grew long and uneven.
And everything was good
and everything was perfect.
I left you that evening for far away states in an over driven
machine that floated through the concrete river.
Chased disappearing shadows until they were nonexistent.
And as sickly sweet poison and smoke paid homage
I thought of you and knew that
Everything was good and
everything was perfect.
Neither of us are certain how the world began
or the power of coincidence.
I will never be able to express how autumn
makes me feel, or how much I love you,
But I know that you are everything good.
You are everything perfect.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
What is this movements to the notes and rhythms,
The breath that breathe life it's essense of eternal ether?
Mourn to moan the formulation of birth to ****** propatuate procreation and then to final destination, cycling the very foundation of life, rebirth, and death in sound that carry over from one another.
Music preformed by guitar, violin, base, cello to piano, or any of the string instruments that symbol the living life strand of the life we wheel.
As our longevity is finite, but with infinite choices to play with strings until our lines are cut or break, and no longer play the songs we so love to hear so dear to our ears.
For a beat that tinker to our muse to the music that linger in the faint of our memories, those memories we try to keep close to our soft pillow and tucked away in our minds to comfort us in our less then pleasant boundaries leaving us empty, like a good age wine to lets us dream.
The empty cups shall be the reminder that sound and tone shall sieze to calm with stringless nights, the song has sang the final tune and forever leave it's mark on the heart good night.
Until that final symphony reaches it final tune, accept the notes as it is a song we live in a moment, for all music good and bad has it's epilogue.
One must choose to play their music, and find their final notes to end their master piece in due time.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
I remember...
I remember, just barely, my first dance with him
When he wasn't in pain and he laughed everyday
I remember, not even a year later, the first time he cried...
Everything fell apart as an avalanche swept over my house taking away all the joy and harmony
I remember the first time visiting him in the hospital
White as a ghost, helpless
I remember sitting next to him as he drifted in and out of sleep thinking
"What happened? Why did this happen?"
I remember not seeing him in the crowd for the first time I preformed on stage and visiting him in the ICU after
I remember
sitting
waiting
crying
praying, for this to all to stop and for him to become whole again
I remember getting off the bus to an empty house, full of memories
I would give anything to recreate
Family bike rides, climbing trees, TPing the neighbors
That can no longer happen
I remember when the simplest tasks weren't challenges
Whoever thought tying your shoes would inflict such excruciating pain
I remember long road trips, watching sunsets on the beach, and endless boat rides
I remember tea parties, horse back riding and nothing but laughing in between
I Remember
I Remember the day when he became another statistic
I Remember
He remembers
We Remember
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC