I Cannot Forget.I am a modern girl;I Cannot Forget. by Meggie272
I debate complexities.
I get migraines.
I don't know, either way I'm used to the cold sterile
of doctor's waiting rooms
and the bitter bite of medication.
There was a time, about a year ago, now
when even the thought of a germ
made me scrub my hands raw.
I have no qualms about describing myself as such;
this is who I am, I cannot pretend to be my sister
with her proud, broad, sunburnt fisherwoman's face
or my father, and his hands that can soothe panicking horses
and create order out of metal chaos, make something
that moves out of piles of bolts and puddles of black
sticky oil on the floor.
But even so
there was a child once;
a little bob-haired girl, and that girl was part of the dust.
Her hair was tangled and she wore truly atrocious clothes
and even at the age of six she knew that
knotted trees and soaring stripes of ocean over hill
were her - they were owners of something that she owned too.
I cannot ever forget the heat of t
Reality TV 5I have not the time, and to be honest, I was immoral from the very beginning.Reality TV 5 by EmaciatedandEpitaphs
There you were, standing glorious and inebriated. I was ill prepared.
I was a child.
It would seem she lacked organs, substance.
I was without my integrity, so really, what was I supposed to do?
Why even label it as wrong? I enjoyed it. I reveled in every short-lived second.
I was a monstrosity, a ghoulish infested fiend.
I was a wily rat-faced rodent.
I was ugly.
I was free.
samhainoptions for peace run thicksamhain by sleepysheepdog
and menacing to my front door
and they vie for attention
beneath a rushing sky of reigning
ravens whose wings banish cloud
and moon alike and impose their
gloom upon my decision. i could
pick a lobotomy or longterm drug
abuse or an alternate universe where
money comes easy and i am wrenched
from this traitor cage of belligerent
driving, swerving into speed limit signs
and pedestrians; but i will choose the
exorcism and exile each villain from
their wet red refuges and carry on
as if all the demons have truly left.
A Universe of Jagged TruthsI planted a garden in the shade to watch new life struggleA Universe of Jagged Truths by LyricalLatency
And bloom one day
As if it were serendipitous enough to have an epiphany.
It should probably be made clear now
That I was a wall flower once
Confined to the plaster in which I was planted;
Rooted intrinsically to solitude
And self loathing.
it does not surprise me
That I take such pleasure in this dominance.
I am an incubus feeding off the beauty of thicker cell structures.
A parasite of simple vices
And hapless circumstance.
I am the mold on the outermost corner of the proverbial sandwich of life
Drinking its way into conversation with the wheat while
Depressant filled masses serve their purpose as I see them;
A distraction from normalcy
Struggling in the shade as my garden is.
We cling to the solid truth of memory until one day
in the rising heat of spring
We risk all,
and float like dandelion spores unsure of what direction we are better suited for
but find home in reassuring ourselves that we couldn't possibly know.
grievancesI found the sun,grievances by IgnitionInStars
beneath my feet-
here, I am,
a single, thoughtful smile
this heart is extinguished-
every girl is fair gain
burrowing my soul
in such shame,
blinding these eyes
no longer a seeker;
repentencesadness--repentence by IgnitionInStars
I no longer wish to remain
where your melancholy whispers,
how you have
within a voice
|'Cause I dig... <3|
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.
I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze
like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.
Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;
safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
optimum exposureCinco de Mayo, the city is drowning
in tequila and the first rainfall
in months, and she is home on the couch,
cupping a book like an injured baby bird,
pen and notebook just within reach and
and she wishes someone would
take a secret photo
of this moment:
and fingers like piano wire, the arc
of peacock-green, the whole of her
a poem, incorrectly translated.
The desert drenched in the sleepy
sweat of creosote and cedar, and
she doesn't miss the street scene, she
knows her heart as cryptozoological creature:
they have theorized its existence,
but it always shies just out of view
of the lens.
The Town WitchEvery town has its witch. At least I think they do. I know ours does. She isn't scary like stories say she should be. She has a face like my older sister's, the one who isn't married yet, with an eager smile and bright eyes. Her hands though are like my Momma's, calloused and stretched with small roots under the skin.
Her cottage is just outside of town with a small path that runs down to the sea. Her garden is full of overgrown plants that Momma would always "tut" at when we walked by, but it's full of herbs and flowers that she tends with care. She always smells like the honeysuckle that grows around her door and like baking. She bakes often, with her windows thrown open, her singing drifting through her garden all way to the road, the thick sills stacked with rows of cooling pastries. She always leaves batches of small, sweet buns on the outer edge where us children could easily reach. Not that she ever let on that she knew we were taking them. It was the great game amongst us, pret
|I can't always keep up with proper thanks, but know that I do thank anyone who reads anything of mine. |
Also, you're already welcome. So no need to thank me for a thing. (:
Not from the wrong side of,
but right on the tracks,
from the storybook land
of the Boxcar Children,
buttercups, milkweed leaning
down long slopes of grass
from our yard to rails and ties.
Not poor, never poor, not wanting
for meat or fruit, for light or heat,
but burning the way
we Americans burn, climbing
each slippery rung of the beanstalk
up to a well-feathered nest, a golden egg.
I grew up thinking goddamn
was a color, a brand
we'd been sucker-sold and stuck with,
grew up believing
that all our appliances bled.
The neighbors had Buicks or Fords
and my dad had a Goddamn Car,
the goddamn lawn to mow,
the bloody washing machine on the blink,
the goddamn woodpeckers up on the roof
on Saturday morning, pecking away
on the t.v. antenna
the one goddamn time
he wasn't ripped out of bed
at the crack of dawn.
When she just couldn't stand it herself,
my mom said "G.D."--"Get back in this G.D. house
and drink your milk!" And I said "dod damn,"
as in "Dimmee a dod damn cookie, please," or
"Here come that dod damn train again,"
as the rusty CN and Chesapeake boxcars
blasted on by, rattling the spoons
inside of our drawers,
making the peeling panes hum.
And later, when it roared back
in the belly of night, that train
rocked us all awake to kick off
warm blankets, or tuck them
more tightly around each other,
then rocked us back to dreamland
with clack-chukka rhythms,
the bums in red boxcars asleep
in its clattering song:
3:15 a.m. and all is well
on the dead end of 9th Street, all's well
in the USA, in the goddamn world.
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