The petals never last
wilting upon the ground
The beauty must be appreciated
when it happens in time
The heart can be strong
during weak emotions
Beating, beating, love from within
The sky doesn't stay the same
Evolving changes bright and dark
Clouds are missed or seen in passing
Sometimes things rush like the river
or pile up like a mound of sand
sliding in avalanches of change
The tears can paralyze, but cleanse
The sun can burn as shade protects
Life is so full of feelings and events
It can be a masterpiece if chosen
Sometimes things are over load
Other times smooth or simple
Acceptance becomes a necessity
In a world where the unexpected always waits
Heidi Sands
8/7/26
(C)opyright
Some hurry through school
pile up degrees
Others drop out
do what they please
Those in the ‘c-suite’ *
eat babies for breakfast
dinner’s raw meat
Me, I’m less ambitious
family first
Then the timesheet
____________________________
* The corporate 'c-suite' is
composed of CEO's CFO's,
COO's, etc.
when she took the job no one was honest at all
the dishes were stacked higher than a giraffe is tall
How long have they been like this? She asked the boss
He hemmed and hawed, and stirred up red sauce
Seriously, is this kitchen always going to be this messy?
Are there going to be dishes to the ceiling? Asked Tessy
He did not answer, but she discovered the very next day
This pile up of dishes to the ceiling is always the way
Poem of an Amnesiac
"My words are forgotten."
One word.
"Forget."
The forgettings of my words.
"Forget?"
My forgettings in words.
"What to say?"
They spring forth, gather, blur.
They tangle, get lost, find themselves.
They stray, fade, become troubled, as if sucked into a hole, an abyss.
They pile up, amass, fade away, like a story without a source, without a trace.
Do they exist or not? A mirage or a hope?
My forgettings in words.
What to say? In words?
Mirage of a true falsehood.
Absolute and relative, for many, brings clarity. And it may seem so. A nice division, and perspectives seem powerful. But non-separation bursts the clarity bubble. With the burst, perspectives disappear and "reality" is already not known. A bursting story!
Words pile up. Words are searchers. Looking for their own demise.
Kicking the autumn leaves
As I stroll through the park
Makes me a child again
It’s all a bit of a lark.
Not thinking about pollution
We’d pile up autumn leaves and set them on fire
Smoke rising up into a suburban sky
Watching grey ethereal wisps go higher and higher.
Autumn leaves help me time travel
They can quickly take me back 50 years
Back to cold and gloomy afternoons
Back to bikes without 30 gears.
No news is good news how true today
dying media rotting is the truth decays
Just report the facts and let us decide
why the nastiness, meanness and lies
Never even facts just ugly speculation
grabbing headlines for ratings sensation
Ruined lives innocent hurt for their fun
can reputations be repaired when lies undone
Stopped watching national media long ago
happier without the trauma they impose
Crisis and threats pile up each moment of the day
doom and gloom besieges using fear to persuade
Nothing is good, their bias always right, all is bad
never time for gladness must remain sad and mad
toxic narratives leads to violence galore
their sick believers only want more
Don't need em, won't listen to them anymore
they are fake news with falsehoods I deplore.
Sometimes I contemplate about my own self-destruction.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way this state has simply become a dreadful inevitability.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way my mind hums with a silence that scratches my soul.
I wonder if I am at fault for the visceral, undeniable pull that tugs at my sternum.
Fatigue.
It’s a conflictive concept.
It’s practical. It’s biological. It’s physical.
But for me, it’s the definition of my existence.
It’s the medical complications that pile up through my fingernails like tangled vines on a hanging tree.
It’s the pocket-sized triggers that push me back into a room with claw marks on the door.
It’s the way that no matter who I am, what I am, or where I am, I will always be a victim of exhaustion.
Not the sleepy, heavy-lidded homesick type.
But the invisible type.
The blood-itching need for evaporation.
The throat-clamping desire for combustion.
The tear-scarred plea for deterioration.
And I wonder if all I am meant to be is a hanging tree;
vexed by the vines of her own making and hung by the carvings of her own captivity.
My life feels like pins and needles
pressed into every direction
each day adding another point of pain
I cannot ignore
in my early years, even the quiet hurts
like thorns under skin
I keep wondering how it could feel worse
why it keeps happening to me
days pass in and out of the same weight
fear following like a shadow I cannot name
I start pulling away from everyone
closing doors I don’t know how to reopen
and they begin to ask what changed
as if I could explain the breaking inside me
questions pile up where answers should be
confusion learning my name
and I am still here
trying to understand what my life is becoming
I’m tired of this dance.
The pretending.
The quiet nods that make it seem like everything is fine.
You drink.
You lie.
And I clean up after you, again.
What hurts more is that I’ve learned how to live with it.
You’ll go dry for a few days, maybe a week.
You’ll hold me like you remember who I am.
You’ll say you’re sorry with soft hands and glassy eyes.
For a moment, I get the version of you I miss.
But he never stays.
The other you returns.
Sharp.
Careless.
Everything becomes my fault.
The dishes pile up.
The beer cans get shoved under seats and behind toolboxes.
I ask how much you had tonight.
You pause.
Like you’re testing me.
Measuring what you can get away with.
You lie.
And I let myself believe you.
Because it’s easier than the truth.
And just like that,
we start over.
The naïve life possessed by the power of craving,
turns into an inanimate object, utterly inert.
The buoyant being, unsuspecting and unblemished,
captured by the vicious clutch of cunning yearning,
rolls in remorse like the fallen gems of longing garland,
the fragile string of innocence ruefully ruptured.
The sordid senses sheathed by spiteful insolence
don’t for a moment repent the presence
in the fleeting mind the obstinate obsession
of nurturing the ephemeral debased desire
in the swathing shades of garish grey,
decimating the radiance of the sapphire spirit
of its credulous possession disowned.
For the body and mind ravaged
by the vile strike of Black Excalibur of severance
life is no longer a charismatic concept.
The piteous ruins of the broken heart pile up in futility
at the threshold of despair in the debris of disdain.
Free from the captivity of depraved love,
the agonized heart pines to rejuvenate,
hopes to find the secret of solace for the desolate soul,
waiting for the time to rise re-invented
from the wreckage of self-worth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What was I thinking?
The receipts pile up in the dark~
a grocery list of half-baked epiphanies,
a parking ticket from the heart.
I folded my courage into origami cranes,
but they flew off with someone else’s wind.
The leftovers in my mental fridge
have grown fur and begun to sin.
The clock ticks in a language
I used to understand~
now it just spells my name
in Morse code, hand over hand.
What was I thinking?
The answer’s in the attic,
wearing my old jeans,
laughing at static.
It's funny how tears are a response to the different ways you feel
There's no such thing as crocodile tears because most are real
It could be due to a pile up of emotions that you've never let go
It could be due to love that you never experienced in an overflow
Sometimes it's the response to frustration built up inside
Or pass situations or hurt feelings that never died
The igniting numbing pain from the lost of love
Ongoing problems that you can't seem to rise above
Tears aren't always a sign of something bad
Or suppressed anger in the face of someone mad
You ever heard someone shedding tears of joy
The tears of a mother after giving birth to her baby boy
We can't relay our numerous emotions without shedding tears
They help calm us down or face our worst fears
When you're emotionally overwhelmed and don't know why
Take some time alone and enjoy a good cry
Hell is now totally empty,
Since Satan relocated to your heart;
His angels in you are plenty —
Our once-blossoming love they've torn apart.
His voice in you speaks violence,
Courting hatred and spite instead of love;
Abhorrent of our quietness,
So peace and happiness it strives to shove.
My presence now stinks like the trash,
Your words burn fierce like tongues forged in hell fire,
They scorch with vigour in a flash,
While you pile up your venoms, never tire.
Satan crawls like a snake in you,
He controls your temper and stains your tongue;
though you're blind to what I go through,
Still, I will love you till breath leaves my lungs.
Everything Hazz All
These Crack-Potty
Flaws...
So Much Damage
To Sort And Repair,
Heart-Broken Mending...
This Is Good Like That?!
Just A Little Fix, This
Isn’t Useless, It Still
Has Entertainment
In It... I Like It
Again, Because
It's Broke.
Fool.
Just Get A New One.
But They Pile Up So Fast!
-Gray Squirrel
10-29-2025
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