Ballad of Urgency

 

Ballads may not sound urgent, but they are.

They are born from an intense longing.

A raw awareness of the heart.

This may be the the most exhausting form of obsession regardless the dilemma.

And in its shallow rhythm it still screams of urgency.

My voice may be weak from the toll the hurt has taken.

My heart may be heavy and in a thousand pieces.

Still this ballad I have summoned,

Fills the distance between us like a beautiful storm.

Just as there is quiet in the noise,

There is noise found in the quiet.

 

Advertisements

“Perfect”

Last night I had a dream.

A little boy tugged at his parent’s clothes.

“Look, that one,

That’s the one I want…

I want her.”

The girl had scars all up and down the right side of her face from cutting herself.

She was trying to hide them.

The little boy didn’t care.

He thought she was beautiful.

“Really son, her?

That’s the one you want?”

“Yes,” he smiled.

“She’s perfect!”

My Morning After Pill


Sitting on the floor

Staring out the window

Wiping off the polish

Lost in a trance

Listening to GaGa

Post Superbowl

Acetone morning

Child on her left

Controllers and LeBron

Has no clue mama’s gone

Looking straight ahead

She listens and nods

One say he’ll remember

Mama in her towel

Singing

Painting

Dancing

Her portable speaker

Words give her life

Feeling sexy today

She never knows

Yesterday

Today

Both afraid

But born this way

Her eyes touch the screen

But she can’t see shit

Training herself to separate

What’s love got to do with it

What Would You Do?

neurosis

What would you do if it were me face down on the sidewalk instead of you?

Ambaum Boulevard and SW 124th Street.

What if I called you on a Saturday afternoon begging for you to come to me.

An intersection, my only offering.

Would you come for me?

If my body couldn’t move because it needed a syringe, would you come?

What would you do if I were writhing in front of my dealer’s house?

Alone. In pain. In tears.

Wanting to die.

You were the only person left in the world I could call.

All other bridges I had burned.

What would you do?

I can tell by your voice you remember the pain.

But where is your compassion?

I know you remember.

The anguish of the mind.

The agony of each bone.

The ache of every muscle.

How did I get here?

How could I let this happen?

Again… and again.

Would you give me 20 bucks and watch me crawl like a beggar through my dealer’s doorway?

Maybe you would show up to scream at me for destroying our lives?

Or would you simply pick up my frail, run-down body out of the street and take me to a hospital?

Perhaps you would call the police?

At least I would have a place to go.

Three hots and a cot.

Or would you let me suffer?

Like I let you suffer.

Covering your ears praying it’s just a nightmare.

Or would you simply stop answering the phone and wait for me to stop breathing?

What would you do?

I called the police that day.

I was too far away to make it to him.

I didn’t want him to die.

He handed me the intersection.

So I turned over his life.

It’s not where he wanted to end up that day.

But he is alive.

What would you do if the father of your chiildren called you from the floor of a sidewalk…

What would you do?

man on sidewalk

Paralyzed

codependeny

She, the beautful one, is twenty-two years young.

She has so much to say,

But fears she’ll come undone.

What if the words coming make no sense?

Maybe no one is listening.

Seems she only has fragmented thoughts,

Often not ever making it onto the page.

Just better to remain silenced, she thinks.

At 22, she should have this down,

Like walking to the mailbox.

In.  Out.  Open.  Close.  Repeat.

All that changes is the terrain.

The footwear.

The weather.

She walks down the same steep, concrete stairs at 22 as when she was 14.

The former a chore for approval and excitement.

The latter, just a burden.

Nothing in that box but bills, bills mommy paid.

Little did she know her mother’s helpful intentions were chaining her down,

One leg at a time, one arm at a time.

Finally stealing her voice.

She is now paralyzed by the very person who gave her life.

The View From Here

perspective

Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of how my life appears as a whole.

Like I am looking at Earth from the atmosphere.

The stunning beauty from a distance.

I feel at peace inside when I view my story from up here.

It’s a beautiful tragedy, this life of which I write.

Each chapter holding its own pain as the tale unfolds.

The curves, twists, and cliffs appear like a highway.

After screaming as I fall from the cliff,

I catch my breath as I read a chapter of redemption.

Open wounds remain.

Battle scars are permanent.

But I have survived a lifetime of injury.

I hold a delicate and magnificent story.

I am proud of my journey.

When I come down from that place in the atmosphere,

Where my life looks so beautiful.

The closer I get to myself,

The more I can feel my own body,

The uglier the world becomes.

I no longer see the big picture,

The memoir of my journey.

The reality is that I am trapped inside of my own head.

Every moment hurts.

Every day is like climbing the steepest hill.

Each task comes with the most treacherous soil.

I have no choice but to wade through the mud.

Breathless, I make it home just in time to wake up and start all over again.

Time goes by so slowly.

It’s agonizing.

The small stuff.

They say don’t sweat it.

But it’s a downward spiral.

I just want to get to the end of the story.

I can’t wait to take my last breath.

So I can finally exhale as I read my life.

Where Shall We Go Today?

temptress

Why is she so afraid?

The anxiety creeps closer with the disappearance of each sun.

Bashful, hesitant, Insecure.

Faking her way through life has become an art.

A dismembered starlet.

Her lips threaded closed.

A silent cinema.

She transforms into whatever you need.

A counterfeit for your pageant.

A master of disguise is where her confidence lies.

Not the nine to five.

Not Mrs. Jones.

She could function and not be marked as a deviant.

No one knows the discrepancy is on the inside…

The solitude of depression,

The anxiety as absolute as falling helplessly into a well.

Fantasies of Alice.

The clever suicidal ideations.

She throws her head back.

Oh, that wicked laughter.

A hiccup which interrupts her sobs.

And one ponders why she is misconceived.

It must be the Post Traumatic Stress.

When the wrecking ball crashed through,

It uprooted any remaining life in her eyes.

The white elephant.

Stubbornly parked inside her mind,

A cunning persuasion halting any movement, breath, or spoken word.

Hypnotizing her to be afraid of the big bad world.

Paralyzing her from the neck down.

Her captivating eyes which shift from green to blue.

They rapidly canvas the crevices engraved in the ceiling.

Electrical currents that cannot find their way out of her veins.

They hunt like wildfire through her body for any sign of life.

They return to her mind bringing only snapshots of her afflictions.

Sufficient to feed on until the sun sets again.

She will rise inside a new cinema.

A new disguise.

She seductively examines you.

She rips the threads from her lips and asks…

“Where shall we go today?”

mouth sewn shut