Filed under: Pensation | Tags: bones, daughter, learning lies, Mama, mirror, mother
Mama hates her bones
From her noses to her toes-es
She hates all her bones-es
I’ve always thought she had nice
Bones-es, good toes-es, fine noses
But Mama told me the truth through the mirror one night
Aunt says I have Mama’s noses
Gramma says I had Mama’s baby toes-es
That makes sense, after all
Me and Mama share everything
So I’m glad now I knows-es
I should hate my bones-es, too
It’s a very good thing to know, I think.
Filed under: Vents
I saw a terrible heartache today. Gut-wrenching. I watched a girl learn to despise herself, again. My little girl, my precious best friend, my twenty-year-old baby sister lost all self-respect. In the words of one more articulate than I, I must demand to the sky, “What makes us so badly bent?” What makes us return to our mistakes like dogs to their own vomit? What makes a girl give herself away to the shadows and the monsters inside? And what makes me so mute? With such great heartache swelling up in my throat, cutting off my breath, I figured, this should make for a great poem…deep emotion, deep poetry, right? But I’m too sick. Poetry has a little beauty in it. Even the most sickening scene seems to have a little sheen when wrapped up in poetry. But I’m too sick. She, my princess, is beautiful, but there is nothing beautiful about this. At this point, words will do me about as much good as a rubber fishing lure in the Sahara. I’m so sick of words. Words words words words words. cheap cheap cheap cheap cheap. I am powerless. She is bleeding to death. Here I stand, sick of words. What makes me so badly bent?
Filed under: Pensation | Tags: dreams, mondays, sanded, sane, sanities, silly
sometimes Silly is soundest
it’s the surest sand I’ve seen
protecting me from
mondays and the sanities between
but sometimes Sane is safer
the solid sanded scene
protects me from their
stares and my dilapidated dreams
There once was a headless man Earl
Who wanted to find him a girl
So he followed the fad
And posted an ad
And now he’s engaged to a squirrel
Poetry requires a dastardly imbalance
this is why I cannot write
I always end up in the middle
I push pedal pull paddle pry
away from the middle
but I’m always in the middle
every way the middle
every day the middle
Poetry with its selfish arrogance,
rejecting my middle words,
bland and balanced words
My middle’s too mild to be mentioned
with its base alliteration
and middle-emotion
Being in the middle and all-
my words are too middle to matter
I wish I could make me not middle
I wish I could stop poem-ing
This is plain ridiculous.
Today the light seems slightly softer . . .
slightly smoother . . .
slightly right . . .
The shadows on the walls are yawning . . .
still-ish lolling . . .
la-de-dahs . . .
That brick within me’s slowly soaking . . .
silent stillness . . .
simmer soft . . .
Surrender stubborn arrogances . . .
smaller me-ing . . .
freeing song
Filed under: Pensation | Tags: beat, poetry, poets, restless, Someones, souls, the mold
I’m no kind of poet -
no special sort of soul. I’m just the sort of someone who’s restless in the mold. First a dabble here, a comma there, in a square needing air, fix the tear, best beware of the kneading and the squeezing and the pleading and the freezing…
If and when you find a beat,
where sunshine heats and orbits meet
Never tarry to the day
When you with beat can run away.
There’re no kinds of poets
No special sorts of souls.
Just the sorts of Someones still wresting their molds.
Please, World, forgive me for promises broken
For quick steps in hallways
For excuses I’ve spoken
Please, World, forgive me for innocence lost
For childhood abandoned
For value forgot
Please, World, forgive me for apathy lived
For suff’ring ignored
For eyes that I hid
Please, World, forgive me for mornings with frowns
For blessings neglected
For searches for crowns
For all of the days when I’ve fenced off my soul
With ephemeral pleasure my only goal
Forgive that I’ve failed in forgiveness for all
And Please, one more time, let Your grace break my fall.
