It feels like a lock
Click
slamming shut on a door I used to walk through without thinking.
Words
they pile up inside me.
Not gone.
Not lost.
Just trapped.
Like a river swelling against a dam that will not break.
My mouth is stone.
My body heavy.
And every attempt to speak is like running in a dream:
legs sinking,
distance endless,
the finish line always just out of reach.
Inside, I am screaming.
Inside, I am whispering.
Inside, I am still me.
But you can’t hear me.
Because the silence is thick.
Not empty, no.
Thick with frustration,
thick with shame,
thick with the ache
of wanting
so desperately wanting to be understood
without having to explain.
So don’t rush me.
Don’t push me.
Stay.
Wait with me
in the quiet.
Because this silence
is not absence.
It is survival.
It is my body saying:
enough.
And when I return
when my voice crawls back
know this:
I was never gone.
I was always here.
Behind the glass.
Behind the lock.
Still me.
Always me.
It only takes one
as words rise together
It only takes one
new phrases release
It only takes one
to carve out a memory
It only takes one
— your words in relief
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
You were always so good
At hiding yourself in the dark
I tried and I tried
To throw you out
Of the furthest
recesses of my mind
And somehow
you are still there
Embedded in
the deepest crevices
of my brain
Where I couldn't see you
Lurking there
in the blackness
For thirty years
Waiting ...
for one of those days
When I'm down and out
So you can kick her
When she's already on the ground
Fighting ...
to get back on her feet
Knees buckling
Remembering how
to stand again
One day at a time
Before taking my first steps
Recalling well enough
How to believe
How to smile
How to run
From the darkness
And away into the sun
Where you can't hide from me
Where light and heat
Disintegrates you to dust
Revealing all
That you are and were
Until there is nothing
left of you
To blow on the wind
… Out of sight
Out of mind ...
One day at a time.
Thomas Hobson (1544 –1631)
in 19th century late
a Cambridge ostler and postal carrier
set his priorities straight
he owned a livery stable
of 40 Hackney horses or more
plus boots bridles and whips
and put the horse the cart before
after the animal left the barn
by bolting fast the door
and as precautionary balm
the nag nearest the stable gate
the worn-out equine storm to calm
was the firm rule he did make
this one or none in the stall
was that which customers had to take
or do with no ride at all
but for the paying equestrians
either way they win or lose
as there was no choice but accept or reject
for any of them to choose
Boneless tongue
Breaking heart
Like a drum
Beating starts
Curses curled
Painting pain
Verses hurled
All in vain
Name calling
Verbs abused
Heart falling
Words used
Start with N
End with grin
Worse shaming
To offend
Soul of gold
Blackened skin
Be so bold
To defend
Words absurd
Can’t break in
God’s true herd
Despite sin
Verbal kisses sweethearts share;
set burning passions alight.
And like whispered wisps of air,
they let paper dreams take flight.
Redeeming vows hearts declare,
hope intensifies the mood.
And you tingle everywhere,
feeling feelings; love imbued.
Lies, pretend, promises scare,
and doubts are hard to dispel.
And love is so very rare;
it's like a magical spell.
Gossamer wings often tear;
when you try to fly too high.
And tearful oaths lovers swear;
tend to be short-lived and die.
Broken hearts fuel despair,
dealing with rejection's pain.
And chasing what wasn't there,
love's bound to fail again.
I speak
aloud
I pause
my voice echos
I speak again
who listens
my voice
rebounds back
it boomerangs
just a sound
but
my voice
identifies me
Did you go
to the gym
the Poet asked
Or just write
weakened
the verse untasked
The vowels and
consonants
stay unflexed
With words
atrophic
— their muscles vexed
(The New Room: December, 2024)
Verbal Pollution
Miracle Man
9/26/2024
Words caused by dementia
just seem to pollute the air.
Before I do my health journal
I generally just don’t care.
This daily noise pollution
seldom induces my cheer.
Listening to verbal pollution
is causing me to feel drear.
Most mornings I’m greeted
by this non stop chatter.
It finds my bare feet
wanting to go pitter patter.
Most times I don’t enjoy
what I’m being forced to hear.
But because she can’t help it
I willingly lend my ear.
I am my mother’s verbal punching bag.
When she has a bad day, I pay the price.
I can’t stop her daily verbal attack,
Because nothing I do will e’er suffice.
The things she says are unforgivable;
Her insults are like acid on my hands.
Her kind comments have always been minimal,
But what else would you expect from my mom?
I pick at my fingers to help me cope,
And oftentimes, even that makes her annoyed.
So, for the sake of my skin, I hope
She’ll be a person I can fully avoid.
Her verbal abuse is shown through my fingers,
Through the dried blood and dull pain that lingers.
Sugar-coated tongue sway the sea,
Like lilacs and roses allure the spree.
Barbs dim one's worth, leaving scars to accrue,
Stripping away dignity, leaving only rue.
Choose thy verbal artillery with grace,
For they hold the power to create or erase.
What is with the
Verbal attacks on women
Is it jealousy because
Women these days
Want more
Out of life and a
Career of their own
words
emerge organically
as blossom
from
inspiration
&
embrace
a
natural
placement
to
visually
evolve
into
verse
in
a harmonious
dance
twixt content
& form
unfurling
as a flower
in the sun
on
the emotional landscape
of symbiotic
thought
becoming
a
rich tapestry
perceivable
wordplay
indentation
spacing &
line break
woven cadences
of expressive
effect
I’m often told I am not good enough,
According to my mom, I do nothing right.
She yells and insults and leaves in a huff.
Her cruel remarks, they haunt me at night.
I’m told to do this, I’m told to do that
But i’m never asked “Val how was your day”
It’s alw’ys “Val, you’re a witch” “Val you’re a brat”
So, over time, my love for myself dec’ys.
I don’t understand why she yells at me.
She is my mother, that’s not what moms do
All parents yell but not to this degree.
All parents get angry, but insults dont spew.
My mom was the first bully in my life,
if she doesn’t show me kindn’ss, why should I?
Violet violent voice
As if you have no choice
You choose to be mean and demeaning
Then don’t understand
Heavy hands that wave screaming
Your cancerous mouth shouts
Cursing screaming and loud
As if you have a lift to be
Better than a higher power cloud
You can not be loving
And hurtful at the same time
You are not helping with words unkind
Truth can be spoken without razor words
Cutting the white wings of black bird
Verbal abuse is harder to prove
For gaslighting fighting is so rude
One day you will be old and gray
With only your words to light your day
Don’t be that old one who is alone
With wicked words black and strong
Like cold old coffee in a cup chrome
No love for bullies in the retirement home
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