my heart is emptied
what lingers is sediment
a fear of the dark
The emptiness was swallowed. In the end, nothing was left except tired. She took to the pillows with ease. Found her pulse where needle injections hurled insults into the vein. And breathed through another night, absent of light.
Add your favorite sad song that plays on repeat when you are in a funk!
how do you
tell yourself truth?
in bite-size portions, snacks
in-between meals or buffet-style realization?
The never ending comparison
as if boobs matter.
Who else makes such remarks?
If not for Anne Sexton, i
would have no clue why
i am or am not.
Anne said it best…
“Perhaps I am no one.
True, I have a body
and I cannot escape from it.
I would like to fly out of my head,
but that is out of the question.”
let confusion continue.
you believed the wrong men. the girls
crueler than an autumn sun
toying with warmth.
My mind worries about everything. For instance, I contemplated if I should allow comments or turn them off on my blog. I don’t get many, so that is not the problem. The problem is coming across the right way in my answers. Please don’t get me wrong whatever I decide. I will only worry more.
Then, I worry about food. My mother was very overweight and I was deathly afraid of ever having to be seen. So I refused food until I became a mother. Then I ate as if I never tasted spaghetti or tuna or chocolate chip cookies before. And I still have a propensity to over eat. I love the taste of food and I am a pretty damn good cook. Just wish I never had seen a plate, fork and knife. I am doomed.
And the last thing on my mind this morning is a dear friend who sent a note. Should I write back or wait a while? I once confessed a growing love while guilt tripped me up. The feelings were built over tides and shifting sand. I never intended to devour the sour or sweet. Meanwhile, insecurities continue to flourish under the bridge to cause more angst. Oh! to speak out loud, these morning thoughts, chases the sun away. I should go play under the clouds and worry alone.
What am I doing here? Does anybody really know? I suppose some of us do. The smart and put together ones.
I sit up nights worrying who I am. Resign myself to think I may never know. Knowing one day I am sunny and the next day I send shivers up the coolest cat in town.
Life was going swimmingly. I had plans. I felt my square edges had been rounded to fit in society’s cylinder vision. Then, you know, a virus spread like a bad case of halitosis. Why didn’t someone tell that person to keep their mouth shut? Yeah! I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell someone either.
Then I have another problem. The world is divided along political lines. And religion. And between truth, morality, and friendship. I’m somewhere in the gray area of exhaustion.
I realize I am as much to blame. So I sit and wonder. Will I have courage to change my life to compensate for these wavy thoughts.
No. Im not suicidal. Not this time.
Still, I need a break from this break. Sit awhile and sing me a song?
I cannot seem to walk past a door
lonely, in the pursuit of time
the wind’s impatient brush with forever
we stood in the hollow
bodies carved from sharpened rock
and painted yellow
the dim-lighted blackened space
You obviously see me
spared the chance of fading out
the rain washes our conscience clean.
The darkest sleep waits
while restless creeps
four walls of restraint
slowly dawn gathers
lost fortunes of judgment
her hands snuff the candles
in careless abandon
the coffin lid closes
settles her passions, unrobed.
nothing to be
‘cause there’s nothing to see
under the wing of a blackbird
their squandered love
paid for the bed
slept in many a night
and the windows crack
on poor momma’s back
while the feeder remains empty
the dirt in her skirt
removed the dead skin
him floating in heaven again
and the blackbird returned
the feathers she borrowed
hoping he’d get out of her head
Nothing in this poem is true, as far as I know. Simply a fantasy burrowed. Displayed. 🖤
Can anyone hear the lark sing
I wonder. The rain knows
the words that twirl
to form the song
inside this vacant heart. You
removed all the furniture
placed into another room
wallpapered with old paintings. Never
knowing which was your color
i painted the reds of maple blooms
spring leaves only a few days old
they held no shape for us to know
how these days would go. And
now they bleed into years
of birthdays spent walled between plexiglass.
Yesterday’s reflection lied
as eyes peered to watch a head linger
a long pause …
the window hurts from all the noise
it rattles from my fist
poised to strike against me.