Poem 20:71
Poem idea
20:96
It leaks when we shower,
sometimes,
through cracks already formed
just for this purpose.
After all, wouldn’t the
whole ceiling start to sag
if there was no crack
to escape through?
That would be much
too visible, much too
obvious that all it
not right, and cause
for action and sealant.
She, I mean it, only
leaks sometimes, leaving
a clear puddle on the path
to the washing machine.
Sometimes they don’t even
see it and soak their socks
in annoyance. Other times
they notice, sigh, and
place a towel down,
concealing all.
Reflection
Never Forgiven
Poem idea
20:95
Blunt scissors hack
open a wound in the
back of your neck, exposing
white insides and betrayal.
The toy he left behind,
as well as me,
was turned limp and
spineless by years of
his abuse, his love.
One minute he’d lick
you tenderly, resting on
you like a pillow,
carry you wherever
he deemed fit to go.
Then he’d turn, teeth
ripping fabric and
throwing white stuffing
like confetti, littering
the air and floor.
Now, years later, I
force new insides into
your thinned skin,
plumping you up,
giving you strength to
stand again on legs
long weak and unstable.
Do you feel grateful,
as I sew back up the wound?
Or have I erased the last
trace of him left, making
him more dead than ever?
You are strong now,
no longer his toy,
and part of me hates
you for it.
Prison Walls
Poem idea
This one’s more of a rant than a poem
20:94
I don’t know how
they’re getting in,
he smiled, all good natured.
They smirked back, glints
of victory and deceit
claiming the street and
its residents. No one
new was allowed to
settle here, who didn’t
do what they wanted,
who didn’t thank them
for their inconsideration.
Their loud arguments,
music, banging is the
rhythm of existence. If
you don’t praise it, you
are Satan. Try and protect
yourself and have a
brick through your dreams,
hope, security.
I don’t know how
they’re getting in.
They’ll always get in.
You cannot win.
Accept it,
and perish.
Phoenix
Poem idea
20:93
Tentative roots being placed
with every brush stroke.
There is resistance, at
first, from a house already
abandoned before. Backlash
is harsh, the hand shakes
and pauses for months
and months. A large
intake holds our world
in place, before a
defiant release shakes
it awake and renews
determination. The paint
is thicker, the root
stretching into the
foundation, wrapping
around and fusing their
cores together. It’s now
receptive to influence,
interior changing, atmosphere
of peace as a house becomes
a home once more.
Perhaps, this time, the
core will stay forever.
Scribbled Thoughts 