Time makes losers of us all

for it always carries death

on its heavy, shrouded shoulders

and life becomes a series of deaths

each of which corrodes us just a bit

and though there are rebirths;

the buds and blossoms of spring,

the multitudes of colors,

the variety beneath daylight’s shelter,

the waiting arms of death are always there

somewhere in the shady distance,

hidden in the shadows

where mysterious objects block the light,

waiting to bring the finality

that erases all of our springs.

Typewriter poem #4

I’m Fine, I Really Am

My loneliness is a single teardrop

Not a torrential downpour in a hurricane

My pain level has gone from Mr. Yuck to sad face

I’m learning how to walk with one leg

To tie my shoes with one arm

To breathe without lungs

To feel without a heart

I’m learning to love myself

With my hand since there’s no woman there

In my bed, my couch, my life

I’m learning to be a dad without a wife

I only think of suicide 75% of the time now

I’m learning to go on with no future

To go through the motions when I’m paralyzed

To live when hope is gone

as always

when he found himself

afflicted

with a bad case of

writer’s block

he’d cure it by taking

all the money in the

house and

going to the casino

He’d always play the

roulette

and always bet on

the number 17

If he won

his money would

multiply by 36

and if he lost

he lost it all

Of course

the chances being

36 to one

he mostly lost

but losing at the roulette

brought another win,

a cure from the writer’s block

It’s simple

Where there is regret and

self loathing

and grief

and misery

and depression

and madness

there is inspiration

These are the people

the muse visits

and after losing the money he

made by pawning his wedding ring

he knew she’ll visit him

tonight

Unlike his wife

***

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I wish I could say,

But I’d never forgive me,

For traipsing each boundary,

That I set ever so loosely.

And so my tongue is bit,

An expression needed to soften my tone,

Swallow each emotion,

Till they overspill with an impending groan.

I want to speak,

To shout out your name,

To say how you acted hurt me,

But this desire is merely vain.

For all I know,

And the pain I feel within,

Started from me,

The only way you and I could ever begin.

Closure in reach,

A sight vanquished,

I feel like you betrayed me,

If I may be rather frankish.

Words left unsaid,

Rotting in slumber,

Our connection left severed,

I always knew our days were numbered.

He flickers like a light switch,

A dragon, an orb,

Calmly etched in remembrances,

So ticklish and warm.

As furtive as summer,

As fertile as the rain,

Revolving in cycles as he leaves me,

Trickled with pain.

Up and down,

I’m wound and flung like a doll of rags,

Stillness returning to my heart,

As he fumbles my soul in an ascension that lags.

The decision was mine,

But yours to claim,

Your trespasses reeking,

As you left me maimed.

As shadows cast darkness,

The light masked astray

Leave me for good,

But he only flickered away.

Every single time, i filled these blank spaces with words,

I-----am-----reminded-----the-----chasm-----that's-----left

--------------------------------------------------------------------

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Because I don't believe in myself or anything I ever write,

I am a cryptic wordsmith, who doesn't believe they have,

the tools to sculpt out perfection.

Callused fingers and blood drenched hands, hot around my neck,

as I choke the gift of life.

Because when I dream, those nightmares,

harrowing sounds drown out all hope,

that one day the flower can be left to grow.

---------------------------------------------------

What my nightmares sing,

with red ringed eyes,

I am mortified that I die in such a sour state.

Darkblossom_x©2023

I walked to the playground at night again

And I swung

And you were there

I remembered when I was four in England

And you pushed me on the swing

And now your ghost was pushing me

As I looked up at the cloudy lavender night sky

And listened to the croaking hum of the spring peepers

Out in full force now

And I remembered a better time

When we sat on the seesaw that looked like a dragon

And we sailed our little boats on that pond in England

And we went to Loch Ness

And you said a rock was the monster

And even at four I didn’t believe you

And as I swung now at 46

I went back to a better time

And I stayed there for a while

I stayed there for a while

Until it was time to walk away

I-

I don't want to become just another number on a screen

My aunt doesn't understand my concerns, as she's doing 93

I've been there

and I've done that

five close calls

So sure, I drive all slow

not to enjoy the scenery

but to ensure that I'm here for another tomorrow

I could be number 597

keep your seatbelt on

learn your lesson

every time you're in an accident

you straighten up

and fly right

but the next Sunday

You're applying your makeup

and not watching out for the headlights

You became another number on that screen

number 596

a number that many people don't look at

because if they don't acknowledge it

It doesn't exist

it won't happen to them

but then your world is flipped upside down

crashed into the ravine

of off 18th

applying your makeup

for your final scene

Love is a force of nature that cannot be commanded.

Love that is forcefully squeezed out of people's bodies will only rot in their souls.

I find that when I enter a relationship in response to the weight of external factors, I end up leaving with regret and nothing more. Only fulfilling relationships held together by real love can be truly cherished and looked upon as an experience worthy of any pain that follows separation.

In my heart, my grandma is the embodiment of love. Illness and old age may have swept her away, but I can still remember the kindness in her eyes and the happiness embedded in her wrinkles. I can still remember the way she powered through the pain that life threw at her in its sorry attempt to hold her down. I can still remember how her warm, empathetic hands offered instant noodles to construction workers in my backyard.

Though I can no longer feel the warmth of her embrace, my love for her keeps my memories of her untainted despite the wistfulness and sadness that come with them.

Typewriter poem #3

Phantom Pains

Something is missing

And in the gaping emptiness left behind

It feels like sinking

I can feel the wind blow through

The icy fingers of some lost love

Or maybe a dead parent, an ancient ancestor

A Scottish spirit or a dead French poet

Some love I never knew

Finding a home in my vast emptiness

Taking up residence and adding furniture

Rooms full of baggage

Covered with dust and cobwebs

and the emptiness gets comfortable

Kicks up its feet and leans back

On a sofa of shadows

And I suffer

And try to figure out what was lost

So I can know what I need to mourn