"undignified" poems
(I love) Dignity
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly*
knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age
this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step
I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond desperately
yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum
Dignity.
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely*
dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled
to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.
all else will follow
the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework
now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,
in a manner most
undignified
still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out
and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,
forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.
it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing*
I love dignity.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
Like a male monkey you rises up
And thumps hard your chest-it is you and you only!
O Man! You forgets, who you are and what you are is Nature’s
She generously gives and she avariciously takes-
Just a few chances she is giving you to repent before she ruthlessly returns
She is a sharp, doubled edged sword-merciful and merciless!
Man, Humanity is not hostility: Humanity is humility!
Like Sheol that is never satisfied you want to swallow the whole world
Like death you want to take everything, big-small-you want to stomach all
Everything you want to keep to yourself, to be to your entitlements
You take and leave nothing at all for the harmless hopeless-the voiceless
Yet you easily forgets, when the angel of death calls it’s only you and your soul in burials
Your ill amassed pride, wealth and health is not with you anywhere in this your brutal trials
Man, Humanity is not gullibility: Humanity is generosity!
O man! O man! You fills the whole world with mortality
You have killed the sole essence of the soul’s endless immortality
With your undignified dishonesty, your free-will to filthy immorality
War you begins wealthy to get-war is a supernormal profiting business
Man, Humanity souls has never been subjects to severity but sanctity!
Innocent-as little as little children-you murders-they were inevitable!
Common civilians’ deaths are collateral damages-inescapable!
You forgets who you are-you are a little loaned, little you returns for judgment
Here no allies to look after your backs, no cracks to corruption kickbacks-
It is the fairest of all hearings, a ***** for a ***** it is not for a big spoon!
Man, Humanity is not ignobility: Humanity is dignity!
What you are given to govern you governs not
What you are given to take care of you pilfers all
For you and your lineages eternal legacies-the richest ever to have graced the earth!
Yet you forgets, Master a little while returns to put you to a rigorous account
And whoever much is given-that much is also expected, what will be your report?
Man, Humanity is not royalty: Humanity is loyalty!
Humanity is a community, not a sorority of individuality!
Humanity is not infidelity: Humanity is honesty
Humanity is not how wealthy: Humanity is how a loyal legacy
Humanity is not how large is your multinationals entity:
Humanity is how huge is your small heart-its hospitality
Humanity is a humble history, a saintly story!
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
Like a lotus emerging
Unsullied
From the mud,
So have you appeared,
In this world,
Yet not of it.
I consider myself
Most blessed of all men
For having glimpsed upon your face.
Not even Michelangelo,
With all his magnificent frescoes,
Could have conceived of such beauty.
The most flowery prose of Marquez wilts,
Inadequate to fully describe your radiance.
The supple, rich compositions of Mozart
Are a rancorous cacophony
Compared to the melody of your voice.
Your entire being is a testament
To the masterful craftsmanship of our Lord.
I may circumnavigate this world
Sample the most luscious of delicacies
Climb the lofty peak of Everest
Swim the English Channel
Trek the Ural Mountains
Watch the Caribbean sunset
Walk the entirety of the Great Wall
But none of these
shall hope to compare with
the blissful moment
When my eyes fell upon you.
It was truly a day of days,
One which no other can rival.
You stood out
A swan
Regal in its repose
Amongst
Ducks
Babbling away
In their ignominy.
I have found my muse --
Alas! --
But for a moment.
Yet I shall not rage.
Neither shall I weep.
Just because
He got to you first.
Just because
He is
Perhaps
More worthy
Of you.
I shall not fly
Into a maelstrom of emotion
Sulk with resentment
And seethe with envy
Just for losing
Something
Someone
I never even had.
Just because
She will never be mine.
I shall not have
To lower and abandon myself
To the maddening clutches
Of grief
To wantonly fling
My artless soul
At the burning altar
Of undignified melancholy.
For it is foolish.
Yet I cannot help
But do exactly this.
Act like the boy,
The child,
That I am.
For what else am I?
I am not a man
Like him
After all.
Not adequate
For anything
Resembling a soulmate
For anyone
Like her.
I can never hold you
In my arms
Never gaze
Into your eyes
My ears can never hear you
Whisper
Sweet nothings.
And
My lips shall never
Meet yours.
So what
Else
Can I do
But mourn?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
I-AM-NOT-A-DOG.
Today,
I cut loose from your leash of degrading comments.
My ears have learned to ignore your whistles
and the only thing I am going to fetch
is my dignity.
We all have cracks.
People’s words creep into our most foreign parts
And bother us like gnats in our food.
However,
At a young age my mom welded me by hand.
Sealed off every corner so
Your undignified vernacular wouldn’t disturb my peace.
Your mother must’ve had deleterious effects on you.
She told you that love can only be found through intertwining genitals.
I have iron fists and your forcefulness will not supersede my strength to protect what I own.
Let me tell you sir,
Obeying men is an archaic practice
And I wasn’t born yesterday.
I endure life with fortitude even with the threat of your loaded fist 2 inches from my face.
Your catcalls sting like the hearts of mother’s who have lost their daughter’s to the streets.
I hold my mace like a loaded gun walking in the petrifying night.
Apparently big butts lie, they give you the impression that you can squeeze, but back off the anatomy.
Remember that all women embody beauty and grace, not for you, but for themselves.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
on my better days I am
a gypsy songbird
addicted to
dying my hair unnatural
colors
wearing too much
jewelry
& swaying my hips to the
Counting Crows or
Queens of the Stone Age
on my scarier days I am
a modified hermit
addicted to
hard liquor and coffee
daydreaming about the things that
will never be mine
& blaring sad piano ballads
about rotten, undignified, but
true, true love
on my normal days
I am a mommy
my son will be a year old on
Sunday
& he is my entire soul
I am addicted to
his dimples
his laughter
& watching him sleep
if anyone were to
ever tell a tale of the
dear Latham girl, they would
have to say
"Well, didn't you know?
Davy Martin
saved his mama's life."
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 5:57 PM UTC
The earth nurtures me.
It carries the mist in my soul,
Out of an outline.
In a space to blank.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
The water floats me gently.
It rushes my pain.
Out my whole it runs.
To be smothered gently.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
The fire melts me.
A liquid in heat,
That flows out smooth.
A shot so warm it welcomes.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
The air carries me.
To fly and fall but remain in place.
She whispers gently,
And I feel loved.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
My ground is gone,
And instead I am whole.
Dragons dance in my soul,
And flowers sing in my mind.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
I shall dream and wish.
Endless I sleep when awake.
I cry when happy,
And I scream when safe.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
It all becomes a lie,
In all eyes undignified.
Perhaps it is too soon
For innocence of youth.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
You laugh and mock,
While the music carries,
The soul to paradise so pure.
While life rots in sickness.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
She calls my name.
She whispers gently.
She melts me,
Floats me,
And nurtures me.
Identity I have,
But features I leave behind.
For in those eyes,
We are one.
My weight leaves.
My features disappear.
It feels empty,
But whole.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
"Grow up!" they said.
Time picked up an unwilling passenger,
And headed me down a path,
With no trace of childish fantasies.
My destiny, corrected.
Had I had my way.
Looking all around,
The roped path, present from the start,
Merged with the jungle unnoticed.
Alone and unguarded,
Dark fears come to mind.
My asylum, restored.
Had I had my way.
As time ticks on,
The slow creak of chain tightening join in.
Movement growing ever less.
My presence in ******* unwavering,
Would prove a fated hardship.
My freedom, a constant.
Had I had my way.
The wonders, the sights,
The clowns in the fair.
All morph into gross parodies,
Ridiculous and undignified,
Grown men in suits.
My ignorance, permanent.
Had I had my way.
Raindrops from heaven,
Once a signal for a game.
To sing; drenched and oblivious.
Now best left for the movies,
Where reality has less say.
My actions; unjudged.
Had I had my way.
"Grow up!" they said.
Change is a thief in disguise,
The Path of Fate treacherous.
My maturity; inevitable.
Time had had its way.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
What a fool I was , undignified
to light one up at the funeral,
the mourners gasped, as I blew you that
one last shotgun , as I promised you
I would that day we met in April
1967 at the love-in
on the hill the new rock bands playing
songs of peace and love so beautiful
the flowers and kisses being gave
out so freely and we got so high
promised if you died I'd give you one
last shotgun to take you smiling out
to wherever it is ole' hippies
go
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
One midnight up
The man to be, the troubled boy
woke up feeling sully, undignified
Vexed by an unwavering
Storm in his mind,
Torn, tired and tearful at last
About the facade he portrays
Good actions, he wants shown
But are being overtaken, over-showed
By chagrin from wanton tendencies
Hope he is not giving up
Maybe he'll let go of it all
Take over his life and forget it all
Become an honest man and move on
The troubled boy wants help
Distraught of mind, peace has dwindled from within him
Pulsating reminders of who he wants to be
Try to revert the lost boy back to the right path
But a transition is taking root
Forcing a recognition of accepting to
Live a life only one way, disclosed
Must facades come tumbling down
And hiding faces shown light
Or
Must hiding faces be buried up
And facades become true sights
The troubled boy will decide
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
She is preserved at the greenery
fading inside the floating yellows
her mellow as the sun set strikes
face wondering on the future mirror
She longs to encase inside her cocoon
unhurt the pain pierced in her ribcage
the spent morrow of blunt perceptions
wavering the chronic deserted day
She is alone in a world of within
without the touch of the yester clouds
the tremor of her upset is unreliable
watering the chronic ail she donned
She feels the crystal pain on the dial
rails of entrust and forgotten tense
the troubles of the self sacrifice travellers
*trespassing ***** gates of wired shield*
She knows when her well is overfilled
finding a self that can embrace life
the compromised placid meanders
flowing the alive esse of a today
She moans of eons undignified
trying to excavate her sinking soul
the one that made her feel like she
revealing the reality of her unusual peace
She jumps like a seasonal seesaw
illusions parading the absolute truce
a muse of delicate authentic flavours
transversing the idealised time and space
She knows herself best when isolated
when the moon sinks and the night draw
when vagaries explode in the chaotic skies
when the pearl starry sun stares in her iris
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
i’ve not slept in many beds
corners and glitches where i rest
carpets stained and scrubbed up red
ceilings hung and cracked, deep,
and grey, and mottled lead
undignified we sludge and sled
under the sheets of reels
and flirting and peels, boy
i am hidden in the cracks, thread.
as much as i’ve been pled to,
and you know
the temperature drops and drips
below, i am laid bare and empty —
grasp this only, time’s a given,
a heavy hand can’t feel the tips,
a riot now, abbreviated scripts.
since it was all i had to adore you
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
he called me *****
when I left the room,
he called me *****
My tomes of Shakespeare,
witnesses,
fellow poets all, my wall decor.
well familiar with fools,
reported the occurrence
upon my return.
confronted, it,
he did not deny,
for he understood
pointless
at that point,
exceedingly well.
was not angered, simply asking,
since he fancied himself a poet, did
he know any rhymes for that word?
in the interest
of poetic brevity,
answered for him.
*****
witch.
twitch.
gave him reason to use
those words
sequentially.
after that, he addressed me
as mistress, or **********
with respect, an attitude
that was previously
menu unavailable.
what then shall we call you?
the Bard,
his Band of Brothers, and I
jointly confabed.
undignified is slave,
Shakespeare opined,
human dignity needs
respecting.
my walled observer,
co-conspirator of
all that transpired,
drew upon his
own source material,
suggested,
knave.
yes, quite apropos,
my considered reply,
a fool always, and still,
after all, was he not
himself not a
son of a *****
as much as I,
Brandy Channing, is, was, daughter, proud, child
of one great and wonderful Queen
*****
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 12:15 AM UTC
First the illicit thrill
Becomes routine habit
Run of the mill
Like you're invincible.
Once, your heart beated
Feverish, hesitant,
Now you swagger, unheated,
The cheat can't be cheated.
The check-out girl, Lizzie,
Is trusting and smiling
Then she turns away, busy
And you're suddenly dizzy.
To your pocket inside
Go the chocolate bars -
Though it's undignified
There's a strange kind of pride.
Then - out of the blue,
In front of the world,
One day she asks you....
And what can you do?
...But collapse to your core
Like a worm-eaten apple
Pray to fall through the floor
You are Named, evermore.
Oh - the shame! she's disgusted
You're a thief, you're mistrusted
All that shock and self-loathing
For those moments you lusted.
Poor girl, she won't be aware
That her face and her voice
Will feature forever
As worst memory, lowest nightmare.
You'll be chilled to the bone
And you'll ask yourself "Why?"
Without job, wife or home,
Foolish, guilty, alone?
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Your arms slung
under my head and knees, and
though you had cleaned the gutters all day
and mowed the lawn
and dusted the webs from the shed, you
raised me from the undignified
slump on the couch
though you were tired
and carried me to my bed.
I was here once before.
Carried by a different man's arms.
I was smaller then.
My room scattered in Lego pieces
and plastic dinosaurs
now houses mountains of clothes and books
like Smaug piled his gold.
I was here once before,
but he is too old now to carry me
and I, too tall.
But you remind me of him.
You are young and strong enough
to lift me as he once did.
Perhaps, someday, he will see
and thank you for doing what he
no longer can.
Meanwhile
tears sting my eyes
as I realize
I have never been, nor will I ever be
strong enough to carry him
as you now carry me.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
I crawled from the darkest cave
Once a slave
People are going to die
I shall let them die undignified in their graves
You blame yourself for this
You lack clarity
We have the same similarities
Look into my eyes
Does this look anything too alright?
Fear not
For tonight
For we live life freely
Convert the weak
And out their chastity
It’s our destiny
Let our **********
Lust for calamity
We dry out charity
For beverages of intoxication
Wild flowers for hallucination
No serenity
Just amusement
Of lucid insanity
I can still remember
As an infant
The cries of others
I hated it
I wanted to destroy it
But deep down
I wanted more
I wanted to hear them suffering
I wanted to be king
To be unseen
And then rise like a god!
Let my rain of terror begin
Here I am!
A nightmare comes true
I’m beyond any being with power
I am GOD!
Stand in my way
Every
Man
Woman and
Child
Will die
This is my world
You will never leave it
After death
I will remain to rule over you
You’re mines for the keeps
Don’t sleep
Reality is your nightmare
I’m first in line
No way hell I’m going to die
So don’t even try!
I want you to cry!
Suffer greatly!
I soon woke up remembering…
That I’m still chain to this oppressed floor
Truly... a dream to a nightmare
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
I am stuck in this place of begging for someone to listen to me and denying my own desires to talk
It is still here – the longing to cry with someone – but it is impossible now. It’s been impossible for so long I don’t know why I even bother with any of it. I don’t know to help her…no one knows how to help her.
It doesn’t matter if you feel like a victim or a survivor, or at times, both…it still happened. It was me. It was me lying there – it was my body. I am no longer that little girl but it was undeniably me. I was hurt, I cried, I yielded all of my power to him. Me. It was me. No one helped me. I can’t make that any different. I can’t change that….not through my writing, not by speaking, not inside my mind. I can’t undo it.
I want to bury this hurt in an airtight coffin until it suffocates and can no longer damage me. I want to smash the pain with a boulder until it is crushed and no longer alive in me. I am stuck in this place of begging for someone to listen to me and denying my own desires to talk. It all comes back to the forbidden words of trust and need and I’m having a difficult time trying to shift and re-position myself in a positive, healing way.
It’s difficult to get the words out without the tears and emotions. And I won’t cry in front of anyone. There are times when I am aching with the desire to talk about difficult things and I hold back. Why? Multifaceted…complicated question and an equally complicated answer. First, there is a part of me that does not trust anyone, or even want to trust anyone. A part of me is embarrassed at the Nita that will be seen when the tears start. It is not the me that everyone knows…it’s the miserable, self-indulgent, childish, hopeless me. And I cannot risk being seen like that. And there’s a third reason…it feels incredibly undignified to cry in front of someone when they just sit there…silent and unmoving. Late at night, when it is overwhelming and relentless, I ache for someone to talk to about this pain, someone who loves me, not someone who is paid to listen.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
~
*Weather balloon for a hat
propeller on his back
morning is observably alive
leaving it to atmospheric pressure
he consumes today's newspaper
with the enthusiasm of a bowl
of Corn Flakes
this Heath Robinson contraption
of getting to work first
over enemy lines
is all the rage in his satirical
state of mind
that is until the absurd derailment
of wartime employment
and so he returns home with tubes
and catheters attached to his body
and feeling like one
of the unwieldy machines
he had so often created
full of atmospheric pressure
and apparently thinking it
an undignified fate
he pulls out the tubes
and quietly dies
of his own invention*
~
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
Tumbleweed
Ted Old
John Merchant,
Joan Harling
Edith Smith
David Wilkinson,
Mike Waldron
Marie Ainsworth
Ruth Bell,
Lucy Ritchie
A list undignified by death
In an instant deflated, unwound
Vibrant yet now not a breath
Missing, lost, not found
I mourn every one of their names
And all that each one implied
Merely a lifetime ago
They came, they lived, they died.
The bluntness has ruined my mood
With the arrogant stealing of life
It demanded all my attention
Then cynically wielded the knife
I'm trying but their voices are fading
As my brain's recordings wear out
And the clarity of all their faces
Is blurred with the pallor of doubt
So all I have now are some photos
Flat caricatures of their lives
Each one replacing my memory
With a past that cannot be revived
Relentless my list will grow longer
Crushing for each name a line
And my heart will grow ever more heavy
Till the last name that's added,
is mine.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 2:53 AM UTC
During dark hours,
Turning in sleep, restless,
Edging from a dream, so soft,
Cosseted, warm, gentle, loving,
Till the memory spike ravages, savages,
Piercing deep, deep down, grimacing,
It hurts; crushing tears, salty, warm, stillborn.
During dark hours,
Absolving her of blame,
Shedding the need to punish,
Unwilling to chastise my darling,
Far easier than forgiving oneself,
And yet; I struggle, so difficult,
Because of Love? Yes, yes of course.
During dark hours,
She sleeps; peaceful soft snores,
Unaware how, forgiving her,
Forces, unbidden, an angry sadness,
My word is true, honourable, my bond,
No regrets, revenge unthinkable;
Still; I’m good at fooling myself.
During dark hours,
She slashes my thoughts,
Undignified imagery, thousand fold torment,
I do forgive; I have; just punishing myself,
What is forgiveness anyway?
Death, springs readily to mind,
We all forgive then; at last.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
I want the joy that would let me dance in the street,
The heart that would let me do so with no care,
The innocence that allows me undignified naivete,
The soul for worship without a second thought.
I long for the dance,
The beauty of worship before our Creator.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
My love,
today they found you in the alley,
an abandoned porcelain doll.
Your cheeks flushed and lips stained from the cold -
left shoeless in the snow.
Fist wrapped around your empty matchbook -
burnt out - used up - dead.
Those tight jeans and rag of a shirt
looked uncomfortable
even in repose.
At first nobody noticed.
Much to do, this New Year’s Day:
resolutions to be broken.
No time to stop and smell the corpses.
They get younger every year
One cop coughed to the other
a cough of disgust.
They made you a nameless number.
A statistic doesn’t feel the burn of frostbite.
It lends itself to jokes -
and forgets humanity.
In death you are
The Jefferson Avenue Whoresicle
and sooner or later, forgotten altogether.
I can’t forget you,
on display –
hiding in that most undignified uniform.
Your eyes stabbing straight though me.
New Years Eve,
you tried to sell me a warmth.
I ignored you,
avoided your dagger eyes like the sun
I walked away,
Not after I saw how lonely
how frightened
how cold you were standing there
alone.
I can only image your visions
as you burned through those matches
and prayed for some John to come to your rescue.
You can finally rest
in a bed of your choosing.
No judgment passed.
No cold nights on the street.
No home to fear going back to.
It’s all over now.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 4:18 PM UTC
Lies, compliant lies, that spell
Our names and wish us well;
But hidden in whose blood is war –
Subpar but harsh to understand.
Lies, such lies are possible;
All within the broke world’s trouble,
What is love without loveliness,
What are tears without sadness;
Lies, such lies do exist;
But be seen through happy mist,
The mildest one felt at heart,
Tearing at us, consumes our blood;
Lies, such lies are ever born;
Unblinking amongst God’s thorns,
That He dies in its shrine;
Frayed in the morning sunshine.
That yon life of ours is scratched;
Not even when truths are fetched,
Growing into the skies of autumn,
That look like those radiant poems;
That the grass shall not be green;
And the midnight is not seen,
Though lovelier than summers,
Washed with ****** thunders.
And poems lie not, they shan’t;
They are what the heart wants,
The words of despaired justice,
The divided bliss, soaked kiss.
And the poet is right – of warmth;
Only to be found in real charms,
And their dignity that all knew—
Lies are undignified, untrue.
What is it with violent hearts;
Those that make our souls cry,
And tear our feelings apart,
But tears are true to the sky.
What is it with untouched lies;
The lies that thread us but tore,
As though there was no more,
When truth finally dies.
What is it with unheard death;
As we deepen our last breath,
Will we find love, and comfort;
Unnamed tales that were cut short.
What is it with lovely riddles;
Dwindling our minds to tears,
Ridding our eyes of fears,
Peering through rough scraggle.
And the poet shall know better;
That honesty has died alone,
Not much of Desire is known,
No truth shall last forever.
And the poem shall read longer;
That grass is blue, and green rain
Are what is to happen ever,
Pain is normal at all, again;
And the poet shall have left;
To be just but to be unjust,
Moments are never to last,
Love is not what hearts have.
And the poem shall have caved;
In to the pain ‘tis meant to be,
That no more bears meanings to see,
No more love shall be saved.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
Death is not pretty.
Death is not brave,
Death is not freedom
Or grace
Or clarity
Or glorious.
Death is lonely,
Undignified,
And vastly disappointing.
I do not recommend you try it.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 10:28 PM UTC
A day in the life of an alley cat, struck dead on the least busy street in the smallest town in Nebraska.
1 am: Druggy, *** you money, ****** don't deserve love, not easy to tell mom. I think of you. Your lungs are begging for my scold. Control is the word you use when no other fits the sentence. You occupy my mind when I am restless, testing the limits of kindness and low voices.
4 am: Your smile, the warmest hot chocolate of your eyes, your knuckles, the baby fat that melted from you, it haunts me. It's like I caught of a glimpse of the wrong angel, the half rotten, beyond gone, but still glowing angel. I killed you with a .45 and a gallon of mouthwash. You dripped into the Earth as a puddle beneath my toes. Gracious Lord, do not forgive me. I know I don't.
8 am: Insomnia without poetry. Tired without body. Maggots without mouths. Catholic priest, without sympathy. God without mercy. Drug abuse, without the realization of undignified addiction. Suicide without the comfort of killing, certainty.
3 pm: Sentiment, true and real, above annoyance and protectiveness. I am now a ghost above a body, finally weightless, finally free of His hands.
6 pm: Joy breaks open like a candy, soft center.
10 pm: Life tears my fingers open, unwraps the flesh from bone like Christmas. I feel my tongue fall out. Dusty antique radios are cleaned, losing authenticity. Their songs scream, sounding a lot like Billy Joel, after the catgut snaps. I feel my mind crawl out of the china cabinet.
11 pm: Nothing. There's really nothing to say at all.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC