A heart read and quoted by many in this lifetime
Battle scars that remain and yet shielded by a peace of mind
Walked several miles and traveled while teaching others how to embrace
Remains courageous, faithful and strong with persistence in any given case
Blindsided by those who are willing to love and cherish her to the end
Silence becomes her guard, her armor, her protector, and best friend
Tears of pain, and sorrow, all of which are from a past memory
Times shared, lost and gained, the negative days are history
Mental pictures are drawn from imaginations that lead her to an untraceable place
Recruit no one, for life has taught her that there is no room for more mistakes
A mind reader that has established herself to be two steps ahead
Portrays an interesting novel, a world kept secret unread
Admire her dearly for her patience, wisdom and knowledge untold
How does she continue to live life so freely far from her empty soul?
There once was a girl,
Who's name I can't tell.
To spare her the pain,
I'll just call her Belle.
Belle was a beauty
And all the beasts could see,
She was everything in a girlfriend
That they wanted theirs to be.
Belle was so trusting,
Because she was never treated wrong,
But little did she know that
Her innocence wouldn't last long.
She had two friends,
Sasha and Trevor,
And a boyfriend that she thought
She'd love forever.
Her boyfriend, Sam,
And Trevor were friends.
So this fearsome foursome
Had fun to no end.
The youngest of the four
But the smartest, she thought.
But what a friend was
Was not what she was taught.
Trevor and Belle
Would hang out all day.
She would try to be like him
In her own boyish way.
You see, the Trevor I speak of
Was King of the Beasts
And everything he wanted
Was laid at his feet.
And, although curious,
Belle stayed true to Sam
And that made Trevor feel
That he was less of a man.
One day, in a summer
5 years ago,
Belle told me something
I needed to know.
She told me what happened
The day that she ran.
The day that will forever
Be burned in the sand.
She told me what happened
When she looked over her shoulder
And saw him walking towards her
As the room grew colder.
She told me her tears
Were no match to his power.
She told me what made this beast
She told me she screamed
And hollered and yelled
But her cries were soon muffled
By his lips, dry and pale.
She told me how she felt
The day that she was bruised.
Never in her life
Had she felt so used!
I asked her why she didn't fight
Or get tough like she does on the field.
She just said I'd never know the
Weakness that I would feel.
I couldn't help but to cry for her
As she blamed herself.
Belle had always wanted to be
The beauty on everyone's shelf.
"But not like that," she said to me,
"Not with one of my friends."
She let a tear roll down her face
As she spoke of her life's end.
Some may ask why'd she tell me;
"What made her come to you?"
I simply look at them and say,
"You don't know Belle like I do."
I know this story in great detail
And if you look real close you'll see
The tear I shed while writing this
Because...Belle is me.
My heart was in such pain
I felt like I was going to go insane
I just don't know what to do
And my eyes full of tears that distort my view
I fell to my knees and felt the urge
My muscle tighten and pin needles struck me like a surge
My body was warm and with feelings so confused
My mind felt sadness had fused
I could not conquer my fears
I just sat down and fell into tears
When some close to you passes on
It felt like a warmth has gone
So I raised my hand towards a box that was empty with no tissue
I first was embarrass and had a little bit of issue
All my friends hugged me and said sorry for your loss
So now I cry in my bed and toss
April 14, 2013
" From the debt of my heart"
The African child
Sat behind the bamboo fence
He was sober and tense
Sputtering and wondering.
He forsook the bush meat
And the gathering under the moonlight
For sobriety and the causes of his uncertainties.
His clothes were like dried leaves
His feet like openings in the eaves
He longed to see a brighter tomorrow
He clarified the causes of his sorrow;
Sins of the father,
Fighting not to make things better
Therefore darkening the weather,
Making his destiny falter and bitter.
Tears exuded from the sound of his flute,
His fears enlarged like a parachute
But one thing he never understood,
Watch and pray, oh! African root
For your foundation is stinky, filthy,
Faulty and guilty...... watch and pray.
He glances out the window,
And watches the sunset,
But he doesn’t see the beauty,
Nor the warm rays which,
Pierces through the glass,
Only the anticipation and,
Anxiety of a long night,
Carefully, he watches,
The colors change,
First the bright orange,
"God I pray this never ends…"
Filling with a deep red,
"Just a little while longer…"
Slowly softening to the,
Deceptive pinks and purples,
"Please, one more minute…"
Fading into the crimson black,
Which only night can bring,
Reluctantly, he gets ready for sleep,
Yet, knows it will never come,
He tossed and turns,
Half praying, half waiting,
Knowing what will happen,
In the way only a child can,
A light! It peeks through a crack,
In the door as a shadow floods the opening,
Quickly, the figure slips through the door,
And shuts it softly, but not without the,
Empty creak which has become so familiar,
The shadow climbs in beside him,
Touching his trembling leg, whispering,
“Hush little brother, it’ll be alright,
While I’m here, have no fear,
I’ll keep you safe tonight,”
He struggles and writhes,
Sadly knowing he will never,
Break the grip and prays to faint,
To loss all consciousness and,
Memory of that horrible night,
Just for one night without the pain,
Just for one night without,
The cold empty feeling,
Several years pass, too many to count,
A single call, one he had never expected,
He rushes to the hospital to find,
His tormentor for so many years,
Lying on a cold, hard bed,
Able to move, but only by pushing a button,
Able to speak, but only with a whisper,
He stays by him for weeks, caring for him,
Reading to him, watching over him,
Still suffering, still unable to move,
He takes his brother home,
The day goes on, moving slow as all,
The evening comes and he,
Watches once more as the sun sets,
Carefully watching, Orange to red,
Red to purple, and as the purple turns to black,
He walks into the room where his brother lies,
Slowly, he sits next to him, holding a pillow,
Stroking his head whispering,
“Hush big brother, it’ll be alright,
While I’m here, have no fear,
I’ll keep you safe tonight,”
The difference between right and wrong,
Can be hard to find,
But who’s there to see you,
When justice is blind?
like the raven
who taps taps upon
your chamber door
do not fret my Virginia
for it's my shadow
moving across the floor
this is what I'm telling you my darlin
and nothing more
I still call your name
come to me virginia
come hear the tap tap
upon your chamber door
for only you my love
I surrender and never more
wind howls in blanket snows
here I stand so all alone
broken hearted and misconstrued
my Virginia who lies under stars and moon
just a tap tap upon your chambers door
tis I and nothing more
tales of hidas truth
blackbird sings harps cords
just like the tap tap upon your chambers door
my sweet Virgina whom I adore
for there'll be love waiting and nothing more
as I lay right next to you in this tomb
I counted only seven who have even knew
the times of this raven who
tapped tapped upon your chambers door
twas only I and will be never more
Tribute To Edgar Allen Poe
And His Young Bride Virginia
Also To His Poem The Raven
Here she comes, walking with pride.
Her face is so vibrant, she looks so alive.
Nothing can stop her, no one dares to try.
Her entire life is corroded with deals, tricks, and lies.
Her beauty is everything, her smile kills all
It brings down the strongest men, makes the highest building fall.
But when she comes home,
The story does change.
Her life’s not so perfect,
The positions rearrange.
Her father's an alcoholic, and not very nice.
She has a brother who gave up on school, and can’t read or write
Of all of her family, her mother is the worse.
Sometimes she wonders if she'll survive this curse.
He mother yells,and tells her that she's no good.
She would give it all up, if only she could.
At the end of the night she goes into her room,
She begins to weep, and eventually cries herself to sleep.
She wakes up the next day,
Puts on a happy face,
And goes to school as if nothing happened the previous night,
Or that absolutely nothing is wrong with her life.
So now that you’ve seen what’s behind the closed door,
I hoped you’ve thought about this girl a little more.
With the utmost respect,
I present to you, the life of someone "perfect".
He sped home,
His hands covered with desperation
Pedal down to the cold of the floor
His mind clouded with hesitation
She stood alone on the porch,
Her hands covered with damnation
Heart cold from the winter night
She was yearning for the liberation
Tears streamed from down his eyes
The night was clouded like a horror movie
Breaths are heavy and cold with perspiration
Thinking, “How could she do this to me?”
Her legs gave out,
As she collapsed to the floor
Headed to the phone
She crawled to the door
His love burned out,
As he slammed on the gas
Eyes blurred with tears
He was going way to fast
She had to tell him,
He was the love of her life
Phone was cold as she grasped it
She quickly dialed his number in strife
His phone rang in the side of his jeans
He scrambled for it and saw her name
Mind conflicted whether to pick it up
He answered in a crying shame
She hears his voice from the other side
She tells him she loves him and starts to cry
Then it happened
She never got to say goodbye
His speedometer was to the max,
His attention was taken of the street
Head on collision
He had his life swept from under his feet
She heard the crash on the other end
Screamed out his name in an awful blur
And collapsed again to the floor
He never got the chance to say he loved her
deprived of a father to tell her that her skirts to small
she wore it to hug her hips and rise with every sway in her walk
her mother, another statistic of having babies to young,
was to whipped in her dip trying to be hip so she cheered her poor child on
she's dying to survive in a broken home
daddy not around to watch her spend a penny and mamas hardly home
she's dying to survive and she's put her school on hold
she's another undereducated black child with no priorities or goals
she careers soliciting her body, making it hobby to walk up and down blocks
waiting for the right brotha she can sweet talk and pick pocket
at the honk of his horn, she stops hot trotting
hopped in his car and found a quiet spot for lip locking
her hand rises up his leg, she feels for his man
he nods giving her consent
she prices her body for those new Jordan and dolce & gabbani
she'd rather rock the latest fashions then to feed her starving body
she's hopelessly devoted to being the hottest at the parties
she's dying to survive wanting attention to feel the space neglected by another
who makes alcohol a hobby
she's dying to survive rich living is her poverty
she's deaf to her inner voice that yells to her it's wrong
she confides in bad associates who cheer her on
she doesn't know this is how she's dying
she's dying to survive
Staring head on in the face
What is happening in each corner of this dreadful place
I don’t want to say rather me that you
I wish there was something I could do
Children for sale just isn’t right
Buts its happening day and night
Which way leads to the
land of green white
Which way are we
A country the wicked
bears the rulership, and
the people sighing
A terrible thing sprouts
beneath the sun: a
Imps come to lime-light
by snuffing air from the
goose that laid the
The blind guiding the un
The weak suppressing
the strong-a terrible
Like the overthrow of the
gods at Mt. Olympus by
A country where also
thieves appear as men of
Land of green white
A land where the
enlightened ones are
peanuts given to them.
The masses are dogs that
eat the crumbs.
Which way to go you
Iliterates stand on
podium of power
bellowing orders as milk
of sorrow known as
dividends of democracy
is passed around.
The machine of progress
manned by the
"There is better
tomorrow" we hear.
Land of green white
where rule of law walk
The proles are sentenced
to adversity,and there
endured death-like trials.
Chai! Aru! People
dancing on thorns
whimpering as they
I see a new sun rising
from the horizon,hope is
rekindled as its rays
grace on hopeless bodies.
Look!! there soon be
I did speak with them, seemed very confused.
Apparently from what I have been told,
the cancer has gotten worse, and has
began invading the rest of the body…
The hospice nurse doesn’t,
think they will be with us much longer…
They don’t know where they are living, can't
remember me seeing them recently, can't
remember me talking with them yesterday...
I know that this is very depressing news,
and if it weren't for friends and family,
I would be going crazy…
For it is hard to lose a loved one,
whether it be family or friend…
Since we don't know, when that fateful day
will happen, we can only take it one day at a time,
I only hope and pray that they won't suffer, I would
rather see them be in a coma, and not have
the pain and suffering…
I know that sounds harsh, however,
I don't want them to suffer, I want them
to go in there sleep….
By Sandra L. Hoban
Why this boat?
Could it be boat of destitution?
Conveying Epidemics, Hunger, Rags,
Malnutrition and Illiteracy.
Descend from me!
Banish from my world!
You cursed word!
You that called education a"Privilege"!
Patrimony of ghetto!
W.H.O called you "Lion of Africa",
U N called you "Agenda ".
Predicament to black,
Livelihood to white.
Harking to conviction,
Capsize and raise no more.
For "Black Rose" to smile again
On the land of plenty.
Marla was a friend of mine
I knew from working at UTMB
Over 10 years we worked together
In the department of pathology
Though we actually worked
In two different locations there
We still became pretty good friends
Leaving me memories of times we shared
Besides her friendship with me
To all, Marla was very helpful
She knew her job exceptionally well
And was always professional
Our department felt confident
As we knew Marla was the one
To work in an accurate manner
And get any task completely done
Marla attended a few SSP luncheons
We would both go there to meet
She came as my guest a few times
And we would save each other a seat
I’ll carry the memories of Marla
With me throughout my living years
I know that when it’s my time to go
She’ll be saving a good seat for me up there
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Between the Indian plains and the hills of Burma.
Protected by the affection of its three guardians,
The Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna.
From there - this story began.
On a grassland full of hopes and dreams.
Right at the edges of Brahmaputra river.
Lying there without any wheezes,
A sad and lonely royal bengal tiger.
He remembers the smell of the Sal trees,
In Bhawal Park near Dhaka, his place of birth.
He remembers the sounds of peacocks, elephants, and deers
His heart wish they were not yet became a myth.
He has been a part of Pohela Boishakh feast.
When people bathe early and dress in fine clothes.
All the men put on their kurta, or the finest lungi at least
While women dress in sharee, letting their beauty to be exposed.
Tears streamed from his cheek. As the old tiger weep.
A momentary recalled the legends of his ascendant.
The story of the one whose once Sultan beloved,
And the one whose survives the liberation war in 1971.
The tiger now stood, underline his courage and chivalry.
"Will this liberty be felt by my offspring?" his mind fly.
Despite the poverty, instability, and all its vulnerability,
There is more to Bangladesh than meets the eye.
~ For the "LOVE LETTERS TO THE INDIAN SUBCONTINENT" contest by Cyndi MacMillan
I was born in a world of poverty and soiled life of a third world country
The way I lived till I was five years of age was walls of boundary
These walls had towers of guards that had no heart or care
If a child would try to climb the wall they lose their life I swear
Father had drank and threatened my mother with a knife
My father lost his job and wife and that was the hardship of life
He stopped my mother from taking off with me in her arm
Hoping that my father would ignore and left me be with no harm
When my father went off to drink one night and came home with rage
My brothers stood by my crib and took a beating that set up the next stage
My father had woken up to three scared children half starved and in pain
His final words as he walk away from the orphanage gate live life do not go insane
I was still a baby in the orphanage; the caretakers did not really care about the babies
They stole items and materials those wicked men and maternal evil ladies
They starved all the babies because it cost a lot to keep them alive
As a child of that age I could feel the sins and greed that gave out bad vibes
I was ignorant about what I drank and ate, as I see white maggots move in my bottle
As I see them move I thought about how they were playing and some were hostel
They ate each other to keep each other alive in a manner that took me by surprise
In the back round I hear others throwing things with sounds of painful cries
I got very strong at a young age I was able to start pulling myself up over the cage
My feelings were to see my brothers with strong lungs that I cried out of rage
My two brothers came to see me and sneak food into my crib
The caretaker would find the food in my hands as they grabbed it and hit me on my ribs
As painful as it was I kept eating the food with blood in my mouth as it was instinct
I sometimes laid in my crib dazed and confused with smell of death so distinct
With all my might I kept myself strong and climb the small wall
I finally was old enough to get out of the building and I could hear my brothers call
With tears of joy with short legs that ran as fast as my heart
I ran to my brothers arms and held their hands to have a new start
I grew stronger everyday but more things came into my life in a manner of dismay
If my brothers stay by my side I could smile and everyday their would be okay
We walk the rocky shore
and you lean heavily on me,
Mother, bruising my balky arm --
muttering "Ay, Hijo!";
a few steps and, breathless,
we are both exhausted.
Your once-brown eyes, gone gray,
are like concentric rings
rippling from a random stone
thrown into a polluted pond
in winter: eyes as flat
as the latex paint that
coats a cheerless rented room.
Cataracts circle your lenses;
they have a ruptured look --
purple, jellied -- like the eyes
of a dead fish, which I poke,
It is puffed and rotten.
Your eyes are puffed, too, red-rimmed,
moist with tears that brim over
though you try to blink them back.
That you love me and I you,
and that we wish to extend
our time together, is clear --
as clear as the black water
in the pond, as clear as your
as clear as my conscience
when I drop you at the Home,
cleverly inventing an important
meeting, to which I hastily fly.
I spent almost month in a hospital room
This ever worst sick was so much and doom.
Chilling so bad in a mild quiet night,
Freezing to death like I was losing my sight.
Lying on a white bed and feeling this pain.
Too excruciating and made me insane.
Medical tests were examined crucially,
Days were softly killing me physically.
Delivered my body in the operating room,
Wanted to extend this life and make it well bloom.
Hours of terror tortured me so ruthless
Felt heavy stitches which made me so breathless.
Years passed and I’m all too well.
Survived this disease given from hell.
I’m a cancer survivor! Fighting for life!
Saving myself for loved ones in life.
I stood in front with a long red dress
I wasn’t sure what to do
I hadn’t planned on this, and took off my left shoe
I wanted to jump on the tramp, but oh the mess
Every person took their turn
Lots even got a burn
Some fell and got bumps
Others made large jumps
I waited for my chance
Standing behind my hunky boy
He sized me up and jumped on the toy
Moving like a dance
I separated my two feet
And tied my skirt in a knot
The skirt became pants and I moved to the spot
I smiled and bounced on my seat
A decade in to
a new millennium,
a woman, nearing
a century on Earth,
braces herself in
a doorway of
she has lived in since birth.
Her oldest son unfastens his belt, and takes a seat at the end of her table,
where her middle son just fixed the legs of the chair; to make sure it was stable.
Her youngest son brushes the webs off the wall, and scrubs the stains from the floor.
Her only daughter packs up her pictures, and helps her through the door.
A decade in to
a new millennium,
a life, almost
a century long,
comes flooding back
to the thoughts of a woman
who feels removed
from where she belongs.
Her daughter tries to lift her spirits, (from the room in which, she slept as a child)
but no one could easily witness their memories, all being sorted, and filed.
Her house is dissected, and put in a truck that waits - like a thief - in the drive.
-The cumbersome stance; the delicate dance; together, they help one another survive.
A decade in to
a new millennium,
a woman approaches
a century - passed.
A man in the attic
waves from the window -
This home will not be her last.
I feel that I have found a home in this cyberspace
with full of hearts and ideas in a special place
I wonder of all the people in the world to make me smile
with antics that help me grow in every mile
I do want to say to all of the people with respect
because of all of you my mind is not in a wreck
I would lie if I did not get ideas from all of you
without you my poems would not come true
I bless everyone with care
with kindness and without dis-pare
I hold my hands high and put them together
with this I bless you with good weather
I do read some of the poems that people put out
sometimes I feel with out a doubt
I feel the pain in the poems that some has revealed
with hopes that they can read with their mind not sealed
I smile a bunch with every word
it is like a music in my head making a cord
I do want you all to know that you have made my day
to be a better day in every different array
I cherish my time with all the people in my heart
the words flow in my mind is just but a start
I'm happy with everyone in PoetrySoup.com
with hardship that came this cyberspace makes me calm
I cannot choose five cause if I do I don't think it's right
just to tell you that is just my own insight
I thank all for helping me grow with all the poems that are shown
with faith and humor, with views of kindness this site has grown
If I had to say or dedicate my poems to who
would be the first five who reads my poems with a point of view
Money some say its as
sweet as honey,but
little do they know that
its stoney. In its
pitiless glare and hatred
makes the people
blood even more red.
Some live for the money
others live to be sorry.
Because where there is
great wealth there is
great worry. Money is
like camphor which
sublimes. It may be there
in an instance and and in
a twinkle gone. Its
fruitful and fleshy and all
of a sudden change
into stone. Vanity lives on
vanity and evil
emerges from wealth.
And wealth is acquired
from money. And money
they say is blood. So
when there is no wealth
there is no money,
when there is no money
there is no blood.
When there is no blood
the heart of the
One person, homeless, in soiled clothes
stands at intersection of two roads, stares continuously towards the road
where palatial houses with beautiful flowered gardens are lined up.
Mesmerized imagines himself inside those bungalows
servants in queues, to serve masters, with best wines
and mistresses, bejeweled, freshly serviced from parlors
dining tables laid with tastiest food, excess later thrown in dustbins.
Thought of food makes him come out into the present, with a jerk
a pained cry emanates from his thin empty stomach
he had not chanced upon to eat food for days now
except for water which perhaps everyone could get free
but not anymore, water is also sold nowadays.
He is, no doubt, poor but surely owns some compassion for fellow beings
but who values it in today's world?
wants to earn his food, and other needs with his sweat
but who employs people in tatters except for exploitation, perhaps?
His attention gets drawn to other side of crossroads
he hears a faint noise of continuous cries emanating from a lame man, in rags, like him
who, with effort, is signaling for help
a nauseating smell is emanating from the lame
who apparently had not bathed, for long, for water is not anymore free.
Ignoring the stench, he comes near the lame
who indicates his utter state of thirst, through dry swollen lips
he falls into remorse as he is also helpless
a little less, maybe, he can still walk on his legs and seek necessities
with effort, he procures a bottle of water for the lame.
The lame man does not rise to drink it, alarmed he shakes him but alas!
the lame sleeps like a drugged man, with no troubles
his widely parted lips, however, betraying his peaceful demeanor
still waiting for their thirst to be quenched.
Disgusted, he prays god to transcend the lame to a planet
where he has access to basic things such as water
saddened, he slowly pulls himself back to the crossroad
looks longingly to that side with palatial houses
maybe he also wants to avoid the path of deprivation
and tread the path of being provided for, a more meaningful path.
When will they get right to live with dignity like a respected citizen?
feels anguished that poor people themselves do not have answers
to such simple yet important questions.
Wonders what stops people of palatial houses to let arrangements succeed
so that a helpless smelly thirsty hungry lame man need not go cold, waiting for water?
when would humanity's collective consciousness be fully awakened?
It took all his energy
Just to fake a smile
At the speed of light
His world grew smaller by the
Former small pleasures
Transformed into ambivalence
Blank and numb
He walked blindly
There were no solutions
To any of his problems
And then one day
Out of the clear blue sky
He smiled without effort
I even caught a glimmer
Of a spark in his eye
Life became a little more
We all cheered him on silently
Me his number one fan.
As his confidence had
His gut had grown larger
He wore his belt below it
But his pants always slid down
Far enough to annoy him
With no solution
One day, after months
With the spark in his eye
He chose to die
It was a shock because
He'd just discovered
By BJ Welsh
With life and living we take our chance
Nodding in agreement to a furtive glance
Waking up each day is a chance we take
That life will deliver us for Heaven’s sake
We awake each sunrise with a hope reborn
Chance seeing an other suffer and torn
It’s one other’s life you see at a glance
Hoping for approval, it’s but a chance
The life you witness as others pass
The pain inside may subside, alas
Hoping to see one as you
The chance you take to find two
Running out of time the clock is ticking
Chance there are others whose lives aren’t clicking
Great as that may be, the chance you’re all alone rises
Furtive glances from beneath disguises
Chance that hiding the pain and hurt won’t last
The agony you feel will not be fast
Chance you soon become discovered
In your waking hours its’ uncovered
You’ve lived a life of hurt and pain
The chance you’ve taken may have been in vain
Chatter; chatter; nag; nag; shut up they cry; proclaim a truce; dug beneath the
Dermatitis dramatics; ghouls forlorn; faces exuberant in detail; wistful; smiling;
caving; longing; sunning; words without need; need without words; immaculate
conception. She stood; Farrell watched; gracing the parapet with parenthesis
and parochial intent; grin overlong; foreboding yet intuitively inviting. He stood;
Ferrell watched; pour poor swine; marital bliss; marital kiss; marital law; sternly
facing the couple; mouth aghast; shouting down the crowd.
“Is there anyone here who finds fault with this union?”
Farrell held his own; run they say; heir to the throne; a testament of guilt; to be so
overly apologetic regardless of circumstance is to be appalling; it’s unheard of;
even throughout the salient circles of silent elect; neglect yourself.
“Arthur your wife knew too well…”
Reminisce; reconvict the perennial cyst; they kissed; marital bliss; marital kiss;
marital law. They stood; Ferrell watched; skulking the heads of unleaven bread;
heathen and sheathing the sickles instead; Ferrell construed pastures anew;
skipping the scene; sauntering down a back alley boardroom.
Farce off the elbow.
My head is heavy
And your know where near
Our lives are slowly crumbling
And we're not there to hear
Sand bag to wall
We're there when each other fall
Release your load
Only so much you can take
Give it to me
I'll hold your world on my shoulders
Sandbag to wall
I'll do my best not to fall
I know we'll soon switch
My shoulders are in a slouch
And life's becoming too big of a bit©h
Your silent words spoken
Things said but not heard
A hoax in communication
A bridge thats now been burnt
Each lie and blameful word
Melted in a smoldering pot
Craters into your life
Strips you left with only a soul to show
The meteoroid was left standing there
Some what in tacked
But left a tear
Like a dagger in the heart
You refuse to take out
Time over time
The meteoroid has dissapeared
but still you imagine its there
Stuck in the past
Your stubborn as a ass
When will you move on
We cleaned up the debris
Everyday we came by
Between each heart fulled hi and goodbye
We'd fill our baby up
Trying to help him get by
But no matter how hard we tried
He was just a hole
I look back to dusk
And see my blooming flower
So many bees all around
They were bound to sting
Ignore all signs and look at you now
After they all fly high
And leave you under the great blue sky
Everyday Ill come
And lay there with a rope
Waiting to pull you back
And carry you into a world of hope
Because I'm afraid of your other ways to cope
.The survivors. Yes, that's what we call ourselves. We've lived through the terrors of life.
Gentle hands, soft spoken, safe in his arms. Obey, and listen, and the swirling melody of
love plays throughout the scene. And yet, this masquerade is always broken to reveal the
truth. Words sharper than daggers explode around our ears. Bruises appear on our skin.
We've "fallen", the clumsy females we are. We fell. A sports injury, a car crash, a freak
accident. Freak accident of hatred. Much like the lion, quiet and stalking, and then exploding
into a flurry of the hunt. Of the hurt. Swift blows, and blood drips from noses, tears stream
from eyes in a silver river of desperate please, bruises decorate us in tawnys and majestic
purples. Reminders of our "wrong doings". We need to pay for our sins. The only witness are
the walls, and the moonbeams that dance about our dizzy heads. On the ground. Steel toes
to the back. A crack. Fire. Pain. And then, a cool silence. The rage subsides, and apologies
appear. "I'll never do it again" and "I lost control" replay in the back of our heads. Our deja-
vu from the previous night. Always the same. Always the pain. The survivors. Thats what we
call ourselves. And by the dark dance of the moon against the velvet sky, as stars twinkle
like sequins, and fade into the dawn, we pick ourselves up. New excuses. New plates to buy.
A new alarm clock. New knives, doors, but no new hearts, stabbed until the hemmoragging
hurts like a firestorm. Alone. We are alone. We, the Survivors, have lived not an apocalypse,
not a plane crash, but the darkest part of our lives. Therapy can lock it away, but never
remove the dark stain of dried blood upon our souls. Lost. We come together, and escape.
We start anew, but are never the same. Dark dreams, paranoia haunting our shadows, and
the jumps that come with shattered glass of the clink of dishes. Never the same, but
stronger. What doesn't kill you is sure to leave a horrible scar, but wounds heal And while
scars remain as a reminder of the pain endured, we are, for the better, stronger. We
Days never seeming to end,
Your ways never seeming to bend.
As time strikes by,
On a more endless scene to die,
You just decide,
To abide; to more of your silly ways,
That only makes your life decay.
Oh why; Oh why?
May you die?
Is it your sickness of stupidity?
Or more of your humanity?
Sometimes things happen with nature,
Sometimes people just put off their future.
You run off,
Thinking their is nothing to loose,
Except the boos;
That seem to be devoured every minute that ticks away.
For why; Oh why?
May you die?
Is it the character that you have turned to,
Or is it your heart rate, that you seemed to virtu?
Precious little Zack
Sweet, innocent and pure
Went through this lifetime
For only a few short years
I missed the opportunity of
His last years of development
But my memories stay filled
Of the younger days he spent
Even with disabilities
Born to this child
He always gave his cute
Crooked little smile
When Zack was a tot
He was mellow and quite
And when he laughed
It was a wonderful delight
His parents weren’t together
As most of us know
But both of his parents
Dearly loved him so
Zack recently turned eight
Enduring struggles in his life
I know it was God’s plan
To end his pain and strife
The time has now come
For Heaven to get an angel back
And our Lord has chosen
Precious little Zack
Love, Grandma Flo
Florence McMillian (Flo)