"uncombed" poems
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
5k
The beautiful mane that was her hair,
Fell graciously on her shoulders,
A pang of envy creeps in,
Am not blind to eye catching things.
My hand flows to my own mane,
And all I find is a poorly growing one,
It doesn’t help that it is ***** brown,
And hers is shiny black.
I wonder what she ate that I didn’t,
For her to have surprisingly beautiful feminine hair,
Contemplating,
I nearly miss the scuffle…
As it turns out,
Other **** sapiens are watching her,
Jealously I must add,
After all, I am not alone!
As if sensing our gawking looks,
She turns her head, this, and that way,
And in that moment of gratification,
The mane that was her hair falls off.
Stunned, I fall down with it,
As I hit my behind on the concrete floor,
I look for spots of blood,
But soon, a hand picks it up,
Alas, it is her hand!
She should be dead because her head,
Was cut off in a jealousy fit,
By a non-forgiving female.
Then it hits me,
It wasn’t her mane after all,
But a wig of sorts,
That is why she resembled Beyoncé,
Or was it Rihanna,
She fumbles to replace her godly look,
But now, I can breathe,
I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t,
It must have been because I realized,
The same ***** brown uncombed short hair,
That graced her clearly ashamed head,
I am not alone after all!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
Fading off
into the soft
of the Tangerine Setting Sun
I slipped away
to rest my gun
my battle here
well it is done.
I gotta say
hey girl
you know I love you
so I'll never be lonely
as you are the stars to me
a deep and beautiful mystery
I share you in our history
you are the light I see
the one that I am following.
I am here my dearest...dear,
so do not show them any fear
as I am watching you
as you are consoling the darkened midnight sky
please stop questioning, wondering why
as you look up for a shooting passerby
dry those endless tears
in puddles of sad
I am glad so
I'll just sigh
as this is not goodbye
just farewell my sweetheart
You'll never be alone
my heart it is your home
so take my hand
your life is going to be so grand
I've already planned my love
from up here so very far above
on seeing you again one day
amongst the
showy pink lady slippers we will lay
you will see my eyes of clear blue
and soft grey again.
So you must stay...
go and play
while there's light that shines today
Take up my fishing pole
go back to our favorite swimming hole
I showed you my graceful,
& patient flicking wrists
I gave it one last careful twist
and the fly will softly land and kiss...
the water
There's no maybe
my baby
my crazy
curvy Wildflower girl
as I watch you twirl
as I watch you in the setting Sun
you come undone
in the morning dawn
your tired, sweet and sleepy yawn
as you feel the breeze blow through
your uncombed tangled hair
please take a dare to share
in your beautiful perfection
I know you'll find the direction
live today for me
live today with me.
I can see you
as I stand here at a waiting Heavenly door
in waters clean from Angels shores
you'll know me again
as you did before
you'll know my love
and so much more
I sigh again as the sun is here
as I too am drawing near
..time for me to go so,
make use of today
For you and them, I pray
I am
always
waiting
patiently
forever
and always
with you
...for you. XO
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
So much I gazed on beauty,
that my vision is replete with it.
Contours of the body. Red lips. Voluptuous limbs.
Hair as if taken from greek statues;
always beautiful, even when uncombed,
and it falls, slightly, over white foreheads.
Faces of love, as my poetry
wanted them.... in the nights of my youth,
in my nights, secretly, met....
2.6k
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
I love her.
With every inch of me, since day one.
When her hair is messy.
Uncombed and curly,
Pulled back into a sloppy ponytail
That falls so chaotically across her shoulders.
With several strands pulled out, framing her face.
A cigarette delicately tucked, safely behind her ear.
I love her.
After she wakes up.
Eyes blackened from her obsessive and excessive use of makeup.
With awful breath and resting ***** face,
She is Beautiful.
I love her.
When we stand outside.
And rays of sunshine illuminate her brown eyes,
Turning them into endless vats of amber,
Untouched by man.
Glistening until the end of time.
I love her.
When she is curled into me.
Sleeping deeply and soundly,
Snoring louder than my thoughts,
Shaking and Twitching from whatever goes on in her beautiful subconscious.
I love her.
With no expectations of reciprocation.
I understand I do not fit the criteria due to inevitable reasons.
One day I will, and it will be beautiful.
I love her.
And because of that I will change.
I will become what she needs because if I have her my body does not matter.
She is the one of my dreams.
The one I think about at midday and midnight.
The one my most lovely of poems are of.
The one I have only truly loved.
She does not find me attractive in the way I do her.
But that is okay.
Because I love her.
And one day,
She Will Love Me
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
I can see it in the distance
It's the River they call Styx
An I can see the Boat Man
Waiting for me holding out his hand
Ahead is Charon’s long black boat
In it many souls of those that are dead
A rough unkempt Athenian ******
All dressed in brownish red
His filthy matted beard is uncombed
His eyes burn like hollow pits of fire
A steady glow off the riverbed
A deathly foul oder laced in his attire
What is it that you pay the Ferryman
When you know your pockets are bare
The two coins that are on your eyelids
Will be enough to pay your fare
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
bloodshot tired eyes locked in a reflected viewing
of an alone tortured hollowed shell
paralyzed as I gaze into the ***** mirror
an unwelcome familiar presence
reminds me im never alone
as my shadow manifests into a looming depression
locking his grip on his ivory skinned art
the reflected viewing was his incomplete masterpiece
that took years of work
look!
look how beautiful I've made you!
he gleams
as cold darkened hands hold the sides of my face
his thumbs point towards glazed over tear filled eyes
outlining running mascara down sullen cheeks
slowly moving hands down uncombed brown hair
he yells
you need a splash of color my dear!
interlocking his fingers too tightly
as he reaches a frail neck
my face turns a crimson red as breathing is no longer an option
slowly adding in a navy blue as the struggle for life spreads convulsions through a weakened body
he only lets go to say
I cannot destroy what I've created!
it didn't haunt me just in the reflection
that sentence ran through my mind with the same shrill voice
as I stared down the neck of another empty bottle
the taste and smell of a bourbon
washed down with scotch was intoxicating
as it drowned his negative passive aggressive screaming
another bottle made me feel fluid
bringing out a smile that has been long faded
a laugh that was suppressed to feel anything but the pain he brought
the confidence to portray a happier version of the dying light I was
to portray the me I was before depression claimed me as his
shivering and chills
snap me back to the reflected present
as his hands run down my uncovered arms
where he carelessly streaked black and blue
finger painted marks
each bruise that illuminated too bright in a dimly lit room
he traced them ever so gently
writing a cursive love poem
as he moved down to my wrists that were consistently covered
he grazes over red protruding straight lines
where fingernails like razor blades
danced from one end to the other
signifying that 7 lines measured the years he spent working on the piece he called Shelby
across what was left of my ivory skin
he carelessly wrote his name
in ink mixed with blackness as dark as him
and specks of my own blood
interlocking our souls as one
and to declare me as his and non others
for an artist never lets another touch his incomplete masterpiece
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
(Just some passing thoughts)
What if.....
...the midnight blue firmament remained midnight blue?
...dawn didn't come...the sun didn't even peep...
...the lamp posts remained bright with light
...because the hours seemed to have stopped
...because the night.....didn't want to end
what if...
...everyone got tired of the night
...dreamt, and wished for a bit of light
...bonfire flames became too much for the eyes
...they burned nonstop, like those in a funeral rite
...as if waiting for the dead one to soar
...even with the wind blowing, temperature was hot
...everyone was awaiting the sun---
...the true light of day
What if...
...electricity did not return...gone permanently
...there'd be no more cell phones, ipads
...laptops, desktops, nooks and kindles
...there would be nothing...of these gadgets
...no more appliances to make life easier
But, what if...
...light came back
...we had sun...and moon...and stars
...yet we could not speak, like we speak today?
...no papers and pens...just rocks and pointed objects?
Where would you be?
where would I be?
how would we be?
Would you be one holding a club?
dressed in your off shoulder attire of animal skin?
would your hair be long, uncombed, messy?
would your house, be a cave?
Would my hair be rudely grabbed by a man
to show the rest that he owns me?
Instead of cats and dogs, would our pets
be big, long necked creatures that eat trees?
would they be friendly enough to be patted?
Would we ever know of a blood moon
apart from a blue moon, or a yellow crescent?
would we ever know of mars? jupiter?
would we still remember our own earth?
the way life used to be?
How would we be?
where would i be?
where would you be?
Sally
Copyright September 4, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Found my slice of paradise on the southern coast today.
Although I felt ill prepared at first: cycling in my climbing shoes (the only shoes I found tossed in my car),
no helmet, and nothing but a large body of salt water at the end of the trail to quench my thirst for refreshment,
perhaps what I was most unprepared for was this small patch of sand I stumbled across at the edge of the lagoon, much unlike the pristine white sandy beaches with ******** clad women that embody San Diego County, this slice of shoreline is squeezed by a motel parking lot to the north and tightly packed condos to the south and seems rugged and uncombed, like an abandoned lot the city had intended to develop before the recession but instead left it to sit, collecting seaweed and mangy seagulls.
Slightly windy, home to an unwelcoming rip current, and the view of the freeway not far behind me, this was paradise. My unkempt paradise.
Although a few scattered families littered the sand, who somehow felt like intruders to a secret jewel I had just discovered, I still felt that this was my new patch of sanity. I felt a strong urge to keep it a protected secret matched with a sense of pride in finding it and the desire to share this hidden sense of serenity with all my friends on the central coast; bring them here to christen it with the free-spirited energy I had unwillingly left behind.
But instead I left that decision for another day, rolled out my yoga mat I had haphazardly strapped to my back, and started my Vinyasa flow with a view of the Pacific Ocean; a sputtering plane engine was my mental Sanskrit, the tide my metronome for breath.
Even the stares of my fellow beach-dwellers wouldn’t deter me from this spot. I had left my mark near the lifeguard tower, a skinny path from my tires and a rectangular imprint of my mat that said: I'll be back. Perhaps what sealed the deal was the sign I passed as I pedaled away: Bicycle Friendly Community. Yep, maybe this could be a home away from SLO.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 2:05 AM UTC
This is Me.
The final part.
From one broken home,
to one broken heart.
Hidden behind the mask
of the old porcelain doll,
cracked and tortured.
I have seen it all.
Uncombed hair
and clothes that are rag,
Behold my feelings,
I am but sad.
No one would listen,
during my youth,
when I was a young man
or drinking my *****
The alleys were dark
with walls caving in.
Hearing voices inside me,
that's where it begins.
Sitting alone,
by one candle light,
I saw pen and paper,
blown by surprise.
I started to talk,
with the pen in my hand,
writing muse on the pulp,
trying my hand.
I was confused,
my words were a mess.
To me, there just jumbles,
I must confess.
I read them back,
and started to sigh,
Because this is my sad story,
It made me cry.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
To be refleshed at the end of your last true summer,
to have fingertips—not your own—pry away the old
skin and charge the nerves of the new,
how could you plan something like that?
You're in a new body and in an old house.
The window unit moans. ***** clothes cover the floor.
He's more than fingertips now. He's uncombed hair.
He's shirtless and he's breath and he's in your mouth
and the taste is sweet, familiar, and just far enough away
to turn nameless and evaporate from where all names
originate: the tongue.
But he still delivers his tongue to you, your back arching,
you're a lost instrument singing, the notes bending, the
melody transforming, until God's refrain rings and ricochets
noiselessly in the chambers of your skull.
In space there is no center, you're always off to the side.
And he's there, at your side, and you both stare at the ceiling fan
and laugh. What else can you do? He is still. You are still.
He starts to say your name. No more words. We are home.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
I stepped out of my gloom
In the the gibberish street
Stomping steps, chattering mouth
Men running around, Women carrying children
Some making choices, others laughing in corner
I looked around more deeply
Sky seemed in motion, thousands birds flying
Pretty girls, Handsome men crossing me by
I stood there, my ripped pyjamas, over sized shirt
Uncombed hair, being a muddy puddle beside a green river
Unable to find, where do i fit?
Do i belong here, do i know them?
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
Who is that girl in the mirror?
Her eyes are vacant and red.
Hair is uncombed and knotted.
Track marks line her arms,
and she’s smiling, but those eyes.
They’re haunted and dead.
What have you seen, girl?
The horrors are forced back.
Repressed memories torment her mind-
what’s left of it, anyways.
She’s only 12, but she looks 19.
A life on the streets;
Her own personal hell.
Abandoned and left to die
by a dad that didn’t know
how to raise a child.
Drugs and alcohol his main priority.
You wouldn’t last a minute
living inside my head.
What have I seen?
God can’t save my soul.
Time does heal the wounds,
but a band-aid is only temporary.
There’s a toxic hole
where my heart should be.
The scars are still there;
Those men in expensive cars
smelling like alcohol and cigarettes.
Maybe I’ll make some money for food
or try to find some new clothes.
Young girls don’t last too long
outside in the cold.
Our pasts don’t define us,
but they sure as hell create us.
Maybe they’ll break us
and remake us.
But what has been broken
can't always be repaired.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
At some time in past, pacing dispersed deliberated fine,
I met accidentally childhood a mate close to mine;
Yet, he is not mendicant, stiff replete,
Become visible altogether equally, drew sight;
'Hastily reach somewhere I', was my only answer - ignite.
If no symphony exists in human race, matter excite.
Soon the spirit stirred to delineate-
Many eyes were fixed at me and comrade.
He too is man of dignity and pride
Well learnt, self-reliant, vigorous and gratified;
Little his fanatic and freak made him waif
And confirm not an ideal of living safe.
Astonishingly perk, perhaps, he concluded actual existence,
Sneer with splashing note on my strange performance:
Set uncombed hair posting both hands thereon
Marched towards destination unsettled in gloomy way-worn.
It is gesture tells standard all of us.
In as for as, society co-operate with loquacious
Hugged not poor and deserving due to hesitate,
Victorious appreciated beyond measure those ne'er violate.
Turn round the cycle pursuing principles certain we feel,
Ready not to deny ostensible reserved in our deal
An artless inquiry knock but in vain
Just digest, can landscape bloom without rain?
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Remember me this way
When I have just woken up
Uncombed hair tied into a careless bun
Face still fresh from rest
Blurry
Remember me the way
I continue the week from a bad day
With my mundane thoughts
And everyday things
Incremental
Remember me this way
When I'm looking behind, smiling
As I don't always do
"It does something to your face--
Umaaliwalas"
Remember me this way
If you think of me at all
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
I see him in the fields
His pretty hair, uncombed
Swimming in the wrought shoots of wheat
His smell travels faster than sun
Of dry grains and weeds, bathed in sweat
Of moist soil, burnt by scarlet sun
His colour, a theater of wheat grains
His face, an album of old trips
Different shapes play in it differently
Drowning in the rain of dust
His brows are tired of tightening
Over and over, poor them
He waves me, while trying to stand
On the leg that always refuses
Almost there, it flexes and he falls
The brows relax, reality is welcomed
He apologizes in a low voice
A god in the lap of golden soil
I see him in his garden
Where on his fine knee
He is on a fine soil, fine smile
Tomatoes playing in his hands
Leaves slipping through his fingers
And this fine son, does all he can
I see him in rains, when on one
He concluded what i should like
A fine man with fine two legs
(But) There is this one man i like,
Who smells of wheat, who has a fine leg
He who ever liked me
Pk
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 5:16 AM UTC
You say try not to miss me
and I laugh...
don't tell me tell the wind
tell her
not to whisper your name
repeatedly
remind her not
to tease me with your scent
infusing
flowers with fresh baked bread
beg her not
to touch my skin
nor tease my uncombed hair
so playfully
Please tell her
not to dance around me
laughing so lightly
as to make me smile
as my missing you is like the breeze...
only natural.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
No.
I'm fine.
As a matter of fact,
I'm happy. And perfect.
Yes,
my hair's uncombed
and my clothes are ragged
and I live everywhere
Under the table, sometimes
framing infinity.
Or on the edge of the precipice
conquering literature and flying
Or somewhere in the street
scattering the everlasting tunes
whilst letting the wind dismember
the feathers swirling round my earlobe.
It's my choice.
I refused to inhabit the life of conventionality.
On a fine summer day,
if you prefer, you can
Run away with me.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
Those nights in which I stumble to bed,
Makeup still intact,
Jeans and shoes remaining,
Uncombed, unbrushed,
Unwritten and undefined...
Bring on the days
In which I don't give two ***** about anything.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
nothing wrecks a happy home more than an addiction.
a whirlwind of a house.
built on precarious cement.
yet, turning to corners to find
the walls nearly caving in.
this confusion,
a mind of maddening thoughts.
consumed in a vacuum of complexity.
locks of uncombed hair,
only adding to the weight etched on self.
nothing wrecks a happy home more than an addiction.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
I know you will have to listen to me as I snore when everything is in blossom,
and you will have to see me with uncombed hair,
and you will have to wait until I get dressed and put on my make-up each morning
- but I promise that I will always be there for you
I will never leave you
I will always cook you dinner
and I will kiss you goodnight each time you fall asleep.
And I will have to listen to you as you snore when the air is dry,
and I will have to wash your underwear from time to time,
and I will have to accept that you smoke sometimes,
- but I know that you will always be there for me
you will never leave me
you will always bring me flowers
and you will kiss me goodnight each time I fall asleep.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 5:39 PM UTC
what has my life become
studying and cursing the sun
melting in the desert heat
dragging my tired feet
prying open my sleepy eyes
desperately trying to be wise
laughing with friends at odd hours
singing and dancing in the shower
running only on caffeine
my desk is constantly unclean
missing home
hair uncombed
bus to work
in the library i lurk
book after book
intentions mistook
ukulele jamming
before-quiz cramming
praising God
looking odd
hair color changes with my mood
wishing for a change in food
longing for the mountains
missing my church in Fountain
finding my place in the world
becoming more woman than girl.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Eulogy for Justin Bradley, Age 22 who committed suicide 2/28/19
My Sweet Boy
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
You had so many friends, but still felt alone.
Your friends were everything,….But which one to text, from your seven phones???
Great Falls, DC, Road trips, Museums, Golf, or Gold Cup
You were always … I’m down dude, just hit me up.
You lived for cheese pretzels, chicken nuggets, Chipotle, Mac and cheese or JUST turkey bacon….
Why were you taken?
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Supreme,
Who needs to spend big bucks?
When you can get it from China, even though the quality *****
You flew, flipped and twisted,
Off buildings with no fear
Luckily you found an outlet in cheer.
You had a curiosity and intellect beyond your years.
But how the hell did you become a Republican?
For that… we will give you a mulligan.
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
You were struggling to make sense
Trying to figure out YOU.
We tried to reach out.
We tried to break through.
So, my message to parents and to young adults who choose to be,
Giving love and hugs every day, should be your reality.
Their room may be messy, their hair uncombed,
the recycling not taken, and clothes on the floor.
But don’t jump on them the minute they walk through the door.
Depression is a disease not to be dismissed.
Get help for your child.
Try to assist.
Remember to celebrate their brightness and light.
And take a moment to enjoy these gifts, each and every night.
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
So go to that ultra festival in the sky
And As you flip over those Pearly Gates, we wave good bye.
I love you Justin and I will miss you forever.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC