I think the saddest word in the english language is

Almost.

We have so many words for sadness

Blue

Melancholy

Sorrowful

somber

Bitter

Weeping

Sorry

Dejected

heartbroken

Broken.

You can count them like stars until you fall asleep,

But almost is

Unfinished

Not quite

Just about

Anything.

Almost is what could have been.

What almost happened.

So close, and yet so far.

Almost is

a missed throw

Burnt toast

A flat note

Bottled tears

a candle blown out before you could pick up any more matches.

She almost lived her dream.

He almost didn’t break the lamp.

They almost had fun today.

He almost missed the train that crashed.

She almost got to the hospital in time.

I almost loved you.

I see no reason to cease my writing

to you, that is at least to the idea of

you, the you that I once knew;

I’m writing to what remains.

I’m sorry for letting you see

the mess that I really am.

What remains of the bloody and bruised

work of art on my back has

faded away with time.

I used to worry that my brother

or Mom would see what I’d done to myself,

the shame I’d brought to their name.

The bruises and welts have left my world,

in much the same way you have,

leaving behind a canvas with only

the memory of what occurred.

I barely hear the screams of my knees

and the groans of my lower back these days;

they’re insignificant compared to

what I’ve done to myself.

I guess I’m doing better.

I’m not exactly alone anymore, but

there’s nothing wrong with being alone.

I can do with the absence of those around me,

but it’s the absence of you...

it’s the absence of that woman

I once knew and fell in love with

that kills me on the inside

more and more each and every day.

You tore away at the trust and love that

I was capable of giving. I will never be

the same man you said you loved

in much the same way

you will never be

the same the woman I said I loved.

I’ve got to work with what remains of me,

and hopefully contribute something to this world

before there isn’t any of me left.

You still da best.

#poetry

I realized today that I was still in love,

but not with you, but rather

with what used to be you.

I’m in love with a girl

that used to occupy your space…

I’m in love with a memory.

Each poem or prose that I write

usually ends with me begging you

to not be a stranger.

This time I’m writing

to whom this may concern.

Shit happens, I guess.

Like the beast once sang,

the memory of you

resides in my heart,

tormenting me for evermore.

I’m glad you’re out there finding yourself,

growing and learning like you should.

What you did was a selfish necessity.

I’m doing the same these days.

You’ve changed and we’ve all noticed.

I’m proud of you, Sunshine.

If you end up trying to find someone,

make sure they’re someone of worth,

someone who’s going places,

someone who treats you with respect

and most importantly,

someone who Chloe approves of.

A resident at the nursing home

taught me to not believe in goodbyes,

but I’m not entirely sure she crunched the numbers,

so I’ll just leave you with this:

I’ll see you on the other side of time, Sunshine.

Love,

Kevvo

#poetry

A new sun rises over the quiet horizon

bearing only light this time. There is no room

on each wavelength to carry love.

Her hair’s falling out,

each strand waiting in line for

Earth’s gravity to take hold of them.

Her face isn’t what it used to look like,

the youth sucked out of her skin

at the ripe age of a little over thirty.

She never married, but at least she has

someone who loves her; a humble Jamaican man

bringing her aloe drinks and coconut candy

to make her existence somewhat bearable.

Mi hermano is having trouble finding a job

in a world where experience from

naive college grads is somehow

justified, as if

God had given his stamp of approval

on all of this.

He’s doing the work around the house

that I used to do; he’s depressed.

I’m almost home, bud. Hang in there.

The girls are starting to understand

her condition… what cancer is.

The little one cries that she’s lonely.

The older one is going to have

her heart broken before the age of nine.

I don’t know how Abuelita is taking it all,

but she’s a strong woman. Despite all this,

she’s coming to the conclusion

that her time with us

might be over no sooner than the next

sunset of my life.

I cannot fail these good people.

I owe them everything.

It’s going to be a long day.

#poetry

There are those smells that sting,

not in a bad way though,

it’s more of a nostalgic sting,

bringing you back,

whether you want to or not,

to a point in time

where that smell used to thrive.

Christmas tree shopping with mom

back when I was truly happy,

bottles of Heineken and cans of Bud

strewn about the garage floor,

Greg’s old ’86 Ford pickup

with no seatbelts or airbags,

An old friends Taylor Swift perfume

she wore to homecoming and prom,

the sex in the backseat of her car,

her bedsheets during those four years,

throwing Ely and JC each and every practice,

my clothes as wet as a mop with sweat

each and every day,

the motel room where you sold your dignity,

and your dick to a stranger,

the tortillas and steak on the grill,

Lyn and Ash’s outside smell that

reminds me of their innocence.

I miss her scent of hard work and

how proud she was when she’d come back

from practice and settle into my arms.

Boy did she smell bad, but a good bad,

the kind of bad that you miss for some odd reason.

Her sugar-plum lotion that can fill a room,

her impressively potent farts that can clear a room,

her birds nest as she wakes up in the morning,

her perfume that I don’t believe is actually perfume,

but that she just naturally smells that sweet.

It sure does bring me back.

#poetry

I carry two quotes in my left breast pocket.

One of them from an admirable man

who thought in much the same way I do.

“Leave nothing for tomorrow which can be done today”

- Abraham Lincoln

Focus and duty was on this man’s mind,

incessantly pestering him to do what was right.

He has my utmost respect.

The second is a quote that one of these fine people

bestowed upon me in a moment when I needed it the most.

“Not every day is a good day, but there’s something good in every day.”

- Alice Morse

This good woman from Worcester, Mass,

who lived some half a century from the moon landing,

has an impact on a young man

who also lived some half a century from the moon landing.

These two people keep my from losing my shit, Lady.

I suppose they’ll do their best to help

when you finally decide to pull the trigger to

put me out of my misery and move on with your life.

I suppose that’s another topic for another time.

I know you don’t love me anymore, but thank you for loving me at one point. I’m not the greatest man to have ever lived, but that’s not going to stop me from trying to be. I miss being there for you. If you ever need anything, I’ll either be in my room, the gym, or studying somewhere. I probably shouldn’t write this, but I love you. I always will.

- Kev

#poetry #prose

It's been said that one man's - woman's! - trash is another person's treasure, so I thank all of you, my followers, for treasuring those works which I often think of as trash. Even when I've called my stuff "ca-ca" (*cough*) shortly after posting something, you guys - gals! - come out of the wordwork to applaud me and pass my words on, thereby warming the cockles of my heart. When I think I'm just a hopeless wreck who should never again dare to pick up a keyboard, pen, pencil, crayon, you go out of your way to assure me that I should, in fact, pick up a crayon - or even a keyboard, on my really good days! - again, and I am so thankful for that.

So thank you, one and all, my reliable quicker picker-uppers for lifting me when I need it most, for not pointing out my nakedness when I have bared myself to you, for not telling me to get a life. Because writing IS my life, and I am so grateful to you all for breathing along with me.

I'll also grudgingly add that I'm "thankful" for when you've called me on it when I've put my less than best foot forward on something. I wouldn't be getting better without you.

P.S. I know I haven't been as present as I have been in the past, but rest assured, I am around, and I do still care and love you all.

When the Lady Arlene asked me to take a letter to the Crown Prince of Darland, I thought it would be a simple task.

Granted, she did keep her apartment in the tallest tower of the castle on the highest peak in the land, and his father’s palace was at the base of the distant hills. What I hadn’t counted on was his immediate reply, which required an answer from her post-haste.

That was three days ago.

I spurred my horse - the fourth I had exhausted since this debacle began - to even greater speed. I had to get this latest dispatch to the Lady with all haste; the Prince was waiting anxiously on her reply to his new communique, which was safely tucked in my saddlebag. It read:

“I don’t know. What do YOU want to do after we meet for dinner?”

© 2018 - dustygrein

#flash #flashfiction #makemesmile #amwriting

Aprils Fools day, you say?

I say more like April Snooze day.

I don't want to play.

These jokes don't work for me.

It's not funny to call me and say school is cancelled when it isn't.

That's not what I call a joke, I call that being in a prison,

of my own anxieties.

It is funny to hide a spider in the bathroom to scare Mom, though.