Body. Mind. Heart. Soul.


Sometimes I think
I should have run away
Bodily, I mean

Bodily, at rest
Inertial fears press down
A broken peace
A drop in some lost whole

Conflicting memories race
Caging each and every thought
Long to erase the curse
Of a mind that will not forget

As burning red tears pump
Relentlessly throbbing
Within a boney tell-tale chest
A weakness I learned to despise

My soul, tormentor
Forced me to take no prisoners
And throw away the key
To any hope of escape.

I should have run away
Bodily, I mean

The Hurt’s Truth


On September 29th, 2009, I keyed in this stream-of-consciousness below. It has been laying dormant in my drafts folder ever since. It is the precursor to Rescue Me, posted on October 5th, 2009.


The Hurt’s Truth

I hear the truth hurts often cutting to the bone.
I hear the lie kills often choking out the soul.
And that’s the good news.
It seems a poor choice truth or lie.
Like would you rather be sunburned in a desert, naked, with no water or
Fall on a bee hive while bare foot in the briers?
Um, I’ll take door number three, Monte.
Should the game be Truth AND Consequences?
If I tell the truth, people may scream and cry.
And those I love might de-friend me and run.
And those I reach out to might ignore me and hide.

If I tell the lie we will laugh and cry.
Those I love will accept my friend request.
And the backyard bar-b-que will be great fun.

As a child, I learned to pretend.
It feels too good to risk the truth
I know each hug is rooted in lies.
I know in my mind but the heart…
ok I can fool my heart. He is a fool.
He will believe whatever I live.

I want the normal Rockwell painting.
so bad
I made it my minds mission
convincing my heart
we live in a Rockwell
my mind can be quite convincing

I lost my heart in a Rockwell
Its such a nice place to be…lost
So, of course, I died there.
Its ok. you would not have like me.
Not the me who I am,
The me that was.

Not quite there
the me that is I am
is
becoming…
quite becoming

Windows, Panes, & Walls


sipping peach tea
singing birds free
shining sun through
transparently true
windows explain
bordering panes
meeting our walls
weathering falls


April is national poetry month, but then, you knew that already. Today’s poem is inspired by Kota over on inProgress.

I don’t know how (and that’s ok)


my God
my God why have you forsaken
my child memories are good unfortunately
my father is an infirm recovering alcoholic who’s born again
my dad was only occasionally abusing
my brother slipped on the sandals
my fathers walked on
my mother cannot bear to remember
my bruises have healed
my scars linger around
my family cannot talk without acid dripping
my friend’s blood somehow covers
my boiler room hiding place where I slept at night
my ancestors, I don’t know who, victimized
my brother victimized
my loved ones want to bury this but… I don’t know how
my friend’s blood somehow covers
my child-eyes take it all in. kids don’t miss a beat
my own falls victim too
my inner child falls victim too
my mind holds all of this. I don’t know how
my sense-of-humor masks and can even salve
my fear, pain, insecurity surface without warning
my heart suffers chronic breakdowns. aching when it rains and alone
my family suffers intermittent raining
my friend’s blood somehow covers
my broken-self envies the happy home
my restored-self loves
my confused-self struggles daily
my logical brain analyzes
my heart re-lives everything from the safe distance of time
my writing gives my child voice breath. I don’t know how
my friend’s blood somehow covers
my children love Father’s Day, giving me cards I will never buy
my Father’s day is called Easter by everyone else I know
my friends and my family make God’s love tangible in my life
my love for my enemies is weak most days
my love brings solace simply by placing her head onto my shoulder. I don’t know how
my friend makes all things new.

Rescue Me


The Boy Who Put the World on Wheels

The Boy Who Put the World on Wheels — by Norman Rockwell

i crave, a normal Rockwell
to cover, up the smell
my mind, is on a mission
dec-orating hell

he is, so quite convincing
so easily, he fools
my heart, so numb from wincing
I am, his chosen tool

a child, he learns pretending
the truth, he dare not risk
the pain-less pain he’s sending
the lie, hides on a  kiss

i lost, my heart a normal
the nicest, place to be
like death, draped in floral
I am, who rescues me

the land of the me and home of the slave


bullprayer2

We long to be free,
alone in our cave.
We buy what we see,
consume what we crave.
We rule with such greed,
our fear cannot save.
We live as the weeds
that thrive on the grave.
…in the land of the me
and home of the slave.

as apathy decays


as apathy decays
his heart comes out to play
he falls an’ scrapes his knee
as though just yesterday

he falls an’ scrapes his knee
with tears i cannot see
in learned repose he stands
in feigned hypocrisy

in learned repose he stands
with bruises on small hands
so old when yet so young
no longer boy nor man

so old when yet so young
to not one soul he clung
inside somewhere there hides
the boy, the man, the son

inside somewhere there hides
the powerless live lies
as innocence is raped
and childhood just dies

as innocence is raped
detached alone escape
as apathy decays
a flood, a gush, awake

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