And one day may I lay in an endless landscape of wildflowers
Let my stomach be full and my hair unruly
The sun beating down in true mid morning light
The birds sing a song not of this world
I want to bathe every ounce of a life that was never mine away in the stream a mile north
Icy cold water
Babbling over rocks
Washing away someone’s mother’s screaming
Erasing his sweaty handprints from her body
Let my face be stained with blood red fruit
Sitting underneath the cherry tree
Gorging myself with the very definition of contentment
My cheeks touched by the sun
There is a pleasant sort of exhaustion I will feel
When my basket carries freshly picked fruit
My arms sore from the trees I had scaled
To pick better fruit and gaze at what lies in the field of beauty
It’s 7
The sun is going down
Fireflies take over the land
crickets are chirping a symphony
It’s the kind of spring that you believe might last forever
My window is open
The trees sing their hollow lullaby
I’m asleep in minutes
I wake up to find myself drenched in sweat, the window is closed.
there are no birds.
I must be dreaming.
My childhood came to a screeching teeth grinding stop one day
And my world hasn’t taken a single day off of spinning
My mother was thrown against the living room wall
And I’ve been trying to mend the cracks in my brain
It all came crashing down that day
giddy child laughter silenced
And the screaming began
I hadn’t felt a prick of pain
And it came like a fucking tidal wave
Knocking down Barbie villages and trampolines
Leaving only dented walls with the shape of my trauma etched into them
I want to be small
to be able to fold my body into itself
To hug my own essence within gangly limbs
I want to embody my own soul and display its fragile state
I have spent much time knowing I am too much for this life
I want the bone chilling matter of being insignificant
It’d be nice to feel small for a change
not every dead man was noble and neither are the dying
has every fall from grace been exonerated
now that your date of demise has been established
long have we honored the fallen as kings
with little regard for their true archetype
have the moribund beings been pardoned of their wrongdoings
now that they face deaths eternal grasp
-sundayafternoonsedentary
i’ve witnessed the cavities slither their way into his brain
etching out the desire to get out of bed
rotting teeth were never so beautifully maddening
the poor man didn’t stand a chance against the decay in his mouth
-sundayafternoonsedentary
he finally told me he was proud of me yesterday
after i had given all of myself
searching in other people what he didn’t give me
selling parts of my soul for short lived validation
but you’re proud of me dad?
all that is left of me is my heart in your hands
what i’ve become is great he says
but i look in the mirror
and i see a few strands of hair falling from a broken down body
morsels to appreciate
but finally, he is satisfied
-sundayafternoonsedentary
was i created to lie here forever?
molded into a cancerous being
rotting from the inside out
i have been running from existence for so long
only to find out that i will never be able to escape my predetermined demise
so i will remain here
letting a once lovely creation rot
-sundayafternoonsedentary
something about falling snow is unsettling
peaceful to the eye
silencing the havoc throughout homes with a foot of soundproof encasing
sure the purity of the winter is breathtaking
but my lawn has been walked over time and time again
and the chaos is seeping out through the gaps of my snow boots
my screams echo with snow flakes hitting the ground
this chill in my bones is not serene
will you turn my brittle body into poetry
when the cold kiss of death finally reaches my solitary corpse
will you interpret the path i skipped along
writing brilliant words of how my spirit dances in the wind
or will i be forgotten?
just to become a feast for the life that lives under the surface
scribbled lines in the once lively flesh
it was never pen ink that cherished me so
if my name has not been lost
and you happen to graze upon my initials in a history book
run to my tombstone
letting it be known that it wasn’t all for nothing
recite to my grave lovely words
soothing my wandering soul
remove my past from the chain around my ankle
let my image seep into the setting sun
allow all that is left of me to be the stanzas of a lifetime
an exhibit of beautiful words bleeding from a lifeless body
permit the future to forget the configuration of my skeletal being
but to devote their time to decipher the words you have strung together to recall my existence
please oh please let me be poetry
- sundayafternoonsedentary
make me a goddess
shaped out of pure divinity
mold my features so that they appear to kiss the setting sun
search my soul with eyes full of lust, love and wondering
so sweetly set me on your pedestal
displaying my celestial substance for all of the mortal beings to gaze upon
as the liquor crawls down your throat the phrase I love you is drunkenly forced out
fatherly compassion that only surfaces when the alcohol has engulfed your body
submerged so deeply in a drink that love is just another meaningless word
a silly phrase that slips off of your tongue with the sharp taste of whiskey
too intoxicated to hear the crack in my voice
when i tell you that I love you more
more than your addiction
more than myself
but my words are tossed into the trash
clinking with empty bottles
colliding with conversations you don’t recall
memories of an absent father that loosely maneuver through my conscience
I have to compete with a $58 bottle of bourbon
but you seem to love being numb more than raising your daughter
it’s alright dad
i’ll carry the both of us out of this mess
maybe one day when you wake up you’ll thank me for it
but for now, I love you and I can spare enough love for the both of us
I should’ve jumped when the ball-point pen across the room started scribbling
scratching the surface of a worn down notepad
hovering over it, I saw my name
in bolded letters I read the word ALONE
how dare a mystery writer reach into my soul
ripping out my deepest feeling
addressing it like you would the day’s weather
I would’ve complained, if there were anyone to hear me speak
the invisible critic marked another word
AFRAID
my hand connected with the paper as an arrow pointed to my destroyed nail beds
I guess the analysis wasn’t wrong as I drew back my shaky hands