Sister singer

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Sister singer belt me a tune,

Pour me a glass of you emotions,

I’ll sit and sip your sorrow.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

Serve me a platter of your hardship,

I’ll taste you anger, cut it to bits,

Piece by piece I’ll consume you.

Sister Singer belt me a tune,

Pluck me a fruit from your garden,

I’ll plant my teeth in your bitter-sweet,

savor your juice as I consume you.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

Bare your soul a meal for my satisfaction,

In exchange for a glancing compliment.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

To keep me amused,

‘Til I forget you when I leave.

 


Depression

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Trying hard not to think,

Under the far reaching branches of the tree whose name I can’t remember,

The benches and the swaying branches are silent,

Leaving space infinite for the voices,

The ones I was trying hard to avoid.

 

My companions came to join me.

In as much as I had tried to drown them in quiet.

They simply settled wordless around me,

and too watched the branches sway,

and the dust from passing minibuses glide through the sunlight columns,

I knew their names, and was accustomed to their company.

 

Fear was the first to action,

A blade protruding from a wooden handle settled in my palm.

engraved in it the word ‘relief.

“It would be easy. Nothing else has been easy.”

I turned it over in my hands,

felt it’s weight and sighed.

It would be easy.

 

Disgust saw my resolve slipping,

and before my eyes danced a thousand memories.

A million instances of shouldas and couldas,

Trillions of ifs and maybes.

“Was it all someone else’s doing?

Do you deserve easy?”

Do I really? Does anyone?

 

Sadness came in to comfort,

holding me close so that tears could flow and I could sniffle unashamed.

This was weakness,

but what does it matter?

Weakness more than anything should be a right.

A place of unfettered access when one is forced to come to terms

with ones own limits.

We are all limited, are we not?

 

Anger placed on my lap a scroll,

Tied with a ribbon of red on which was written “Experience“.

I had survived this long,

clawed all that was good that I had out of the clutches of doubt and shame,

hadn’t I?

Wasn’t some part of that worthy of continuation?

 

Unfurled the scroll showed a river flowing onward into death,

and my place marked with a question.

“Where to?”

The tributaries of past experience splashed with color,

Indigo, reds, yellows and blues,

a code of good, bad and ugly,

attached at it’s bottom a quill.

 

I invited them to come with,

and we struck a path in the direction not yet blotched with memories.

Them keeping pace with my slow steadying feet,

making light conversation,

as if now given name and purpose they were no longer my jailers,

but my comrades in arms.

 

 


red on floral

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She watches him sleep,

his chest,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

so peaceful.

Could have been an apparition,

those raised hands and voices,

the impact of palm and face,

palm and face,

palm and face,

’til her lip split.

Wouldn’t it be easy,

warm blood soaking her cotton sheets,

red on floral,

smeared because he would come awake.

Red hand clutching for her,

Would he take her with?

To his hell?

he would try,

and try,

and again try,

Would he win?

would it matter?

She was dead,

 empty,

 hollow.

Watching him now,

while he sleeps.


Chantilly Armour

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She no longer looked beyond those verses for understanding.

Not at the trends and the signs,

the symptoms of the crimes.

It was all, for her, between Genesis and Revelations.

As such she had no new revelations,

with which to start her genesis to a new state of self.

I loved her in a way,

and pitied her in another,

but I respected her resolve.

Holding up those beliefs,

like so much Chantilly Armour.

 

Oxymoronic Faith.

Her own strength at it’s foundation,

owing nothing to another entity but herself,

though she staunchly refused to see it.

I listened to her chanting her prayers,

her sacrament of self delusion,

and could only think.

“Maybe that’s what I’m missing.”

 


Silly Interpretation

Watching an ant cart away a mosquito.

 

I watched them fight,

I rooted for the ant.

 

I don’t know why.

I’m human,

they’re both villains to my state of being.

 

But I rooted for the ant,

and I will not mourn the mosquito with her zebra stripes.

 

I watched Sister Ant,

wondering briefly if it matter to her that she had occupied my thoughts.

 

The enemy of my enemy,

an Ant.

 

What a silly interpretation,

of the table next to my laptop.


Perception

This is a coffee and quiet place kind of poem I think. Please go over and visit, some really great stuff by November child.

november child

Oh, you small-minded creatures
on your tiny blue planet,
convinced of your singularity,
if only you knew.

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Dark places

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Do you know your dark places?

Secret place, the light cannot know?

Do you know anger, and hate, and rage?

A depthful blackness,

where all things come not with logic,

or thought, or honor,

Just a need to give equitably,

that which has bought you to this.

Do you know your dark places,

desolate places devoid of joy,

Do you know sadness, and despair, and doom?

The urge only thinly veiled,

to bring all these things to an end?

To consider seriously the ease of the procedure,

contemplating what comes next?

Is there anything there?

Is it blackness?

Would that be better?

Is there a hell? A heaven?

A place for angels and demons,

gambling over confused specks passing through time?

Do you know your dark places?

Do you know the heaviness, fullness, emptiness, confusion?

The feeling of bursting and shrinking all at once?

Do you know it?

You do?

Then tell me there comes after it,

a finish.


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