lost in the words you spoke so many months, weeks, hours ago
echoing dark and scary
bouncing in recesses of my mind
tip-toeing through the corners
stomping in the brush
(more) mighty oaks of harsh words
snapping twigs of cruelty
shadows of poisonous vines
i stand in the middle of a forest of words
you have left me lost here
i no longer know the way to turn
i know not the way home (less)
In the depths of sorrow, I continue reading. The news is not shocking. Most who are paying attention and taking note, knew it would come to this. We know it will get worse as it continues. Still. The sorrow of reading about the children. All those babies. Why does(more) it have to come to babies being slaughtered?
I feel the warm tears fall from my eyes. I just can't stop crying. Many times it turns to noisy sobs.
Despite my strong hope and researched knowledge, I cry. I will always cry for the babies. (less)
"Because my dad didn't love me, I have issues with commitment."
"Because I grew up in a dysfunctional family, I don't communicate well. "
"Because of my genetic make-up, I cannot control my temper."
"Because my mother abandoned me, I lack confidence."
"Because I was abused, I abuse others."(more) "Because I was never was hugged, I am a psycho-path."
A world where we allow others to excuse/shape/create who we are to become and what we do gives all the power we ever had away.
Stand up. Acknowledge shortcomings. Strive to overcome weakness and faults.
Be accountable, for crying out loud! Demand others be accountable. It's nobody's fault but my/your own. (less)
When I did sneak him inside, he would whine to go back out. He never liked the walls to confine him.
(more) It sounds cliché, but he was my best friend.
I am not much of a people person, so when I found him in the field near our home, I knew he was a blessing.
I called him 'Ralph'.
He looked like a small Flat Coat Retriever, but I am sure he was a mix of Border Collie, Chow-Chow (he had a blue tongue), who knows what else.
Ralph adopted me, and I fed him. However, he was still a stray at heart. He would be gone for days at a time, returning only when I needed a friend.
Many times, because he did not like to sleep indoors, I would sneak outside. We would both climb the ladder leaning against the house, and sleep on the roof until dawn. Ralph climbed up well enough. Getting down, he accepted my help.
Some nights now, when I feel enclosed by these walls, I sleep outside. My mind often wanders to memories of Ralph.
I never did get to say good-bye. He disappeared one day and never came back.
I like to imagine, he's some place helping another social phobic. That's funny. Because Ralph would be around thirty years old today.
When I drive past a field, there are times I could swear I see him. He is walking, nose to the ground. As I pass by, he turns toward me, our eyes lock for a second. I know it's impossible, but I go back. Rationality losing it's grip I wonder, Could it be?
Of course, it never is.
But my friend, Ralph, is never far from my heart. (less)
"Badger, look what I got you." He said holding out a stone carved into a sleeping polar bear.
"Smokem peace pipe?"
She knew he had already 'smokem pipe' by the looks of his red eyes. He only called her 'Badger' when he was high. It was his(more) way of being funny. He called her that because of her relentless nagging about his drinking and drug use. At least when he was high he wasn't abusive like he was when he was tweaking or drunk.
She sat with her arms folded across her chest, staring at the polar bear in his hand. It would have been a sweet gesture if it was offered in order to make up for a simple mistake. However, it could not cover over having to put up with his drunkenness, drug use and violent temper. A real polar bear couldn't eat away at the years of heart ache his addictions have caused.
Giving him a tight-lipped smile, she gently took the polar bear stone from his open hand. She stood up, not once taking her eyes from the object she held. It was heavy. Solid soap stone, she guessed.
As she walked away she heard him call after her, "This makes up for it then?"
Stopping in mid-stride, she paused only for a second before she spun around and hurled the heavy object at him. It made a thud as it made contact with his forehead. He fell to the floor. Calmly she walked over to him. The stone bear, still intact, lay next to his head. He was unconscious. A nasty bump was forming where the heavy stone had hit him.
She stooped and picking up the stone bear. In a gentle voice she said, "Yes. I think it will make up for it." (less)
I laughed out loud when I saw the typetrigger this morning. I realize that 'grave reminder' is, more than likely, suppose to go along the lines of 'solemn remembrancer'. However, the whole point of typetrigger is to allow it to slap your imagination and trigger you to come up(more) with the first or best story that comes to mind.
Is it not?
The first thing I thought of when I saw this typetrigger, is my being fully aware that, more than likely, I am going to die fairly young.
As the days pass with me, and I am (I may have mentioned it in a trigger before) sicker and sicker, it is most definitely a 'grave' reminder.
Last night, for example, I basically passed out. I got so weak that I could not chew my Sun Chips. This is a horrible thing because I love Sun Chips and I do not eat as often as I should. My protruding bones will testify to that fact. I put the bowl of chips down and put my head back and let my brain rest from it's strenuous activity. I could no longer exert it by it having to tell my jaw to chew. Because my heart beats as slow as a sloths, it could not pump enough blood down my arm and into my hand as I continued to use the appendage to bring food up to mouth. No. That will have to be enough nutrients for the day, I told myself. When feeding yourself feels like you have ran a million mile marathon...
I think that is a "grave reminder".
Call the funeral home, tell them to stoke the ovens. I'll be there soon enough. (less)
"Say that you have a head-ache. Or say that you have to get up early and we should be going."
We arrived at 6:00 that evening. By 7:00 the right side of my face is feeling bruised and the index finger of my left hand is feeling fatigued. I am sure everyone thought I had acquired some kind of involuntary twitch.
He finally looked over and saw the sign.
We were pretty sure that nobody believed my husband when he said at 7:00 that evening, "We need to get going because I (he) have to get up early tomorrow."
He should have used the head-ache excuse. But what's done is done. As long as we "get going".
I write on scraps of paper what I would say to you if we were still together. I put 'em all in an envelope.
Maybe some day we'll repair this damaged relationship and I can give 'em to ya.
It's nothin' deep or anything. Just...ya know... thi(more)ngs I'd be saying to ya if I could call or you were in the room with me.
Remember how we use to laugh about how the customers of Walmart dressed?
Well... I had to go pick up a prescription there the other day. I saw an old man with the same shirt I was wearing. I thought to myself, "I've become one of 'em." I even looked down to make sure I wasn't wearing my pajama pants.
I actually laughed out loud for a minute or two. I'm sure everyone thought I was crazy. It made me miss ya. Ya know? Havin' to laugh alone and all.
Anyway...that's something I wrote on one the scraps of paper.
It was a good thing that him and his wife swore off procreating. He couldn't fit a chihuahua in this tiny flat, let alone a growing human child. Besides, the roaches would probably carry the thing off and eat it for dinner.
A California native just didn't seem to(more) fit in New York City.
He turned the page in the well-worn book, adjusting himself on the tiny hole.
That is when he felt it. A gentle tickle on his left butt cheek. It couldn't have been back splash. He hadn't been able to do the deed yet.
There it was again!
He jumped to his feet, spinning around to look.
In the toilet water was the biggest rat he had ever seen. It's dark fur was filthy and wet. He could hear it's tiny fingers scratching on the porcelain as it struggled to get out of the toilet.
He slammed down the lid as fast as he could. He quickly jumped onto the toilet lid. There he stood, bare feet and bare bummed with his pants around his ankles.
He screamed, "SHAAAR-RON!"
Her voice came from behind the door, "For crying out loud, Troy. What!?!"
"You gotta see this."
"Sharon, seriously. I need your help."
Ten seconds past before she slowly opened the door a crack and peeked through. "Help?"
She opened the door all the way and saw her husband with a panicked look standing on the toilet "What..."
"There's a rat in the toilet."
"Nu-uh." Her smile began to fade.
There was a thump on the seat. She jumped back.
"Get a hammer." He told her.
She ran out of the bathroom.
Troy heard her in their bedroom opening and closing drawers. She knew the hammer wasn't in their room.
"What are you doing?"
I am just doing the dishes. He is watching me with such admiration, as if I am performing dish miracles in the sink.
(more) He is always leering at me.
I am in my forties. I can't look that good.
What in the world does he see when he looks at me?
I can feel what he sees in me when he holds me in his arms.
I am the most beautiful woman ever to have lived.
I am fantastically unique and wistfully charming.
I am a precious, delicate and highly prized work of art.
I am not to be possessed.
I am to be admired and cared for with genuine intensity.
My body is smooth with perfect curves, as if chiseled from marble.
I epitomize grace and elegance.
I am wise, strong and powerful.
I am beyond the grasp of mortal man.
I am beyond poetry and song.
I am so cherished.
I smile up, at and into him.
I whisper, "Thank you."
He smiles knowingly.
It is so sweet to be me; In my husband's arms.
I want to write so badly.
I find most of my writings, as of late, consist of nothing but regurgitated and poorly written memories.
For this, I apologize.
Nothing in my imagination is being stirred.
Don't get me wrong. I am not blaming (more)the triggers.
The imaginative part of my wee brain has been put on pause, I suppose.
I am left to continue the theme of my writings ~
My baby brother and I were in my car. I was at the wheel and we were listening to Pink Floyd. The standard cruising music for a Saturday afternoon.
"Good-bye Blue Sky" blared (as best it could) from my tiny stock speakers. Until....
"Look, Mummy. There's an airplane in the sky."
I overhear my brother say along with it, "Look, Mommy. There's not an airplane in the sky."
The big sister that I am, I pause the music. "What?"
"What?" He asks back.
I am amused, "What did you say?"
He gets a confused look on his face.
I laugh. "Did you say, 'there's Not an airplane'?"
He nods, "Yeah. That's what it says."
I am laughing so hard, tears are rolling down my cheeks. Catching my breath, I ask, "Don't you see how that doesn't make sense?"
He's not laughing. "Yes, it does!" He tells me, "You need to listen to it again."
"Really? You think it's, 'Look! there's NO airplane in the sky'?"
I play it again.
He stares out the window as he hears the correct words. I am laughing hysterically. He's quiet. He starts pouting. I spoiled his good mood.
I should've let him make the mistake. Instead I made him feel stupid.
Bad big sister!
A thirty year old should be able to take correction. (less)
It started when I was around the age of five.
I began having night terrors. These were beyond the "nightmare" scope. Monsters and scenarios that came to dwell in my unconscious mind, were so incredibly bloodcurdling I would piss out of fear. My own screams were often what jarred(more) me awake. After awakening, the fear would still be too intense to leave my urine soaked sheets.
My mother had tired of having to comfort me in the middle of the night. Often I would wake from my caterwaul hearing her distant voice. From the comfort of her own bed, she would assure me that I was okay and to go back to sleep.
I recall feeling my pulse pounding so wildly and hearing my heart banging in my chest. My own body felt full of alarm signals that, not only I, but all mankind should take note of. I remember having, upon awakening, a sensation that the world (not just me) was in imminent danger. Utter panic, that I was forced to talk myself down from, encompassed me.
Weary from not having anyone to comfort me and disgusted with constantly smelling like pee (apparently urine penetrates the pores), I finally taught myself something remarkable.
I was nine when I began to lucid dream. I gained control of my unconsciousness. Soon, not only were the night terrors gone, my dreams became wonderfully fantastic. When dreaming can fulfill every fantasy you have ever had, then you are truly dreaming.
Not only can I control every dream, but I can choose what to dream.
Last night, for instance, I flew to London and I was not in a plane.
Tonight I think I will be a mighty mountain gorilla.
Maybe I will be a flying mighty mountain gorilla.
The choice is mine. (less)
crunching sounds beneath my feet
on this trail well worn
this place, once cherished as a child
an adult - longing and forlorn
before me views of horses
grazing in deep grass
(more) once stirred desires to ride away
desires now turned to ash
nostalgia brought me here
to walk this well worn ground
the loss of childhood screams out now
from that crunching sound
i wanted without sorrow
only to contemplate
to grasp onto memories
that were meant to celebrate
i mourn instead as I walk
this was not the intent
to mourn the death of childhood
warm summer days now spent
i feed a horse from my hand
i pat her velvet nose
i say, "that's it old mare,
those days are past
it's time for me to go"
Someone shot the peacock.
He didn't belong in the neighborhood.
He showed up five years ago and the families in the area were tiring of his calls. One person said his cries sounded like a child being tortured.
There were attempts made to get animal control to come (more)get him. But they refused.
Nobody could catch him. I tried to keep him in my yard by feeding him. It didn't work. He liked to visit everyone.
I thought he was what made our track-home neighborhood unique and beautiful. He seemed to contradict the ever growing gang presence. He was like our mascot, cheering for peace.
As we now gathered around his lifeless body someone asked, "Who did it?"
"I think it was Lee."
"Lee's outta town."
Finally someone spoke up, "Well, I am glad I won't be hearing those eerie screams any more."
Everyone agreed except me.
"Should we call animal control to get rid of it?"
"Yeah. I will go call."
"Maybe they will come out to get him now that he's dead."
They started to walk away.
"No!" I shouted. "I will handle this." They all turned toward me.
"What are you gonna to do?" One of them asked.
Making eye contact with each one of my neighbors I said, "I am going to bury him in my backyard." I felt a warm tear run down my cheek. I wiped it quickly away. My voice softened, "I always loved when he was in my backyard. He had me convinced I was some place beautiful." I stared down again at his colorful lifeless body.
Then I asked without looking up, "Do you suppose someone killed him for lying?"