The station wagon bounced down a dusty road toward the farm house, and Phoebe, who had just turned fifteen  felt the pit of her stomach coil, and tighten with dread. Gazing out the window she locked eyes on a bored looking cow slowly chewing a mangled knot of grass. Phoebe wondered in that moment if even the cows were more depressed in Bismarck.

Her step-father, “The Glenner”, had been too cheap to fly her back home to Oregon from a summer camp in Minnesota, and had arranged for their local minister, Cru Hayward, to pick her up along with his daughter, Lizzie. Phoebe’s sun burned skin ached as she pealed it off the sticky back seat. The air conditioner had broken down in Fargo, and the eight of them were all squeezed in like a pack of cranky sardines.  

Phoebe was going to be spending the rest of her hellish summer with complete strangers in Bismarck, North Dakota on a wheat farm complete with cows, chickens, and one grey mare along with Lizzie’s six cousins.

The car door swung open, and a large man wearing blood stained overalls with extremely bushy eye brows lunged toward them, “Why I wrecken’ it’s been goin’ on five years, Cru! Bout’ time you come home with the kids to work the farm.” He took an oily handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped the dripping sweat from his brows; appearing out of breath at the same time. Phoebe took note of how “Bushy Brows” had replaced the word “work” instead of “visit”, and suddenly felt as though a chicken feather was caught in the back of her throat. Cru Hayward looked stiff, and managed to put out his hand to shake Vern’s, but instead was pulled in tightly, and given a bear hug smudging the wet chicken blood on Vern’s overalls directly onto his brothers white Oxford shirt.

As Phoebe entered the farm-house a variety of scents wafted through the steamy air. Lizzie’s Aunt Doodie was nervously leaning over the kitchen sink peeling a large stack of potatoes so high they were beginning to topple off the counter one after another. An extremely obese cat  sat by her feet pushing them across the floor with as little energy possible.  Standing on a small foot stool in front of an old-fashioned *** belly stove stood, Trina, a small child around the age of five who was busy feeding a dog the size of a small pony. She appeared to be in her own unsupervised world; busily shoving strips of steaming barbecued  chicken from a platter into its wet slobbery mouth, and then licking her fingers.

Phoebe glanced into the nearby living room, and noticed the walls were decorated with handmade plaques quoting scriptures from the Bible along with various cheap prints of Jesus; like the kind you’d buy at a church fair. Small miniature figurines decorated the home throughout. An open bible lay on the arm chair of a tattered recliner.  Feeling self-conscious, and out of place, Phoebe tried to hide in one corner as she watched Lizzie hugging her Aunt Doodie’s belly wearing  a hand-made sweat shirt with “Elvis” on the front. Gospel music was playing loudly from the living room. Phoebe mumbled under her breath,  "Where's the donation jar?” Aunt Doodie’s eyes narrowed when she looked at Phoebe, “Did you say something, Dear? What’s your name?” Phoebe managed to croak out her name, and say she was just talking to herself.” Aunt Doodie gave her a wry smile, “Why you’ll have plenty of time to talk to yourself tomorrow in the wheat fields when we get you up to work at 4 a.m., Missy.” Her snarled lips faded, and she continued talking to Lizzie smiling big, “Now where were we, Lizzie darling?”

Phoebe already hated it there. It had been less than five minutes since she arrived. She began to think if she had a money left in her suit cases to take a bus home. She frantically dug in her front jeans pocket, and pulled out a piece of lint, and a dime.  

Lizzie’s cousin’s all stumbled into the kitchen wearing clothing that looked as though it had passed through several millenniums of “Goodwill Store’s” in the 1970’s. Their straw hats hung low over their  eyes, and  Lizzie could tell they were ******.  Lizzie’s cousins had all been stamped out by the same cookie cutter mold like twins. Their ages ranged from seventeen to thirteen, to age five. Trina the youngest being no doubt an accident.  Marty, the oldest at seventeen, wearing a ripped Metallica shirt was the first to speak, “Lizzie look at you! Why you all but growed up on us. I bet you’s the most popular girl in school with that pretty face of yours”. Marty was handsome in a Emelio Estevez actor kind of  way. Phoebe couldn’t help but lick his beautifully sculpted arms, and chest with her eyes; but when he caught her staring she quickly looked down at her shoes. She felt her face burning with embarrassment.

Aunt Doodie turned around swiftly on her bare heal with a large milk pail in her hands. "I'll be back girls. I'm out to the barn to milk the cow for supper. Don't break anything."
  
Twila was sixteen with black eye liner under her eyes, and red lipstick. She suddenly leapt onto Lizzie from behind, and covered her eyes while wrapping her large chicken fried steak fed legs around her. Her hair was curly, and extremely frizzy like it had not seen a comb in it for several years.  Twila whispered, “Hey Lizzie, who’s your dweebie friend? Don’t look like she can smile much. Maybe our cat got her tongue. She looks like one of those uptight city girls!” Lizzie couldn’t hold onto Twila any longer, and tried to drop her down gently. A loud “thud” bounced the floors as she fell. The inside of a nearby china closet rattled as she hit the floor forcing a glass plate to fall, and break. “Ahh  ****! That’s mama’s favorite platter.” Twila looked straight into Phoebe’s eyes, “We’ll just have to blame it on you, Phoebe. You just keep your mouth shut about it!” Ignoring that Twila had just accused her of breaking a platter Phoebe heard Lizzie mumble, “Oh, this here is my friend from home. We both went to summer camp in Minnesota together, and we’re her ride back home to Oregon.” Phoebe at this point was already imagining a large pig shaped nose on Twila's face; and not the kind that was cute. Twila glared, “Looks like you in lots of trouble now city girl”, and walked away with her cousins leaving her to stand alone in the decorated gospel room near the kitchen.

Phoebe wondered if she landed in some kind of Twilight Zone episode that had not been written yet. She decided to go for a walk all alone on the wheat farm until someone called after her for supper. Phoebe was lonely but she was lonely at home with her mom, and step-father too. They always left her to fend for herself, and her mother rarely spoke to her.  Phoebe felt as though it was like living with two ghosts you can hear; but can't see.  Besides, she had decided that this summer would be spent working on her writing. She had always wanted to be an author, after all, she had always noticed everything.
Her thought was broken when she heard someone say, “That sister Twila of mine is mean as a snake. Don’t pay no attention to her. To this day I feel like I must have been adopted. Hi, my name’s Shawna.” Shawna had a beautiful face, and was tall for her age. She stood about 5’8 with long blond hair making her look almost like a mermaid with her fair complexion. “My twin sister, Shaylynn, went into town to rent a movie for us all to watch tonight. We ain’t got internet. I think she said “Back To The Future” was finally available, or maybe it was “Jurassic Park”. Have you met Joel yet? He’s about your age. He’s always hanging around the bowling alley with them local boys. Don't know what they even have to say to one n' other. It's not like anything ever happens in this town.” Shawna seemed like the nicest out of all of Lizzie’s cousins as she reached out to give her a hug. Phoebe smiled politely saying, "If you don't mind I think I'm going to go for a walk. I think I need some air" while waving a quick goodbye.

When she returned from her walk she opened her journal to page one, and this is when it all began to get very interesting.

My Summer In Bismarck & Other Quirky Observations

by, Phoebe Snow

August 7th, 2015

The horizon seems to encircle this entire small farm as if someone drew with an orange crayon around it like a child would on paper, or perhaps with white chalk on the sidewalk. Everywhere I look it seems flat; and at night the moon hangs so low in the sky with the brightest stars next to it than I think I've ever seen in my fifteen years of life. Lizzie's Aunt, and Uncle, and all her cousins talk funny too. It's like they stretch out their "o's" when they speak. Kind of like hearing a bike tire that's going flat with a pin hole in it. It seems forever for it to finally run out of air; and sometimes you just want it over with as fast as possible. That's how they talk. I'm always finishing their sentences in my head ten minutes ago. These people seem so foreign, and yet I know them like a story.

Journal entry: August 16th, 2015

Marty has come into my room. He is standing in the doorway with  his chest pushed out. He is seventeen, and I am fifteen. I know what he wants by the gleam in his eyes. I won't give it to him.

I got up from my bed, and closed the door on his feet. Silently. I left the scent of coconut oil on my body drift toward him. An invitation; but not yet.

Dear shawna.
I wish to inform you
That I am forgiving you
And wishing you well
For the best karma
I need as
I am Buddhist
Though I cannot be compassionate
Towards you
For only Allah is compassionate
To all.
According to Islam.
I am only human
A flawed creature
Who can only forgive.

The psychics were breathing smoke,
rummaging through my roommates collection of abstract art,
they told me what my favorite Modest Mouse album was,
they told me about my personality,
I told them I was a psychic,
they told me to *******.

Everyone assumes an original identity
in the self-inflicted apocalypse
provided by that old friend, alcohol.

Kevin was the smooth-talking,
drink-mixing extraordinaire.

Kara was the cynic.

Shawna was the kindhearted.

Evan was sober.

Tyler was in and out.

I was the ******* that took a party pill,
bounced off everyone with a handshake
and an apology.


We **** ourselves to resurrect,
piece together the discordance,
the chaos,
the girls.

While the psychics were breathing smoke,
while Kevin was collapsing,
while everyone was worried about me,
all I could say was,
"This is the happiest night of my life,
and that depresses the hell outta' me."

I longed for the sirens in the distance,
I took another drink,
I longed for renewed innocence,
I took another drink,
I longed for someone to lay beside me,
I took another drink,
it was finally enough.

I took off my shirt,
made war with the remnants of stability,
of sanity,
told my friends I loved them,
and hoped that my time ended in sync
with the sunrise.

In an instant, I’m back in that two-bedroom
apartment on Monte Park Ave, in old town Fair Oaks. Where family photos and live plants cluttered the already small space. It was a Monday night, February 13,2012, the day before Valentines Day, doing a routine visit to see my mama. The woman, who had birthed and loved me, as best as she could, with the tools life had equipped her with. This visit was different I could sense it. The moment I stepped foot onto that beige carpet and looked into her sunken green eyes. The cancer, cirrhosis and hepatitis C that had eaten at her liver the last two and a half years was coming to an end. My mother was a hardened woman, hardened by life. Crimes that had been committed against her and crimes she’d committed against herself continually ate at her. She was still able to shower an immense, unconditional love on us kids; in the days she was able to function, without the inevitable numbing. Those days didn’t last long, until she’d check out again.
As an adult the childhood ghosts of her past, were relived through her. So much to the point she allowed the destruction and pain to take ahold of her thoughts and entire being. The darkened corners of her life would begin to suffocate her.
As kids we’d often wake to her drunken blackouts after the town bars closed. She’d destroy the furniture in my home, demolishing anything within arms reach. Police would come often, we would hide…fearful…always fearful. She would sober up and check herself into rehab and do well for a while. We always hoped it would just one day end and she would be okay. The cycle just seemed to continue, for years, then decades. We would see fragments of her amazing personality, deep gentle heart and willingness to love hard and stay tough. Then it would be wiped away and knocked out of her when she’d run. Slowly, we lost pieces of her throughout the years.
My mom came to know a relationship with God in the last years of her life. I could sense a peace within her, but it was plain to see, she still carried regrets. Alcohol and drugs were her numbing medicine of choice to drown out the pain of the past. Even in her last days, she’d attempt to drink away the pain. I’d hold her feeble hands, sitting on her couch and pray with her. Pray for peace to finally consume her mind. Ever since I was a child, I had always felt like her mother. I wanted to save her, protect her, help her to see her worth in God.

It was just three months prior to her diagnosis, and I had found her cold and almost lifeless on her apartment floor. She had attempted suicide. It was late at night. I hadn’t heard from her in two days. I had that motherly gut wrenching feeling that something wasn’t right. Remembering the key I had to her apartment, I rushed out the door in only a bathrobe to check on her. I unlocked her front door; my heart hit the ground as I carefully turned the living room corner, to see her body, still, by the foot of her bed. In a numb haze, I checked her pulse and lifting her off the floor, I wailed and called on the name of Jesus, Jehovah Rapha – the God who heals, El – Shaddai – an almighty God. Peace flooded the room as I claimed this womans broken life and soul in his name. I laid her on her bed and held her, waiting for the ambulance to come. Those next four days in the hospital were torturous. As her body fought to rid itself of the toxins she’d consumed in an attempt to end the misery. Handcuffed to the hospital bed, I watched her sweat, cry and wail. I would pray. He’s here. He’s the healer. Even in that state God loved my mother, she was his child, even when she was most unlovable, he held her.

It is now, less than three years later, that I am watching her life slowly drain.
I can distinctly remember the aroma that I woke to, on Tuesday, February 14th, 2012. Having slept a horrid nights sleep, on my mothers’ living room floor the night before. I knew the end was near.
I would wake hourly to check on her, while she was asleep on her couch. Normally, she would take her meds every three hours. This night, she had slept more than ten straight hours. Drenched in sweat, she awoke. She called to me to help her to the bathroom. Her husband and I each held her arms and pulled her to her feet. Halfway to standing she began to hemorrhage blood. Gallons, literally gallons of blood spilled out of her. Her husband began to scream. We were never prepared for this. Never was hemorrhaging mentioned in all of the hospice nurse and doctors visits. Unable to call 911 due to the DNR (do not resuscitate) forms my mom signed. We slowly walked her to the bathroom. Blood poured out of her body in what seemed to be the longest walk ever, leaving a trail of what was left of her life down that hallway.
Expecting her to collapse, doing my doggone best to act calm as her husband cried and screamed frantically. We laid towels over the toilet and sat her down hoping to stop the hemorrhaging and call the hospice nurses to come to her home. Once I let go of the grip I had on my moms arm, I grabbed Drews face and ordered him to breathe and quit screaming. My mother sat, silent, she looked up at us, our hands and feet covered in blood, both frantically searching for the nurses numbers in our cell phones in a shaky mess. She quietly said, “please calm down”. I wrapped my arms around her, sitting there looking faint, expecting for her to hit the floor at any moment.
No child should ever have to see their mother bleed to death. I felt as though I was in a dream. Everything was hazy. Yet, God was there. I could only rely on his strength to keep me calm, to handle the situation, as Drew lost his mind and my mom was quickly losing life.
This couldn’t possibly be the end, I said to myself. Gently lifting her to her feet, we guided her down the remainder of the hall, to her bedroom; to the hospital bed she would spend her remaining days on. I stripped my mom of her blood-drenched clothing. Bathed and diapered her, as she had to me for many years as an infant. Those last days felt like an eternity. Going home to shower and take a short break from the death unfolding in front of my eyes, I was fearful she would slip away in my one-hour absence. I went to the store to buy my momma the last bouquet of roses I would ever give to her. I lit the candle next to her flowers. I played music, read and sang to her in those last hours. Massaged her hands and feet with lotion, as I’m sure she did to me as a baby. I prayed for her and over her. Watched her husbands’ heart break into a billion pieces, as he would walk around their apartment and cry. Still then, God was there.

“ With all lowliness and meekness, with long suffering, forbearing one another in love”.
Ephesians 4:2

Amidst the pain, the known regrets, fear and sadness, he’s the comforter. Not understanding why my eyes and heart had to burned with such tragic memories in watching her suffer, Gods peace lied there and he strengthens when we have none.

“ I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me”.
Phillipians 4:13

That final night, I had known. Sitting in the living room with one of my dearest friends Shawna and Drew,
I stood up “ we need to go check on her “ I said, as I stepped in her room, she was struggling to take her last breaths. Her husband ran to the far side of the bed and held onto her, wailing. I grabbed her hand and my friend grabbed mine.
She was fighting to breathe, her arms flailing.
I told her it was ok to go. To finally let go.
I fought to speak those words to her and to make them sound believable. Wishing she could just climb up off of that bed, healthy and smiling and hold me.
When she took her last breath. I watched her body lose its vibrancy. Shaken and strangled with anxiety, I threw up on the floor next to her bed. Having known the struggles and regrets this precious woman bore in her lifetime…and how at that moment…she’d have given anything to redo it.

“As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.”
Psalm 103:12

Do I know if my mother truly believed an all-consuming savior that died for us wholly loved her?
I don’t.
Do I have complete contentment that she passed with all the peace that God intended for us to have?
I don’t.

Which has led me to this. When the fateful day of my existence here on earth, ceases to watch another sunrise…what will my precious babies have to say of me?
I have nurtured every one of them; kissed chubby piggy toes and sang silly songs.
I, like many, have made heart-wrenching mistakes despite knowing Gods love for me.
All in an attempt to fill a God shaped whole in my heart.

“Those who rest in the shelter of the most high will find rest in the shadow of the almighty.”
Psalm 91:1

What will my beautiful daughters and handsome son be able to reflect upon, after my passing?
Perhaps this was his plan after all.

“It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes”
Psalm 119:71

He is in fact the author.

“O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off”
Psalm 139:1-2

Every intricate detail of my life, from the gory to treacherous to beautiful and serene was written.
God gives first, second, third, fourth, fifth , sixth and beyond chances, just waiting for me to see who I am…in him.
In this short 30 years of my life, I’ve fallen short.
What matters, is the here, the now and the tomorrow.
Can I actually attain all of the attributes of the woman in Proverbs 31?

“Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also praiseth her”
Proverbs 31:28

Will my children be able to say this of me?
Will my sleepy eyed babies awake to drunken rages, as I did as a child…or a woman on her knees in prayer at suns rising?
I will strive daily, hourly, minute by minute to fight back the rising of my flesh, any hateful words that might ******* and distractions from what life is really created for…all on my knees before a God whose love consumes.

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
Proverbs 3:5-6

reflection
[ri-flek-shuh n]

1. i wasn't living for myself. i was living to get through the motions of each day and to make others happy. i've been a role model for others ever since shawna was born when i was in the first grade. the weight on my shoulders, i wanted to be good enough. **** it, i just wanted to be something worth while. i feared not amounting to anything so much that i forgot what it meant to live for myself. it turns out i was suffocating myself trying to live up to these unrealistic expectations i set for myself. it was as if i was trapped in a box that had been tapped shut and i was struggling to find air to breathe. i have promised myself to never put myself back in that position. i am meant for so much more. and i deserve to put myself first. the life i was living wasn't for me. and so i took myself down a different path.

2. though i've never put a blade to my skin or swallowed a large amount of pills, i harmed myself and i harmed others, especially those that love and care for me. i'm not sure when things got this bad, but once i realized the destructive person i became, i didn't want to be here anymore. there were no excuses for the poor decisions i was making but yet i couldn't stop. i would look in the mirror and not recognize the girl in the mirror, a girl causing unbelievable destruction to herself and to others. i couldn't feel bad for myself because this was all in my hands. i guess i just wanted to feel something. i had forgotten what it was like to feel and self-destruction was easy to access, a game played between me and myself and no one else. you get addicted to the feeling of watching things crash down before your eyes. i was out of control but the only person that could help me was myself.

3. if i were able to weigh my grief, i'm convinced the scale would break. this wasn't the first time i crossed paths with death and it turned everything in my life gray. cancer took my step-father away when i was 7th grade, my mother without a spouse and my two little sisters without a father. shawna was in kindergarten and candice was in pre-school, too young to go to the services. cheyenne fought with me over wearing white. i was thirteen and didn't know what proper funeral attire was. now they live life trying to remember a father they never knew. i spent much of my adolescent life regretting the words i said and wishing i would've said more. it was selfish of me but when my grandfather passed in march, i felt i was being punished. i couldn't bear the pain i was feeling and it wouldn't go away, so i had to find a scapegoat as an attempt to make myself feel better. i'll be honest, it didn't help, i only pretended it did so i wouldn't fall into a hole of spiraling depression. i still did anyway. i looked at my friends and people who knew who lost ones they loved and wondered how they hell they got over it. i didn't know what to do to lessen my pain. it was so sharp and intense, i carried it with me everywhere i went. my therapist walked me through the stages of grief and i felt like i was reliving the moment he took his last breath. silence. fighting back tears. pacing back and forth.

once i realized grief isn't something we have to get over and instead is something we learn to live with, i felt less crazy.

4. i no longer knew who i was. a friend told me that it wasn't about figuring out who i was again but rather who i wanted to be after this. i struggled and fell to rock bottom over and over again, even after feeling as if i was on the top of the world again. after so many dark hours and low points, i flourished into a girl i wanted to be, a girl i wanted to love, but most importantly, a girl i was proud of. the things we go through in life, they change us, completely and utterly. and we must decide what we do about this change--do we lose time by trying to deny we're no longer who we once were or do we embrace it? i spent a lot of time denying this new person i was becoming. i missed the old me. i wanted her back. but she was never coming back. i took a new form. and i stopped looking back and wondering why. i was no longer meant for the things i once pursued. my own kind of metamorphosis.

There was a woman
Named shawna
Who preached fornication
Over knowledge
She went for a walk
In a spooky forest
And then an eye popped out
She walks through the eye
And finds herself in hell
As that was the eye of god

I am wanting to thank some very incredible people.
I also am hoping others will , also.
With that in mind I would like to list
ten poets here I feel people need to read.
My list consists of poets who are always active and generous ,
have good humor and sense.
I would like others to add their ten to my list.
And hopefully everyone eventually gets a shout out.
In the comments list ten poets you admire and would like to see
others appreciate. I will add  them to this list.
If you would like to list more feel free , the more the merrier, and the more
poets get a shout out and their name shared. I will add as many as you can type!
After all , this is goodwill and spirit and sharing and I feel good .


Vicki
Mark Cleavenger
Terry Collett
Ja
Sally Bayan
Emily Burns
Jules Winerose
Lady RF
Sukanya Sinha Roy
Valsa George
(Bill Hughes contributed the following)
Mary Winslow
Randolph L. Wilson
Elizabeth J
Bex
Ezra Warhol
my dearest reno
Wordvango
Jeff Stier
taia iverson
Dave Hewitt
Kristy Renae Dalton
(added by Eric W)
SPT
Doug Potter
Lola Park
SoulSurvivor
Inevitably Raised By Ducks
(added by Vicki)
Shawna Michele
Spygrandson
r
Woody
Pradip Chattopadhyay
SJR 1000
the seatbelt effect
Sonja Benskin Mesher
Don't Call Me Johnny
nivek
WL Winter
K Mae
Liz Balize
patty m
Pamela Rae
Sean Tierney
William Poppen
Michael Kagan
Biche
Irinia
Mikeccc
Paul Gaffney
Karina Norris Viers
Dawn
Brother Jimmy
Anthony
Phil Roberts
David Ehrgott
Jason Clarke
Angstrom
Jamadhi Verse
born
Weeping Willow
Terry Jordan
Traveler
Tonya Maria
CA Guilfoyle
elizabeth j
Grumpy Thumb
David Patrick O'C
f
(added by Sukanya Sinha Roy)
Eli N
Poetryjournal
Traveller
The Dead Sea
Zero
Nishu Mathur
James Michael Hail
Nagi
Angstorm
(Added by Sjr 1000)
Wardha
nagi
PoetryJournal
My Dystopia
Life's Jump
Bala
Nat Lipstad
Melissa
Ded Poet
Denel
Bex
Luiz Machado
(added by Jamadhi Verse)
Lora Lee
Wild is the Wind
Lalin
Akira Chen
R k
Onoma
Mydystopia
Stephanie
Stephan
Pradip :)
Karishna
(added by elizabeth j)
NB.
Lonely Soldier
Lily Mae
Thomas P Owens Sr
Sir WCA
Midnight Rain
Melissa S.
( added by Lori Jones McCaffery?
James
Kim Johanna Baker
Demonatachick
Elizabeth J
Yasaman Johari
Jean Lin
Lawrence Hall
Landon Miller
Chris Neilson
Pagan Paul
Sun Princess
Elizabeth Squires
Keith Wilson

I lap a bit of the water out of my cupped hands,
then splash the rest on my battered face.
Evan looked at me like I was obscene,
left the room, slammed the door, burning,
Tyler was still nauseous, buried in the couch,
talked light about being surprised at his survival.
I made him some toast,
we tried to piece together the night,
but we only remembered that
he concocted some White Russian rip-off and called
it a Grey Romanian,
I talked to Rachel about *** and respect,
Evan wasn't very appreciative of the cake I baked,
nor was he kind to Shawna or Kara when
they gave him kickass gifts,
Bobby kept Tyler from drowning in his *****,
Lauren brought me a blanket when I was freezing,
I passed out in the bathroom,
and the general consensus was we need to slow down.

Tyler told me he felt like he needed to go to church.

I felt ***** too,
but it was more from the things I have seen,
I have touched, and God never could make me unsee, unfeel.

Tyler and I sat and talked like ancient men,
men who had far outlived their time,
and were just waiting for death's hour
to claim its ****.

Pure things come and find us,
we won't find you,
not down the road we've been taking.
Pure things,
the world should hang its head in shame
at all its ***** things.
Give us a revival.

The Grey Romanians, the depths,
and the *** aren't giving the answers
we expect.

I told Tyler I loved him,
walked out the door,
the sun was too bright,
I walked past an Asian lady,
her smile was insane,
I climbed in my car,
put on some Thelonious
and mended myself with each erased mile.

Dear Shawna
I want to thank
You for
Taking me to the French shop
Now I can recognize
Tantra
And it’s ****
And it’s immoral intents.
Yes I can smell rats.
You may have saved me
From a fate worse than death.  

Dear mom
Thank you for training
Me to smell
*******
I will be carful
You may have saved me
Though
You saved me again
From a fate worse than death

Dear miss turner
Thanks you
For helping
Me find a bad
Situation and
That’s it’s ok
To go to the police
When needed.
You may have saved me from a fate
Worse than death.


I guess you
Guys were meant to cross
Patches for a reason

Now

I have some hard and huge
Questions to think about
That may even save me.

Average-minded girl looking for ***-fun assignment in Tijuana or
with iguana. My name-calling name is Shawna. I crap in Botswana.

Win some, lose some
Leave or stay,  
The world will go on anyway.

No more important than a grain of sand,
Come or go,
The winds will continue to blow.

We are born, and then we die,
Remembered or forgotten,
Time goes on without us.

make friends, lose friends,
real or not,
end the end we are all just someone, someone else forgot.

~Shawna K. Whaley

It starts small, and then grow stronger
First a little sadness, then a small tear

Soon I am weeping, can hold back no longer
The thoughts come, I'm paralyzed with fear

Feeling unloved, unwanted and more
Trying to fight it, they say they care

Yet deep down inside, my heart has been torn
Trying to hold on, becomes hard to bare

Feelings of loneliness, like no one is there
Rage deep inside me, I'm feeling so lost

The true thoughts inside me, I cannot share
I want to let go, though I cannot pay the cost

Shawna K Whaley
10-13-01

(8/19/15)

As I drift away into my own thoughts

Voices get farther away

Once more trapped within my own mind

Unaware of my surroundings

The world around goes on without me

As conversations continue unhindered by my absence

In my head is nothing but silence

Then my thoughts begin to penetrate the fog

In my mind I am alone

Don't try to talk to me 'cause I won't hear you

I'm somewhere else now even if you still see me

Lost within myself

Consumed by my own thoughts

So far away

Only half aware when you say my name

I'm daydreaming yet it's unclear

As I sit here thinking

I'm here, but I'm not here

~Shawna K. Whaley

1 day, I'm hopped up on estrogen girl juice, the next day I'm *******
around with ***** samples like some sickening trans-****** recluse
whose reality is Noah Webster's unexpurgated definition for obtuse
Wash them up & get 'em ready, Jeanette MacDonald's Nelson Eddy
after a dozen jabs in the *** of androgen from pretty-boy Tom Petty
'cause he knew how to fling his meat on stage at night in a nice city
where his knowledge of sound meat uses exposed Tom to pork pity
& snickers, sniggers, sneezes & expulsions that were greasily ******
& unfit for the kitty-litter box where ***** are taken by our cat Kitty
Kitty'll be a real wheel-barrow prancer to thrill bone-marrow cancer
Peter Lawford, bone Joan Crawford & her paw print & her saw lint
Sore holes're wide & widening like a kind movie with a fine ending
Average-minded girl looking for ***-fun assignment in Tijuana or
with iguana. My name-calling name is Shawna. I crap in Botswana.
The “Go Away or I'll **** You” poem, Now go away, you can't stay
'cause if you won't go away, I'll **** you & your little, dumb dog too