To let my heart at ease,
I let the squeaky wheel get the grease.
Two wheels held up the very same cart,
While I wore thin and slowly fell apart.
Told that caring wasn't your love's part,
You mastered to hit the heart with a dart.
The silences you gave me were so loud,
Guess I was just a dot in your crowd.
You used me, bruised me, left me unseen,
Too weak to ask what my wounds could mean.
Now cart is yours, so go your way,
No one is left to sway.
The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
I laid my heavy head upon my bed,
Worn thin by the day’s demands.
Every inch of my body burned,
And soon I fell into deathlike sleep.
In that land, I met the Lord—
Long had I evaded Him;
But this time, He found me,
And would not let me go.
He kissed my weary soul,
Overwhelmed by His love;
I poured out my broken heart,
As His gentle hands held me still.
I know not all that passed between us,
But I woke with a heart made willing—
Ready to serve,
Ready to follow where He leads.
stranded by water
worn down seashells stuck in sand
contemplating life
Thin
Very thin
Like a worn shirt
Cotton threads pull and fray
Bare skin
The pale skin finally appears
Through the gaps
Through the holes
Rare
The hair
Black brushes write on the dark clouds
Or they write on themselves
Their own present
Vanished
It has disappeared
It no longer exists
No longer
I don't know what I know
I don't know what I know
What I know
What I know
A world destroyed before me
A world destroyed under my feet
Before me
Under my feet
The tops
Of these birches
Like paintbrushes
They paint the darkness blacker
The white whiter
Dark on dark
Light on light
I don't know what I know
I don't know what I know
What I know
What I know
A world destroyed before me
A world destroyed under my feet
Before me
Under my feet
The moment I see it
The moment the clarity
Reaches my eyes
Reaches my mind
Fleeting
We see only what no longer exists
We see only what no longer exists
The past brushes against us
The past haunts us
The past lies to us
Neither one
Nor the other
I don't know what it is
I don't know
What I know
Under my feet
It's gone
Gone
Gone
Gloves don't protect them
they still are weathered, tattered
worn out from hard work
A WAR-WORN FLASHBACK
As quiet
As it’s kept,
Wars continue
To win,
As peace
Likewise,
Continue
To lose:-
In war
Only death
Wins:
Dying peace
Loosing
As parentless
Children
Daily feed
Death—
Satisfying war’s
Wealth-Inspired hunger:-
Yet, we seem to
Continue to be
As unconcerned
As are the fires
Burning in hell:-
Along the shoreline we saunter
Gazing at the bright stars on the water
And the purple painted clouds in the sky
She began to speak with her words barely louder than the restless waves
She talked about how pointless performing for others is
“Never once has anyone congratulated someone for being a fake version of herself.”
Her words resonated deep within my soul
My feet suddenly grounded in the soft sand
She turned back to face me with her shoulders drooping sadly
My body magnetized to her
And my arms wrapped around her warm body and felt her loose-fitted sweater
She ran her nails through my short blonde hair as I cried on her neck
Her calming voice whispered in my ears
And the palm of her other hand heated my back
Gently my tears poured into her light blue cardigan
The water reached our feet as we embraced under the star’s light
Like old paint,
the discarded heart chips away
where it lay
in a hollow chest
not unlike my own breast.
In its prime,
untainted by sin
and made of sheepskin,
its candy apple hue
captivated everyone—especially the likes of you.
However, who now
could admire a color
so mottled by misuse and so drastically duller?
Verily, no unclouded eye could find merit
in such a sorry trinket.
"Holey all over,
seen better days,
worn out and threadbare,
can't mend its ways,
with drink spills, food stains,
rips, rents and tears,
not worth keeping,
a sad state of affairs,
its time has come,
over and done,
that's one bad habit,”
so said the nun.
John Michael Osbourne
looks so tired and worn
when asked to respond
he could only say something no one could understand
Is that ok to live with all the same conclusions
Or is it like worn clothes when you do not
Care what to wear in your goddamn seclusion
And like the old familiar recipies you’ve got
You see no change, its all the same old stories
Most likely, you can’t notice any changes
For otherwise it goes to different category
You leave no chance for any sudden rearrangements
But there's a vague unease brewing inside
You’re getting out of use, like old device
This might be called depression in most trite
Of understandings, but you never think it twice.
O Lord,
'Tis a decade gone
Since thy curse fell upon us.
The malnourished children are no more,
The poor soil lieth barren.
Lord, what hast thou wrought upon our village?
Mine only companions be the flies and the toads.
Thy shadow resteth beside mine empty grave.
I am not wroth with thee,
Yet surely have I all the right to be so.
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