Tomorrow they scan my brain for tumours and brain disease.
I'm going on my own, because there's nobody left to trust that I'll share my fear with.
Strength? Can't suffocate this fear before it suffocates me.
I don't want to ever leave Orion [motherless]. It's a painful burden to grow through.
In 21 days it'll have been 6 long years since my mum died from cancer.
Yellow.
A happy colour.
The colour I wore to her funeral,
The colour of her favorite roses (as are mine)
A theme for the cancer council,
A song by coldplay,
The colour of her eyes before she died,
I digress,
I avoid the fear, but it still strangles me inside, making it hard to breathe. My hands shake and my eyes, they cry.
What am I REALLY afraid of?
My past strangling my future.
Move on,
It's the past.
But you can't forget what created you.
Sequential tragic events shaped who I am now,
And I'm falling asleep now.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
She died childless [Unfinished.]
[This is a piece, with really bad rhythm, from a man's perspective, after his wife has committed suicide because she left it too late to have children. Sad story. But I'm writin' it anyway! VERY VERY rough and incomplete.]
Sitting alone in the same booth of the waffle house where you first laid eyes on me.
I’d say I’ve made a complete revolution,
But this was no act of symmetry.
9 hours, 11 stops, a box and a half of tissues.
I still can’t bring you back to me.
The icy, glacial wind pushed you inside that magical winter’s day,
Outside a homeless man was still convinced the end was nigh,
But the beginning was only just underway.
The same doorbell still rings high.
My whole world is in decay.
A brief hello, a few more waffles and we sat and watched the fast lane,
Everyone had sex, raised children and built houses as the years went along,
But we made love and flushed our babies down the drain.
Just us - reproduction seemed wrong.
I just want to see your face again.
Sitting alone in the same booth of the waffle house where you first laid eyes on me.
I’d say I’ve made a complete revolution,
But this was no act of symmetry.
9 hours, 11 stops, a box and a half of tissues.
I still can’t bring you back to me.
The icy, glacial wind pushed you inside that magical winter’s day,
Outside a homeless man was still convinced the end was nigh,
But the beginning was only just underway.
The same doorbell still rings high.
My whole world is in decay.
A brief hello, a few more waffles and we sat and watched the fast lane,
Everyone had sex, raised children and built houses as the years went along,
But we made love and flushed our babies down the drain.
Just us - reproduction seemed wrong.
I just want to see your face again.
A late evening.
she sits on her bed, the floor scattered with candles. Her face is lit in warm tones, but shining with tears. Her heart feels cold because it pines for the warmth of a person long-passed.
Photos are scattered around her. Old photos, of a time she cannot remember but only create. There is nobody to recount. No more bedtime stories.
The soundtrack is a single song with violins. And keyboard. A shaky female vocal with subtle percussion and a powerful ambience. She wept.
Nobody sees her weakness. She hides it well. Her stormy eyes are the clue to discover her past. She's got a rigid positive attitude and a convincing smile.
They're all too wrapped up in their own romances to notice she's drowning in wine and solitude, and melted wax. Flying blind without guidance or support, she meanders emotionally bedraggled through the chapters of her life.
She's got the self hatred of a guilty man on the run. Thoughts linger in her mind, truly, she doesn't want this a minute longer. What's a life if you fake happiness out of habit?
Next to her head at the top of the bed where she seldom sleeps, there's written in small pencil, "time heals, you just have to wait".
She hates waiting. Life pours salt in the wound.
[word vomit, I think I've got an articulate strand of food poisoning tonight. Sleep is for the week that were created by it's initial neglect.]
Photos are scattered around her. Old photos, of a time she cannot remember but only create. There is nobody to recount. No more bedtime stories.
The soundtrack is a single song with violins. And keyboard. A shaky female vocal with subtle percussion and a powerful ambience. She wept.
Nobody sees her weakness. She hides it well. Her stormy eyes are the clue to discover her past. She's got a rigid positive attitude and a convincing smile.
They're all too wrapped up in their own romances to notice she's drowning in wine and solitude, and melted wax. Flying blind without guidance or support, she meanders emotionally bedraggled through the chapters of her life.
She's got the self hatred of a guilty man on the run. Thoughts linger in her mind, truly, she doesn't want this a minute longer. What's a life if you fake happiness out of habit?
Next to her head at the top of the bed where she seldom sleeps, there's written in small pencil, "time heals, you just have to wait".
She hates waiting. Life pours salt in the wound.
[word vomit, I think I've got an articulate strand of food poisoning tonight. Sleep is for the week that were created by it's initial neglect.]
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Intimate.
What's it like?
It's like... The instant when you taste the summers first perfect mango. The taste breeds through your salivating mouth like ink through water. But it's like a feeling, manifested into a tiny, tiny space, that controls your every movement.
Like fireworks are set off. All you can do is squirm. And every part of your body goes to extremes. You heave for breath (if you breathe at all) and your heart races faster than it ever should, sometiEs I wonder if it just becomes 'one' really long beat, it drums away so fast.
Hands sweaty, skin clammy, like a fever, but more invigorating.
I wonder what it's like for you.
It's like... The instant when you taste the summers first perfect mango. The taste breeds through your salivating mouth like ink through water. But it's like a feeling, manifested into a tiny, tiny space, that controls your every movement.
Like fireworks are set off. All you can do is squirm. And every part of your body goes to extremes. You heave for breath (if you breathe at all) and your heart races faster than it ever should, sometiEs I wonder if it just becomes 'one' really long beat, it drums away so fast.
Hands sweaty, skin clammy, like a fever, but more invigorating.
I wonder what it's like for you.
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