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Calling all poets! You can get your poetry turned into a song! |
 150 GPs were sent to Beyond the Cloud9  with this post.
Empath Salad days upset, tossed out. Commiseration, but not much else. Meanwhile, we drown. Down here: actions louder than words speak, falling on deaf ears. The one thing heard: the crying, the drying of tears seen. A vacuum of sad in a light bulb of broke; dark. The jagged edges of hurt bleed. Attend to the need, attend. Just be here. Just you. Be. Me. Gift We start now with a clean slate-- a gift; hoping to move forward again, hoping to make what we couldn’t make when we wasn’t, but now have as a result of, the Love fortifies and sustains, the plan rearranged. In the hour of not, the lot you’ve got manifests into abundance, and fills you over to flow. Negating the no you’ve known too well, no stop. Again, you go-- Chelsea (For C.L.) God sent. A light generated In her eyes, letting me know no evil dwells therein; real. Healing my innermost being in the days that try with her smile. Special, not ordinary; her aura shelters her and everyone else around her, within her magic circle and me, as well. Near Misses I. Contain, maintain; receive, intercept; I accept. II. Certain, uncertain, ascertain; a cretin. III. I accumulate, I acclimate, I acquire. IV. Respond despondent; I abscond, I retire. A Dream On Christmas Eve (For Karma) Your birthday and me, standing in your driveway outside your house (or what passes for your house), contemplating a knock on the door, when I see you up the street walking with friends; deja vu of so long ago. But different. You do not go out of your way to greet me as back then, but to mock me. Contemplation complete, I turn to go. Only to return. And to find sitting on the side of a bed in your front yard, my mother making you the elaborate card she would never make. “It’s her birthday," she says. “Don’t you want to--” I shush her, not wanting you to hear, not wanting you to know we’re just outside your sphere of existence. Why? Because I can’t escape a past feeling, or how all of this is vaguely all too familiar somehow, but painfully different; inverted, an inverted symbolism of perversion: you, the friends, the card, my mother’s now acceptance of you and, most perverted of all, my now acceptance of you not. To my mother’s now surprise (that wouldn’t in a million years have been back then) I finally contemplate “no” and turn to go, deciding that it just wouldn’t be worth it, after all. And for that, this is sad. For that, I’m truly sorry. |
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