"umpteenth" poems
Do you know what *****
Not being good at everything.
I sat down at the piano
To practice for the umpteenth time
Millions of thoughts rush through my head:
My form *****
I can't hit the right notes
My fingers don't want to work together
I can barely read the music
I will never be able to do this
I ****
I was born to believe that I needed to be the best
At everything I did
To please my parents
And get the recognition I deserved.
The truthful "well done" from my mother.
But there came a time where getting A's is all they expected from me
So when I would get above and beyond 100 percents
I got nothing
No well done, no good job.
Yet my brother who would narrowly pass his spelling tests
Would get commended for his work.
Pushing myself harder and harder to be the best
Every second of every day
Has lead me to be unhappy whenever something isn't to the level I think it should be.
I know that perfection is impossible
And that you can't be good at everything.
But every time I fail
It feels like I'm dying a little inside.
Frustration. Anger. Depression.
I can barely hold it all together.
This pressure to be perfect may seem unbearable,
But it's my way of life.
Without it, I have no idea who I would be.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
The Talmud Teaches...
With respect to his son, a father is obligated to circumcise him, to redeem him [if he is a firstborn], to teach him Torah, to marry him off, and to teach him a craft...he is also
obligated to teach him to swim...(Kiddushin 29a)
**lay awake when the house is silent,
doing maths furiously in the head,
sleeping can be keeping while doing my calculus,
knowing in advance a conclusion comes coined
in only two colors, black or red
the question simple, did I meet my obligations?
and your read the passage for the umpteenth time,
and the same thought interferes as always,
should the order not be reversed,
the first thing to be fulfilled,**
teach them to swim
**based on experience life arrives in sequential, repeating waves,
purposed to drown the weak with no pretending that waters,
salt or sweet matters, so first order is business ought be survival preparation and**
teach them to swim
**if they can swim, stay afloat, then they can then comprehend
the glory of distinguishing right over wrong,
get their priorities straight, that saving others,
especially those you placed on the starting line of life,
is the first principle and overplants anything else when you**
teach them to swim
**my eyes see the tally, why, they are red! could it be lack of sleep?
I am smiling when I am lying,
teach them to swim always first,
but not enough, one must do it well, well,
and even then, better,
as all else will, from the well, follow, when you**
teach them to swim
3:10am
~~~
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
I met my neighbor today.
Well, he's not my neighbor yet,
but he will be when I'm forty-two
and have that burgundy four-door.
He'll have two kids by then,
one from a previous marriage;
loud mouth little *****
always reminding his step-mother
that his real mom wouldn't stand for
what she wants to call discipline.
I should really remind his dad to return
my rototiller when I see him next.
-
The meteorologist called for sleet
and I still don't see any ****** sleet.
I walked to the fuel station and got a fountain soda;
I counted six stray cats on the way back.
One of them used to belong to a woman
by the name of Jamila who moved back to Atlanta
in July of last summer.
The cat never liked to come to her,
so it stayed behind to chart star patterns.
Sometimes, when no one is out on the street,
the cats meet in alleyways to gossip
about the state of affairs in the soy city.
-
I buried seven heads-up pennies
underneath the yield sign on Union street
last Wednesday, I believe it was.
I'm still waiting on a reply,
but Mr. Cuttlefish isn't known for his punctuality.
No one is around here;
it's bad for your health if everyone knows where
and when you'll be.
They say one of the neighbor kids
found a piece of amber the size of a plum
in a box of Rice Chex from the corner market.
I knew someone would find it eventually.
-
Every umpteenth sidewalk slab has an "X" engraved
in the top, right-hand corner.
It signifies a meeting zone, and if you wait their long enough
I can probably convince one of the
silver men from the condemned apartment building
to let me borrow their aural symphonizer
so I can finally see what it's like
to extract one while it is still alive and roily.
It wont be too long of a wait,
as the men are always brief with conversation
and always seem to blink and breathe
at the exact same time I do.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
The left hemisphere of my brain,
-Yes the very one I feel for you from-
Keeps on repeating just a phrase,
-3 words and 10 characters & spaces-
Don't you know what phrase it is?
-Okay I will re-re-re-re-re-re-repeat it-
For the umpteenth time I say it,
-I lost count with the passage of time-
But as it is for you I must repeat it,
-My Lovely Little One, I Love You-
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Try your best to escape and free
Your mind is not your identity
Your genetics, your family tree
Your looking glass eyes can see
Through the window an fatefully
Change your perception of reality
And redefine who you are to be
My new persona is in a coma down in Barcelona
Now I'm Jonah in love with Mona from Arizona
Drinking corona with Fiona in the streets of Verona
Creativity is a proclivity that unshackles our identity free
Journey with me far from the vast sea of mental captivity
Exclusivity of proactivity creates a glorious life of festivity
Consent to your dreams to the absolute umpteenth degree
Augment your schemes and forget about the no guarantee
Reinvent thee extremes, and you will never be a life absentee
Remember as you read that we are all connected eternally
On this marble together spinning we are all just guests
Wandering around trying to solve our personal quests
Humans being we happened to be, but only temporarily
May as well attempt and squeeze life to death and manifest
All your aspirations and ambitions should be put to the test
All so blessed with a mind, and a beating heart in our chest
So why not invest the rest of our time to aspire to be the best
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
A silver pipe strikes me on the left-hand window,
breaking the dullness of these grey hospital walls.
Granddad, you’re due for your umpteenth colonoscopy,
and here I am thinking about how your IV’d wrists
strip away light like a prism.
They bandage the hurt leaking from your eyes
and let rainbows clog up your insides.
(Is that why you can't go, you old geezer?)
(Smile a bit more, will you?)
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Bugs are crawling all over my hands; yet they're the kind only I can feel and see -
the germs I visualise as cockroaches covering everything around me.
A 3rd change of clothes in 5 hours to protect myself against their power to bring me harm,
my umpteenth hand wash trying to get rid of them; my brain turbulent with alarm.
My head is noisy; full of chaotic sadness and voices,
peculiar images and blurry characters are all I can see - not by choice.
I cannot sleep or think let alone live,
waiting for The End; I went mad with the battle so determinative.
Sitting on the shower floor
with the water raining down on me more and more.
A map of water induced wrinkles trace my skin as if by disguise,
with a river I cannot stop running from my eyes;
intoxicated with madness, these voices I need to **** -
so with a bottle of ***** I wash down a pretty little pill.
Tonight I lay with just my teddy to hold dear; loneliness creeping in - no doubt,
feeling like a child who just wants to be loved and cared about,
wishing to be protected from the monsters inside my head
as I bury myself under my covers and cry myself to sleep in bed.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Bathtub music and drums played on the surface
of Davy Jones's mirror: the ceramic holds
the sea, the sea, and all within it: ***** me.
Scrubbed you off my skin again for
the umpteenth night in a row. Row
row row our boat away from the constant,
constant rows. Stormy arguments and
weathered mistrust. You'll break me,
won't you? I'll break you, won't I? Won't you
come drown with me Ariel? Won't you
come up with me to the kitchen and lock up
the door then lock up the oven then lock up
ourselves in carbon-monoxide poetry?
But then how does cooking gas end up as sass
in a library? How did sustenance turn into
asphyxiation? Why are our hands on
each other's throats instead of being binded
by the absoluteness, the certainty, the assuredness
of palms within palms and fingers interlocked
and question marks dispelled.
Splash! as way in and over my head
is the bathtub music
and my absorbent curls are
drinking, drinking, drinking, thinking
about the why you only call me when
you're drinking, drinking, drinking; thinking
about the way I cannot suppress you when
the cellphone has long gone quiet and
your Hughes of blue are still loud but
your red is dead.
Ariel, Ariel,
I want to be your dark-haired prince.
Ariel, Ariel,
my country is landlocked but I still see you in the sink.
Ariel, Ariel,
gurgling away as the bathtub music fades
into ugly brown rings around the ceramic
pause button
that shows no hope of continuation
Ariel, Ariel, you are the final splash!
as the false sea drifts away, the final splash!
that scatters bathtub music past the drain
and into the air. Ariel, Ariel,
you are the false rain
that my landlocked country never prayed for.
Ariel, Ariel, toneless, begotten and forgotten
Ariel, Ariel. I cannot sing for you. I cannot.
You will not sing for me. You will not.
The final splash! past the drain and into the air
is you Ariel. The false rain.
The rain song of our endless games.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
i was behind the wheel and you were sitting on the passenger seat. your hair was knotted in a tangled mess and your favorite korean music was blaring over the speakers for the umpteenth time. i watched you as you tilted your head back and closed your eyes, letting the murmurs of the engine and breeze of the night cloud your thoughts. you held my hand and started to hum the lyrics of your favorite song and in that moment we've never felt so much more complete, we were more than invincible. the tenebrific night swirled into a blur of headlights, and car honks, and whispered wishes and stolen kisses, nevertheless, we didn't care, because we were in love, and nothing else mattered.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 7:13 AM UTC
Ella Fitz’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream for the umpteenth time.
Louie comes in tune with that righteous horn.
I drink more as I sing along, off key.
There could be an entire SECTION of books written about us.
How we fell into that great whirlwind.
How we learned to hate the world when we didn’t have each other.
How we re-kindled, for that brief, brief time.
How I thought maybe we could love again.
We had hours that turned to days that turned to months.
We were the perfect piece of short fiction
An art form so gloriously undervalued,
(by both the audience and the creators)
Until we found ourselves in the Middle
(the worst feeling in the world.
Because like purgatory or super glue:
you're stuck.)
We said goodbye.
And I found I had residual emptiness.
I became residual emptiness.
I loved again, but it wasn’t anything
Like the masterpiece we had.
I knew because
Every day with him felt real.
Every day with you
Was a dream.
Something rooted in intangibility
Something I was astonished to find
happening to me.
It happened again-
We found ourselves in the same place
At the same time.
And after just a few weeks,
You gave me the greatest gift:
The indignity of silence.
And you gave me it
For the most ignoble reason—
You’re afraid.
Honey bun,
We’re all afraid.
It made me think
That maybe the story of you and I
can only have a happy ending
in a place where it’s not so scary.
So me, Louie and Ella all ask you,
That
In your dreams
Whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me.
[Because that's the only place you'll find me now.]
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
Your voice,
It echoes through my head
like a broken recorder,
banging the insides with,
"change,
change,
change..."
I,
did not fit.
So,
I twisted my limbs and
squashed my head
to fit into your little mould.
Umpteenth effort;
days of churning and weeks of wringing.
I,
winced in pain and groaned in despair.
The crucifixion happened as,
I,
heard me snap.
Now it chews on my skin
and clings onto my flesh,
as if it was all tailor-made beforehand.
I stride towards you with assurance
that now,
I am perfect.
That now,
maybe you'll love me more.
But,
you looked at me
with a gaze so familiar
that it pierces my heart
into crumbs that resemble oatmeals and dust.
You said,
"you've changed".
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
This anger...
Feels like a ball of uncontrollable energy that spins treacherously in the pit of my stomach.
It is unbound and reaches out forcefully in every axis. It is self-sustaining. And it consumes...
All of me...
It's doesn't want to be displaced, or swept under the rug for the umpteenth time. It doesn't want to be cajoled or calmed. It doesn't want to be coaxed into thinking that it does not need to rear its ugly head because I believe I have a handle on things; which I clearly do not.
It knows me too well and will not take it lying down.
It wants acknowledgement and it wants to speak.
It wants to speak in a low guttural voice for the sheer purpose of intimidation.
It wants grow in figurative size to assert its validation.
It wants to absorb every form of negativity and use it to fuel the fight.
It wants to take the faintest pin-prick or papercut to the most painful stab in the heart and use them...
Harness them and then...
Explode in a hundred-mile radius.
This anger is real...
And it has had enough of sitting on the bench.
Now it wants a piece of the action...
And this time I let it.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
You could say he hates her,
From the way she talks to him, how every rose is ****** at him thorns first - millions of little slashes - battle wounds of the everyman adding up day to day week to week year to year the river of blood leaks to the ocean big enough to drown them both.
He fires back though, and across the battlements of the dinner table sits the enemy shaking a half empty bottle of depression pills, basing how much happiness was left for the month off of the rattling of white capsules against the orange bottle.. She, how could she have ever given birth to him? Some might argue that was all she ever did for him, too preoccupied with her reflection to see the mirror image her son had become with his suken eyes, a rotton apple, a cyanide cynic at the ripe fresh age of fifteen.
So six months later when they both led the cavalry in charge for the umpteenth time throwing dagger words laced with poison aimed high at heads ducked below cover to a safe place (but of course there is no safe place),
Who would've thought when he told her to start taking her pills she'd take them all. Tip top of the bottle bottoms up for the bottle plain white capsules and blood red wine because when she goes out she goes out like a lady.
Its a sad sight seeing all her family weep at her grave, cry true tears clear and pure. All her family but one, her beloved boy. How dry face and stone visage were oh so heart wrenching.
But perhaps worst of all, is that you could say he hates her even now
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
her grandmother stood at the window in the kitchen
the corners of her mouth turned up into
an unconscious slight smile
at the sight
of a spinning yellow blur
under the big oak
in the middle of the pasture
surrounded by green grasses
wonderous hues of wildflowers
she quietly called out to grandad
come see this
the lanky cowboy sauntered in
from the breezeway
with his umpteenth cup of coffee
peered at the blur of yellow
opened the side door
stepped out on the deck beside the metal glider and
called out in his smooth baritone voice
sheeeeeelllllliiii...
sheeeeeelllllliiii lllllloooooooooo...
she might have
been 4
or perhaps five
precious in the way
innocent girls that age are
dressed in smocked yellow lawn
white lace
patent leather
up to her shins in spring grasses
slowing her spin
she turned toward her name
her face radiant she took a wobbly step or two
then broke into an off kilter run
arms stretched out before her
he took a few long strides
bent his tall body low
offering a bent knee
wide open arms
she flew into them with all her might
knowing she would be caught
rough housed with
and given a wickereye
from the window her grandmother took it all in
sighed
said to herself
hold this dear
hold this snapshot of the soul
for. ever.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
I.
The door stands outlined in white:
in this dark night, a presence
weighs in from the corridor.
The fan holds a garbled reflection
of stray light on its illusory blade-disk.
I'm talking about parthenogenesis.
How can renewal be born, when
creativity loses her companion,
freedom?
This monotone life lugs on.
II.
The tree shrugs the question off
by her parting arms half-illumined
by the streetlamp.
The late bird of five calls flew away
to a far-off tree, couldn't be
bothered more.
I hear a voice
soft in the setting chill of the distant autumn:
choked eyes beaming in love.
I seek palingenesis.
Check all emails and ensure zero
unread. But
answer none, follow up
nothing.
Umpteenth time through the day.
III.
Autotomy all over again.
Habits
die like tails, to be grown
all over again.
This is an etiological myth.
An apocryphal story that
renews itself on the palimpsest of life.
I must cut my nails.
This tea has brewed too dark.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
I am tired, I am sick
I can sense the clock's each tick
My eyes are droopy and my nose, runny
When I speak, I do sound funny
My mind seems to be fixated on whiskey
I'm not drunk, and yet I feel frisky
The sound of silence is like music to my ears
My ailments have brought me to the verge of tears
Here I am, racking my brains in search of a sonnet
Wishing to lay under the blazing sun on my car's bonnet
Twisting my words in ways I do not wish
My Illness has been served like revenge, a cold dish
Blowing into a hankey for the umpteenth time
Sipping away at a glass of water and the syrup of lime
Even gazing at the clouds has become a chore
This sickness hinders my imagination, which makes life a bore
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
Delia who had bedded her
French nanny at fourteen
and had hot *** with the head
girl at boarding school, now
lies beside the arts tutor named
Ms Shopton in college. She has
explored the woman’s body from
top to toe. Invaded each orifice
and landed her ninety ninth
plus umpteenth kiss. Sunlight
pours through the high window,
the woman’s scent and body
odour invades the bed. She has
kissed most parts that can be kissed,
scanned the woman’s skin, taking
in the freckles, the spots, the mole
inside the left thigh, run her finger
along the spine. She watches the
woman sleep, the mouth slightly ajar,
the perfect teeth, the tongue (who
knows where that has been) touching
the corner of the lips. She may well
get a high A for this piece of art work,
the effort put in, the juices taken out,
the ********* and touching, the final lay.
She breathes in the air, runs her tongue
across her own damp lips. She hears
the college bell, the time to get up, the
breakfast call, the wide awake stare.
The woman beside her sleeps on, lying
worn out, out for the count, lying there.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 3:47 AM UTC
Not slow -
But patient,
Like love is patient.
Patient like watching the ark being built
And staying His torrential hand.
Patient like letting His friend Lazurus die
Knowing greater glory was planned.
Patient like explaining for the umpteenth time
How He must suffer at the hands of men.
Patient like watching Judas scheme
Waiting for His preordained end.
Not impatient to come again
Yet not slow to keep His promise,
Simply yearning that all might be saved
That salvation might be accomplished.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
Remind me, please
Write me one more letter
One like letters 16 through 53
The golden ages
Write the last paragraph
Like you don’t want it to end
Squeeze out the lines
You were planning on holding back
Like you did
For those 37
Teach me how to fall asleep before midnight
Again
Teach me how to wake up without hangovers
How to wake up with ideas
Show me everything
Like our poetry collections
Volumes 1 through 3
When we alternated days
And submissions
For 188 straight days
Minus the 14 days
We wrote four-letter poems
Remind me, please
When the bar was a date
And 1.75 liters was a dinner party
Not a Tuesday
Make me pay you back
The $65.00 in make-up
That I used to paint
“You’re too beautiful for make-up”
On the bedroom wall
Make me buy your little brother beer
For painting over it
Put 7,640 new songs on my itunes
Because these 7,640 are played out
Make sure we see every movie
Nominated for best picture
Before your cheesy award show party
It’s up to ten now, you know
Stay with me
For nine more minutes
While I hit snooze
Awake and right at it
Like ’04
Baby snores and blanket wars
Like ’05
Up before the alarm
Like ’06
Or at least in my dreams
Like ’07
And ’08
Rub it in my face
For the umpteenth time
By taking extra good care of me
When I’m sick
Even though
I never get sick
Pose for me
While I paint
And stare
Like that one time
When you were feeling so brave
Let’s spend our last $8.00
On yellow tail
Our last $18.00
On Sebastiani
Our last $38
On Veuve Cliquot
Because every day is a celebration
*******
Let’s reminisce on the 414 times
Our bodies became one
And the 671 times
They were at least in the same bed
Inspire me
Call attention to my capabilities
And caution to my chaos
Instigate that ******* in me
That made a jealous appearance or two
At christmas parties and night clubs
Hum me all 162 times I teared up in ’06
At the exact same time
Like a drumline
Of being lost
Because baby i’m lost
Point me
Point me in the right direction
Send me on the right path
You know, the one with you at the end of it
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 10:26 PM UTC
I have been, I am and I will be documenting the complexities that run rampant within.
It’d be easier if my mind and heart spoke
the same language. Most times they’re in conflict.
So I’ll cope in the best way I know how.
I’ll keep posting...
Because no amount of sentences...
Can succinctly form the verses that fully capture what I see and think.
No amount of metaphors...
Can successfully mask and satisfy what I truly feel.
No amount of poems...
Can accurately draft the blueprint of what and why I am.
Do forgive me for I have fallen far and deep. And for the umpteenth time, I am looking for that window or door so that I could see and taste purpose again.
So please bear with me...
There will be more to come as I indulge in my quest for equilibrium.
Yours in ink,
ryn
.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
*Hey over there you gods of the earth and other planets
Your creature like I, a human mold suffices knowledge not,
As you mightly rove all over the sphere and share domains amongtst thyself
To reign over the whitenes, Jewry, negritude, sinotude plus yakeetude of mankind,
Enjoying your ethereally eyeview onto the earth at your creations,
Permit me to shoot up a guestion to you over there in your deitly realm
Be you jehova of the jews or amadioha of the igbos,god of the english or anything dogmatic,
What happened to your clay mud and tools pertinent in trade of human ****** creation,
So that you of late on umpteenth scale have created men who are women
And beautiful women who are aggressive mefolk and then ubuguitous earthwise ?
What has gone heywire with your human architecture ,when *** organs and feelings
Are center stage beckoning for their traditional orientation ?
Is homoeroticality your new creation technology ?
Or it is man recreating himself ?
Don’t you have enough clay ?
If material matters do you honourable deities
Come to Africa , chief Mugabe bob will guide you to copper-belts
Of chimurenga fields were clay is beyond any control,
In such quests you will go back to goldenly old
Human ****** creation topography
That will glorify your deitiness
In the old manner of hetereoeroticality.*
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
A chest of boardwalk
and nails unscrewed,
an arsenal of rusty
marching faceless
graffiti, musty
multi-eyed designs and grinning
tiny men right beside,
with lips rose-pearl, sharp-end.
Right beside small carriages to lend.
Wall art wiping off like a fresh tan
once winter comes, scrubbed
with air-carried sea salt,
reabsorbed into brickish mortar and tin-ringing
structures that overlook sweezshing shoals;
dough-rolled hats kneaded on shake-grain shores.
This is where the wolf pup goes
after it snatches the children of my wide-eyed games,
figments of nativity babies
and their red-cheeked discord.
Wailing betrayal
in a swaddling maw,
Vanishing into these walls,
and like that, more pinched-lipped mini-men
lull this predicament into a then-ling
ceased, ignored as the child-pile
rises in the wolf's den.
The umpteenth hour:
i flip through old calendars and
fill in the boxes of dates and
reassemble daily fates
in my head with pink marker
tracing my palmsandpickingupsomethingwhatisthat—
oh.
just child #62
all plump and fat
growing in my throat,
rapidly birthed
with a nasty cough.
spit in my lungs.
and she cries
and then it's novoctuary (or just june)
and the paws claw kindly, schlep-ripping
my featureless form like knocking at a door,
and this is the departure
of my never-was newborn.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
It started on March 8th.
You asked me why I didn't mention
That I was raised by a strong woman.
And I bit my tongue so hard I worried I might bleed.
I realised for the umpteenth time that my first female role model
Came into my life when I was in high school.
In the form of an all girl punk band.
I'd never seen anything so inspiring.
Strong.
I picked up a guitar for the first time that year.
I felt like I finally knew who I was.
I'd never had anyone to show me the ropes.
How could I?
With a mother so dependant on a father
who doesn't understand a **** thing.
Strong women hold themselves
And others
up.
You showed me how to tear my sisters down.
You tore me down.
It wasn't until high school that I felt supported.
I made a friend who would become family.
She's one of the strongest women I know.
She lifted me up.
Still does.
I became the woman I always needed.
No thanks to you.
Or maybe thanks to you
Since I didn't get what I needed
And now I'll never let the women in my life suffer the same way.
I stand before you now with a girl gang who never fail to catch me when I fall.
And I do the same for them.
This is my Pack.
We've built this family out of dreamers and doers
And I finally feel like I'm gaining ground.
Working towards the life I won't let get away.
So when I look at you with that mouth full of blood
From years of biting my tongue
it doesn't hurt so bad.
The tang of it tastes like strength.
Like perseverance.
Like dreams coming true.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:28 AM UTC