Cold

Broken days bleeding winter

The hopes we held in summer

Wither in our hands,

You walk out to the road

Suitcase in hand

Your boots crunch gravel

Echoing the pain of your not looking back,

Night curled up with me

Beneath that tree

Within that bottle

And yet his song remains

Dripping from my lips

Burrowing deep in the pain

Of his cold heart

Write it

What I am

A figure to be found

A crow to be plucked

That poets may have quills

And write of nights as dark as my plumage

What I am

Is self sacrifice

I don’t care about myself but you

You have to write

You have to show them

How they made us

Monks

Ghosts

Crows

So maybe all of the screaming

Hatred

Pain

Was worth something

Write

Write it with their blood

Birthday

My Husbands birthday is today

Last night our landlord tried

To rip us off again

My husband said no

We drank wine and packed

He tried to lay with me

His anxious mind keept his blue eyes open

Eventually he left

I woke at 4 am he had come to bed shortly before

I was thrashing

My anxious mind was now screaming

I forced myself to lay still

Until his breathing regulated

I sit on the couch

With the cats

My house cold and bare

Wishing

My husband could have

One

Enjoyable birthday a decade

And we could get a fair chance

Shadow play

What enrages me is the falsification

Do you understand  this is not an act

Nor play for pity

My mind oft slips

Like the faceless shadows

I lose sleep

Hours

Days

Sanity

I hear voices

Live within fantasies

At times I question what reality is mine

There is a fair amount of

Screaming

Crying

I have rage issues

I break everything

I punch everyone

I have no control

This is not a girl crying for salvation

This is a reading of facts

These are not qualities to be mimicked

Nor should you disparage such pain

For pussy

Gibson girls

He tastes like cigarettes & winter mornings

He grins as he leans in to kiss me

His eyes burn blue

This man

This street wise punk

Homeless addict

Broken boy

Has risen

Scraped

Clawed

Climbed

To where he is now

What luck I should call him

Mine

Desert transitional

The desert in transition

Is indecisive at best

In the morning she is a cool lover

Offering bird song to my heart

In the afternoon her heat blazes

She cuts through the thin veil of October

As knives to wrists

At night she cloaks herself in stars

Calls coyotes to hunt

Our small hearts pound with fear

She will consume us

Before her woumb is swollen with winter

Beached monks

Sunday finds me worried

The monk falls silent

I fear what I believed to be verse

May have been some greater contemplation

I want to tell the man on the beach

To stay away from crows

To keep his eyes skyward

For a lark

Sparrow

Dove

Something brighter

Than the plumage

Of wrecked girls

Broken watches

There will be names I shall never speak

There are inevitabilities

Winding in our minds

There is today

Tomorrow

Never

We wear broken watches

Gull cry

The sea became a wound

The minute he had lost her,

His grey eyes surveyed a decimated kingdom

He looked at his hands

Knew their strength

Yet it would be her green fucking eyes

That would claim him

The man

Perhaps,

I do live for your words,

Hungrily you inspire me

Blue eyed muse.

Your pain drips ink

I long to catch tears from your eyes

To touch all the cracks in your facade

And have you name them.

My boy,

My fear is that

What I see in you

What I feel in you

Is a reflection

Not the man