"seriousness" poems
At least with Solemn Differences sing
Honouring Friends of Great Cheer celebrate
Your arm on her lap; The other on him
And with a Flash these Blue Knights consecrate
Jolly, so Potent turn Tan into Red
That pleasant alarm Blue Oracles see
And guess which Debate your Incarnate fed
Whether you are or whether not to be
Ready for Cause to the Next Big Event
Telling yourself to Inspiration run
Foresaw this Scope: Friendship and Teamwork's meant
But all of this time it was just for Fun.
Seriousness Adore, Someone licks the Tip
In your Patron; Which was really your lip.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Its all just words
No faces
No looks, no clothes, no smell
A simple connection
It could have been anybody
But it wasn’t
It started off as a hobby
Something to keep boredom at bay
By now you’re junior olympics... At least
It can be as flawless as beach glass
Or jagged
and farspread like the trees still dieing
I never know what to expect
Excitement
Misunderstanding
Seriousness
Interest
Laughter
Understanding
Awkwardness
Distracted
An idea
... Clearly I could continue
It’s like my little escape hole
A therapist that Actually understands and wants to
We just click
Alined by the sun
Some would say
But I dunno if that’s true
All I know is what I feel
Should I not feel what I feel?
Do I feel what I feel?
Is what I feel real?
Or is it fake
Is it a lie?
Or should I make it one
I don’t know what’s best
How can I
I’m new at this remember
All I know are the words of the known
Who are unknown to me in one world
And an empty chair in the next
I sit down and wait patiently
Until it’s finally my turn, here is where I’ll sit
There is no shame finding comfort in the little things the chair offers
Its smooth silky surface
The wine stain down the middle
the dots that resemble a smile in the corner
You don’t forget what you know so well
You open up your palm
A baby snake inside
He doesn't take it
He doesn't **** it on the spot
He doesn't grimace with disgust
He doesn't burst out in laughter
He picks it up
and cradles it in his hands
And sets it free
Back into the world where it belongs
And then he gives you a dalia
You take it and tuck it behind his ear as something to be admired
He blushes
He needs you too
Maybe
But its real
Almost too real
So you push it away
It’s impossible
It might not even be close to what you think it might be
Forget
And stay silent
Hey
We start again
A haha here
A smiley face too
Climbing up the uncertain mountain that has never been climbed before
The chance of falling high
But you like the chase
And for now
It’s enough
You don’t really care if you summit anyway
A possible “when”
always dangling
Inside the clouds
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
My darling, will you marry me?
Years of hints
I decided to ask
Is it wrong for a woman to ask first?
Disbelieving
His reaction
His breath heavy and heaving
Fidgeting in his chair
My face, sallow in its seriousness
Cast a cold shadow on his bones
His body turning away
The back of his head
In my veins moved oxygen pure
My breath calm and subdued
Knowing the answer before it was asked
Confirmation from his lips due
What does one do after many years?
Is it ok to force one into marriage?
Am I giving myself up?
Am I giving in?
My darling. Will you marry me?
You are the love of my life.
Will you marry me?
No, he said.
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 8:06 AM UTC
we play with a retired professional but
none of the other kids mind—
his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle
memory and god doesn’t he look bad
the ball is an old piece of garbage made from
a kind of industry plastic
half-flayed alive by loving kicks
that expose the moldy gray rubber inner-
sphere like some soft eyeball
and, behind one of the goals, the
boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays
lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture—
unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily
puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut
and I step aside, too—
my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy
of cold cereal I can’t play—
some days are like that—shed of their seriousness
because it’s more fun to play without a defense
even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored
a goal!
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
Evil & crime so predictable & stale.
Stupid how arrested suspects get bail.
Convicted when their victims tell.
Prison is where some stay & are jailed.
They have to communicate by mail.
Sometimes their focus goes in another direction.
Where probation happens after correction.
Child & spousal abuse, drug use, & rehab that is no use.
History repeats
Wives & children still get beat.
Their isn't always a Superman or Batman to be your hero.
With a sword or crossbow.
Details of armed robbery , drug dealing & smuggling.
Stabbings & muggings.
On the inside homosexual love with cuddling.
Human trafficking & prostitution.
Violating amendments & constitutions.
They are how they are from how they were raised.
If their victims could speak from the grave
Or had they been saved.
They could explain & describe how their rapists & killers behaved.
Male & females do their time.
Years in custody for their crimes.
Seriousness of their offenses vary.
Some educate, get jobs, or marry.
Behind bars is where violence belongs.
To be punished for all that they did wrong.
Some from death row are now dead.
Similar to the wildlife in a zoo behind bars they get fed.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Lush mango groves
where the musky scent of mango blooms
once wafted making the
bulbuls sing in ecstasy
from morning till sundown
are reborn as gated communities,
where grim seriousness parade.
In sun drenched vineyards,
shadows of dreams,
wanting to dress up as IT parks, spread.
Bangalore barters its medley of colors and smells
for prosperity in terms of greenbacks,
as people learn to be 'smart' players,
and more and more get 'Bangalored'*
from around the world.
Corn fields that danced to the tunes
of the songs of toiling farmers
go missing within days.
To match with the new mood,
nature, in this green paradise, till not so long ago
shamelessly wears the unnatural with style.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
**** me.
Here I go again, meeting a blue eyed boy and tripping myself into a trap, catching feelings and getting infected more than I should. His tremendous fingertips tuck against mine, making mine tremble in a way I forgot they could. My fingers are dwarves against his, trying to hold onto something tangible, something real, as he breathes heavy air my way and I giggle, unable to handle the seriousness.
**** me.
Because this is serious. We laugh and poke and **** and joke but when I look into his eyes, I know. I know for once this is something far more serious than a fling, than dating, than any of it. He is my friend and we are standing here bare to each other and we are not turning away, not hiding unto ourselves, we are basking in the glory of each other's nakedness and loving it.
**** me.
Each time he touches my side I feel a flutter and a yearning that I haven't felt so strong in a long time. He is touching me, and kissing me, and each moment I wait for the next touch, the next kiss, I go crazier and crazier. I crave his hands on mine, on my body, on all of me, and I can't handle it.
**** me.
Pull me down onto you and make me feel something I've never felt before. Make me forget all those other boys to the point only you exist and I exist and that's all that matters. Make me feel beautiful naked. Make me real. Make yourself unforgettable.
**** me.
I'm falling in love with him.
Hard.
****
Me.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
three
days
among rafts
trees rivers
lakes streams
waterfalls
I walk the
fear-infested
office floors
like a king
nothing troubles
me, wade over
grim swell and
fatal seriousness
as I float on my back,
spread arms, feet, heart,
a cloud has another helping
of an azure sky
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
I do not believe in fairytales, so be straight,
Experience was present, and it's worth the faith.
I do not want to rely, on repeating hopes in oblivion,
If promises were prayers, I don't have religion.
Continuing is just a self-detonation, prolonging the agony,
blaming myself, living life hard sadly.
I am seeing the inequality, on every angle and scopes,
sometimes I am thinking hanging my neck on the ropes.
and as I blame,
negative tendency,
occurs.
comes, sudden,
unexpectedly.
but,
when I see you, negativity's gone,
my inspiration's overflowing,
keeps me away from frown.
but,
when I see you, my depth dissapears,
and all of a sudden,
I want to lend an ear,
but,
when I'm with you, my heart skips a beat,
I step out of my seriousness,
in your cup, I sitdown and take a sip,
but,
when I'm with you, I want to listen
I want to know you further,
overlaps, to what they're just seeing,
to hear every stories told, with your cheerful voice,
your warmth, that caresses my body,
builds up my poise,
transcends a choice, to be happy or not,
I forget all my worries,
and say I'm a little pessimist, but
..I am looking forward,
to stay this way,
for as long, as we both can,
complete our days.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:18 AM UTC
but finality in all series of things
seriousness, or was it
lackadaisical thought offspring
blooms walls of drooping eye?
air-tight space, its coalition
with inward breaking penumbra
of shadow,
i write a poem so as not a poem
but an antagonism of sorts
to the end that does not smell of sandalwood but
the fixation of the word
as scent plays with memory,
a fragrance of spring in all that is winter
casting
a shadow upon me, you,
if not all.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
Most days I wear flip-flops because I am too lazy to wear socks,
and I like the feeling of summer somewhere close to me,
and I like to watch my feet move. Do you know, there
are so many small little bones in there! it amazes me.
My mom used to massage my feet to wake me up.
She's been the best foot-massager of all, better than all the friends
and the boyfriends. Better than the early morning
sleepy-satisfying stretches, better than the feeling of sunlit
warm wood on my bare feet. Better than grass. Her calloused hands,
and softly hummed melodies. Tattooed arms, faded turquoise. Sun on her
skin. If I could see my mom in myself every time I looked in the mirror
I think I would be relaxed. I would play more music. I would spend
my next paycheck taking a day off with a pina colada and
tattooing a turtle, on my foot, just like hers.
Flexing my feet. Cold night air. Flip-flopping on the concrete. I wish
I could dive into the ocean, ice-cold, something worth laughing into
the nighttime. So much seriousness all the time, I think that people
need to eat more butter and not take skin to mean so much.
Silly, really, I guess. But a Mom-massage might just mean the world
sometimes. And smiling with someone is like a Mom-massage, right when I need it most.
To everyone who's been there, thank you.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
I halfheartedly grasped the ledge
Peering indecisively over the edge
Wondering perhaps in all seriousness if I should let go
A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you do not experience it
Why and how could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?
A little less grew my grip on the edge
Taking momentary notice of the crumbling ledge
My mind wanders into a place where all is nothingness
And nothingness is the norm
I let my mind freefall as they call it
Into oblivion and time dissolved it
Finding myself very comfortable in this environment
I wished never to return
So I concocted a simple cunning game
Whenever spoken to by the seemingly sane
Smiling wickedly
Into nodding confirming faces
I repeat these words
A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you haven't experienced it
How could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?
@ copyright Tammy M Darby Nov. 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
This letter, is to inform you, about a
bomb threat
that we received this, morning. Name of a Name
Unified Consolidated ISD,
a State-Recognized School of Somethingness,
Where Kids Come First under the theme of
All The Kids All The Curriculum All The Time
is committed, to the safety and education
of all our students and We Are Number One,
Go #Thundercatbears!, ‘Cause We are #All-Hashtagged
in Unity and Oneness. We also, want
to clearly communicate with split infinitives
And crazy commas all over the place
to parents about safety issues when they
get found out arise.
This morning, a phone call, was received,
by the receptionist at
The-Latest-Name-Held-in-Place-with-Velcro-Until-the-Next-Name-Change
Elementary School and Essential Spirit
Dreams New Dawn Progress Learning and
Technology Center of the Future
stating a
bomb
was present, on the campus.
After conferring with the Threat Assessment Team,
The Standard Response Protocol team,
the Chinkypin-Lizard Lick Police Department parked in the handicapped spaces at Tia Jolene’s Goremay Eats ‘n’ Bokays out next to the Interstate,
the cheerleader sponsors,
Facebook,
Twitter,
our attorneys,
and Superintendent Dr. Hamestus Goodoleboy “Spike” Ponsonby III,
the students were rapidly, and efficiently evacuated
to a safe area up in the football bleachers
where they would be more obvious targets
and the school was professionally and thoroughly
swept for anything suspicious and untoward.
During this time,
when no students were in danger,
another call was received stating that gunshots
were fired in the school. There were no gunshots,
fired in the school and
no children were in danger at any time.
Currently, we’re are is allowing students,
who were never in any danger,
to return to school as usual
where there was never any danger at any time.
We will have extra counselors and therapists available
if students or parents needs supports are
counsolining in spelling ‘n’ sentence structure.
The students were never in any danger at any time.
All threats to our school where
their was never any danger
and students who were never in any danger
will be taken seriously immediately
and thoroughly and investigated
thoroughly and fully except for that call
last week that we managed to keep covered up.
We wanted to inform you of the correct facts
because our correct facts are the only facts
so you can discuss them with your child/ren
Of any race, *** color, creed, religion,
or gender identification or not
and emphasize the seriousness of our facts,
which are the only facts. If you discover
Any facts untoward or out of place please contact us
At the district office at
*** *** xxxx ext ***
or the Chinkypin - Lizard Lick Police Department
immediately and thoroughly.
No children were in, danger at any time.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
I am not a difficult child.
You are not a difficult mother.
But,
sometimes we have things to say
and
sometimes we say nothing at all.
This,
I suppose is where we are difficult.
Because being human is difficult.
I cannot imagine why so many years ago
you chose to have us. Not because I think
you do not love us, I know you do, but
because of the sorrow my sleep brings to you
on the Sunday mornings I sleep in. Love,
I imagine, is returning from church and
still bringing bread to those who wish not to
consume it in any meaningful sense at all,
or, if consumed, to satisfy hungers so basic
you marvel at what that converted energy
is used for. I have failed still to explain that
I pray in different and marvellous ways that
I don't think are invalid but will still hurt you
nonetheless. This is part of growing up.
There are many dances that you and my
grandmother have surely danced that I
do not have the rhythm for, but there
are many dances that you and her and I
have that are the same, just as in the Old
Testament there are so many prayers and
blessings and cursings and legacies passed on
from one child to another to another child.
During these passing-ons there are surely
missteps
where some son is bound to step on some mother's
left foot as the rhythms change on time's dancefloor.
There are many examples of this that exist
that don't need to be said. It is all the same.
It is all different. I have pointed these things out
before. Before I finish, let me point out
that when I point out these things
after laughing it is not because
I am making fun of you, but only because
I love you enough to point out the seriousness
of everything in this world with a smile on my face.
How else could I possibly repay that great push
you gave all those years ago
to allow this poem to breathe in this form?
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
I know what I am. . .
I am uninterested
I am insecure
I am a manipulator
I am an introvert
I am a self saboteur
I carry a reputation for things
I dont even do anymore
who goes out of his way to hurt himself
and pushes away those who try to help
I act like a sarcastic *******
to ride the borderline
of seriousness
I am what the doctors would call
a high functioning alcoholic
I am a *****
I am lonely
I am seriously flawed,
but at least I am not you.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Those couples on TV
That never look like they would be together
End up being together season after season
Laughing and crying
Loving and loopy
Late nights and early mornings
Sarcasm and seriousness
Give a helping hand when it's needed
Look back laughing about the times they messed up
But never letting it hurt what really matters.
That's my life.
That's my long distance sitcom
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
She was in a panic; her husband was dead,
while the fear of dread had filled her head.
The local creditor wanted to enslave her sons;
she desired to keep her family from being undone.
She observed the seriousness of her situation
and sought the prophet for an inspired solution.
In their meeting, Elisha asked about her resources,
to determine a course of action, for him to endorse.
“With my spouse gone, my finances have been despoiled;
all that is left, is but a small container of oil.”
“Listen carefully my sister, and I’ll instruct you
with the needed wisdom, for your divine break-through.
Seek out your neighbors, for many, empty pots and jars;
be diligent in your search, with friends, near and far.
Once you have completed your first task of collection,
lock yourselves inside, with the jars in your possession.
Then take your original vial of olive oil and begin to pour,
filling each, empty vessel, behind the safety of your door.
For once you start, you will see the blessings of God flow,
according to your level of faith, His grace He will bestow.”
One at a time, she filled a cleaned vessel and set it aside;
when she was finished, her and her family were teary-eyed.
Upon further instruction, she sold the oil, paid her debts,
and was thankful, that their future needs were… completely met.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
2 Kings 4:1-7
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Esteemed Sirs, all Honorable Ladies -
the artist asked me to pose
and he chose all the clothes
and the hat
and he made me stand there behind a frame
And he was serious
but he asked me to smile
and then asked me to have a smaller smile
not too broad, just a smile between not smiling and smiling
and he said these things with such seriousness
And he said not to stand like an animal in a cage
but to come forward in the frame
and to put my hands ever so casually on the frame
And he said, keep glowing and he said this with all seriousness
and when he did smile
it was like between not smiling and smiling
as if he were posing for me
And he was drawing and drawing
and then he had a break
and I had something to eat and drink in the kitchen
and then I was back behind the frame
and he took several days
And I thought what a serious man this was, this artist
And when he had finished, he asked me to look
and I thought it was a lovely picture of me
And then I realized how playful this artist was, how clever -
putting me in a frame, as if we lived our lives in a frame
And then he had the canvas put in frame
so there’s frame within frame –
and I laughed then to see how
much humor the artist had, though he had worked with
such earnestness, such grave countenance –
I’ve been framed! Ha, ha…now I wonder often,
if we do not actually live our lives within a frame,
each one of us confined in frames…
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
I asked you not to phone
I asked you to forget
grievous to hear a voice so beset
by lamenting longing for me
The pills don't really help much
melancholy as intransigent as the scorching sun
They call it therapy resistant
a homeostasis of neurotic persistence
I wish I could be like you
I really do
so normal, so gay, so ebullient
so eager, so joyful, so light,
so God-awful ready to meet each new day
I can only harm myself dear
that's why we're apart
I asked you not to phone
I asked you to forget
the suffering of seriousness
realism of immutable truths
the pinching pliers of precision
pathos of colliding decisions
I asked you to forget
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Sometimes you think one thing
But it's really another
All your dreams come true
It seems ambition is consequences' mother
They changed my life
But actually they didn’t
Now I know what money is for
And for what it isn’t
There are things
That money cannot buy
It’s not just love
It’s also how to answer the question why
Now the blame is mine
Even for silent things in the night
Everything I had hoped for
Have now vanished along with the light
Ambition once served me well
As I became more powerful than my dreams
Now I feel so very small
As its rewards shrink in the face of extremes
With the seriousness of life upon me
Staring down what once made me smile
It is the reality of what is expected
Which can no longer be hidden in a denial
A life changing moment
Does not recognize time or titles
Now is the moment when I have to answer my own question
And pray that God will believe me in his witness of my recitals
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
The night you died
I held my breath in your honor
or in anger
I can't exactly remember, only
a dropping of the gut, the swollen amalgamation of numb and comprehension and
more confusion than I have ever swallowed whole before
I hope you cursed yourself when you realized what you did
your hand closing is a picture I played a million times in my head
your eyes rolling back is one I tried not to but
every time my eyelids met
I saw yours gasping for air
Your mother, a glass vase splitting on hardwood floor
I can promise you she is still stepping on your pieces
the truth is I know you never meant to cause damage
the breaking is just what happens when so much is left behind
When the rabbi said your name
I thought about laughing, how
you certainly would be at the seriousness of it all
the level of despondence floating
in the room
the oxygen, thick in its lack of,
a density unlike any other
I remembered the time we got high on one of the holiest days of the year
I thought maybe this
is god playing a joke on us
I thought maybe this is
just his sick revenge, an attempt at humor but
there was nothing funny about your leaving
For the first few months
losing you was drowning every night in my sleep
and waking up alive the next morning
friends asked what it's like
to have this gap of almost stretching inside of me
I asked if they had ever accidentally touched something hot
and to recall how it felt when the burn started setting on their skin
Most days I miss you without trying
some days I don't think about you at all
there is a life that is full without your being in it but
it isn't mine to call my own
I am forgetting your laugh like a song whose words I can't remember
Today is your 22nd birthday,
facebook had to tell me
there are no shots being taken and nobody is making a cake
today you would have been another year older
I wish you could have stayed to be it
-from the one who loved you
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC