Where Are You?
Friends weren't something
That I ever came easily by, and so
I spent my summer days alone,
Climbing trees and walking our dog
And playing in sprinklers,
Each summer getting lonelier and lonelier.
There were friends, sure, that I met
Once a year at camp and that was it,
And I had my siblings, but they got
Jobs and once again I was climbing trees
And playing in sprinklers, and walking our dog,
Alone and by myself, wishing that,
Even though I was too old for it,
That there was someone to draw with
Sidewalk chalk, and jump in puddles with,
And ride bikes, and giggle over cute guys
And make music with, or to hike in the woods
And get lost. But no one ever came to me,
And even today, I find that though there are
Those that I call occasionally and talk to, but
They are much older than me and live
Many miles away, so I sit and watch ripples
On the water, the waves in the grass, and
The sun set
Alone.
Solider
her body was a casualty of the war raged against her body
tossing and turning
her mind loaded like a gun
ready to aim and shoot
human interaction deadly to the soul
sends her body in anaphylactic shock
her hand ready and raised
to swing
she is a soldier strapped to the cause
lost in the purpose
building trenches
hiding
from the bombs that ricochet in the ear
carrying body bags filled with secrets
agent orange tinged smell on her skin
she´s alert like a watchdog
sniffing out your scent
yanking her sleeves of her soul down
slapping a yes sir and a salute to
okay
she knows how to beat the enemy
who tries to enter her wall
she´s a rock hard surface
she got herself in a fetal position
ducking and covering
from the bombs, she set off
with her hand
she shaved her head
stripped herself
of a damsel in distress
part
she adorned herself
with the best guns
she carried her gun
cocked and loaded for bitches who ever tried to get in her way
she kissed the lips of hope
and got down on her knees
and dug in the soul
and prayed the lord’s prayer
begging for mercy
as she tilted the pills to her lips
to quiet the demons in her head
overdosing
comatose everyday
in her room
and
fell
deeper
into
the
soft
cotton
that
covered
the
hardwood
of
her
soul
Freud’s Ribbon
I've had the same dream,
almost weekly,
since I was eight years old.
In it, I notice something stuck
to the tip of my middle finger.
I try to pull it off, but it is
my skin.
It unravels, like a pulling a
sweater string, up my arm
across my chest, up my neck
around my face and down
my side, between then down
my legs, back up again, uncoiling
unspooling like a thread
until a pile of pink bloody
candy floss is piled at my feet.
I can feel the nerves shredding,
the cold air against what is now exposed.
Once, I woke up and my arm
was covered in blood from the elbow
to the wrist, my bedsheet red and saturated;
I had dug trenches on the white
underbelly of my forearm
in my sleep.
Now, I wake up tingling all over
and barely give it a single thought
anymore; why do I still
have this dream? Why does it not
terrify me anymore?
Even in dreams, you can get used
to anything. If anything is terrifying,
why isn't it that?
Now
I’m harder now than when they knew me.
That yielding woman, blown this way and that, has calloused.
The callow body that unbridled ardor, confidently working the reins
Is now hollow, softer on the outside, but harder within.
I am green, ripe and rotten. At once childlike, mature and old soul
Rolled into this unbendable shell.
Some sweetness is gone, drained and strained through the sieve of time.
Yet the wine of this fruit is delicious. Culled from bruised berries of my body,
Bitter berries of my being,
When mulled, it will warm and satiate.
The buoyant body, I’m afraid, its brazen unawareness have flown,
Pigeons through a town square at twilight, shadows over cobblestone.
Children skip toward warm houses following dinner’s scent. Couples murmur
As they turn huddled corners in trenchcoats and heels,
While an old man in a herringbone cap throws scraps of bread,
Hopeful for the pigeons, his company,
To return and eat and coo and share the nightfall.
But they will not return tonight. The wind turns cold.
He rises, a litter of crumbs scuffling beneath his feet.
I ask the mirror: Am I the child, the lover, or the elder?
You are the dusk, I reply. Seaming day and night on evening's edge.
When the sun falls degrees below the horizon,
You hold the night while releasing the day. You stand vigil for the old,
Hear the whispers of the lovers, and beckon the babes to safety.
You are the explosion of color in the west, the stark bleakness of the east.
And you are the un-blackened darkness that surely ensues.
The dusk? I repeat, wide-eyed and disbelieving.
As if I didn’t know. Yes, love, the dusk. For with you, I say,
I do not miss the sun, nor do I long for the moon.
Alone
Fearful to fearless.
Shy to bold.
Weak to strong.
Alone to alone.....
Always I have been
That third wheel,
That shadowed face,
The one, only noticed in a blurr.
If you see me,
It is never the whole of me.
If you know me,
It is only one of my many faces.
Since tiny baby
To young adult,
I am the same
In my loner ways.
Sometimes I cast away
Those friends who know
Only one me.
They don't understand.
Other times I wish
For someone to see,
To hear!
To know all of me!
Not just the shy part.
Not just the follower.
The bold and fearless face.
The Leader and Protector.
But those faces often
Decieve the outside.
No one to know
I am hiding inside.
If they found out
They would leave.
No one likes to
Be wrong....
They would realize
I am not in the shadow.
I am the Shadow.
They would know.
Then they would
Have to listen.
Have to be concerned.
Oh, but rebuked I would be.
Living in comfort is
Better and easy to them.
Not working hard for others.
Not taking time from themselves.
So alone I remain.
Pretending friends think
I matter.
Pretending I think
I matter.
