Sep 21

On A Monday

I can't remember June.
There was an instance
of laughter
and love
that found me,
perhaps,
on a Monday.

Was it a Wednesday?
I can't quite recall.
I can't
seem
to remember
it all.
On a Monday.

Yes, on a Monday
it was. I was grateful
to be
happily
alive and well,
but low
behold,
that dreadful Monday. 

There was no work to be done,
no school to attend,
but in the end,
the very
last hour,
I slumped
and cried
on that horrible Monday.

I thought of how once I was
so happy and lively.
My innocence,
a thing
of present
and beautiful future.
I lost it
on a Thursday
when I was eight
and happy.
That horrible Thursday.

Mondays are for groaning,
the day's work ahead,
but that Monday
was for mourning
my life
my spirit
my smiling,
Sep 20
poem 0 comments challenge: Almost

Almost

The scene in front of her
was almost perfect.
Almost.
Her lips were pursed,
pink and flourishing,
saying things,
sweet,
that tasted like candy
and powdered sugar
on her tongue.
It was almost perfect,
(Click!)
the sound.
It was a noise
that signified perfection,
but that sound,
(Click!)
never came
when mascara
ran down her beautiful,
almost smiling,
almost perfect,
face.
(Click!)
Her heel turned.
She faced her,
the tears running,
her lips quivering,
pursed and pink and
flourishing.
The wind was silent,
almost deadly
as the distance
gaped. Gaps
never close
when blushing,
beautiful people,
who have been told
their whole lives
that they are,
seriously,
perfect,
turn pale,
eyes puffy,
and never see
the beauty in
Sep 19

While She's Here

She is the in-between
of heaven
and hell,
a devil
and angel
without horns
or halo.
Her wings are black,
beaten,
plucked,
damaged,
but soaring
and opening
in love.
She is a queen dethroned,
her crown
tossed and
broken
without even
a ceremony
or coronation.
Her skin is soft as silk,
wrapped
in layers
around
her lovely flesh.
I was on her shoulders,
high and
low again,
yet I am,
once again,
on her back,
hugging,
and she will never know
that someone
like myself
sees her
and smiles.
Please, give me this.
Allow me
to love
again just
for a while.
While she's here.
I'm afraid,
of our parting.
I'm afraid,
to love,
but I want
this feeling
to last for as long
as life
allows.
Sep 10

Two Leaning Stones

I have family in Canada and my mother, sister, father, and I were on our way to visit them. It was my father's birthday and he had greeted us with a smile that only birthdays could give. We hummed back because we were still half asleep. It was 9:00 AM, but my father and I had stayed up late. I was revising a story I had written a year ago and decided that it was alright to submit since I was too exhausted to truly critique it. I had gone to sleep at around 12:30 AM, but I've always had trouble falling asleep at night, so I didn't sleep until around 1:30 AM. We packed our bags and climbed into the car. My sister was driving, my father was in the passenger seat, and my mother and I sat in the back. It was a rainy and foggy day and the smell of petrichor had already settled into the morning air. We were taking our three and a half hour journey and were going to head onto the north highway soon. As the car rumbled on, we passed a cemetary that seemed ominous amongst the fog and shadows.
Sep 03

We Have Mourned Weightless Corpses

They never told me
that I am dead.
All they said
was that I have changed.
This body that I
have to carry
is weightless
and I'm bound to it in chains.
And they never told me
the consequence
of being dead.
Everyone here faced death alone.
I was a suicide.
There are many
different ways
to die that are horrible.
The murdered ones
enforce justice
amongst the wrongful.
There are demons
on earth and in
this so-called heaven.
They kill because they miss life.
They are vengeful
and blood lust
as a way to cope
with their own funeral marches.
I am a ghost
-this I know
but my death
was too quick to judge me,
so I am here
an extra
with no compass
to guide my spirit back home.
I pluck piano keys
and sing alone
to please the haunt
but I still can't remember why
and perhaps
for my sake
Sep 03

1 AM

10:44 AM
I'm tired but I'm awake.
Late night.
Morning coffee.
Everything is sunlit dining tables
and open curtains.

12:30 PM
My sandwich is tasty.
Filling up
another cup
to fend off the late night nerves
slowing way down.

3:55 PM
I'm not hungry anymore.
My ribs
stick out
like a birdcage beneath a sheet,
of pale pink baige.

6:00 PM
My dinner never changes,
same as
every day
that I have been too skinny,
to grow up strong.

8:30 PM
I haven't spoken to them,
my friends
who care
but never ask me if I'm
in any way okay.

11:21 PM
I've been sleepy all day,
and I
wonder 
if there is a cure to this,
tireless migraine.

12:35 AM
It's late and I am tired,
but not
all too
weak enough to collapse,
in reaping arms.

1:00 AM
Four years and I am,
Sep 02

The Quiet Heart

There isn't a sound in my heart,
not a cry,
or a whisper,
not a whimper,
or a sigh,
but there is a hallowness that I,
can feel.

There isn't a sound in my heart,
not a thud,
or a squeak,
not an echo,
or a creak,
but there is a hole with a leak,
unfixed.

There isn't a sound in my heart,
and if I,
ever had one,
it would not,
feel like this,
for this leaking hallowed darkness,
is silent.
 
Aug 25

The Woods Where Children Die

There was a mist,
upon the mountain,
and I saw it,
from the window.
I must resist,
the urge to follow,
the blue lady,
across the meadow.
And if she offers,
a blue rose or hand,
I must decline,
or run as far as I can.
The moth drowns,
in a cup of blood.
I know I saw,
the impending flood.
To look upon her,
and meet her eye,
in the woods,
where children die,
is why the moth,
with its wings undry,
licked off the taste,
of tears gone to waste.
"Shush, child,"
she says to me,
"The children will awaken,
at the strike of three."
To this night,
I hear the grandfather,
cry throughout the house,
and I can hear,
the children inside of him,
giddy to come out.

Aug 15

The Door Creaks

Aug 14

Voices of the Shadows

I can hear the choir,
crying in the night,
shouting inaudibly,
barely kept in harmony.
And though their voices ring,
like chiming bells,
and their shrieks,
shatter my heart,
I cover my ears,
and duck my head,
for the raven squawks,
high in the forked tree.
I mustn't listen.
I mustn't see.
I mustn't hear,
the song of Thana,
for I am afraid.
The shadows which,
beseech me to follow,
are but a trick of the light.
I have lost my mind,
yet my soul is intact,
and they have come,
to rip it from me.

O, I have fathomed my grave!
My mind is buried,
and my bones ache.

Come sweet,
come bitter.
Come warm,
come cold.
Come cheery,
come weary.

Come!
Take me away!

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