the End of a Love Song

Death patted the worn leather couch.

Placed in frigid temperatures…the seat seemed to come from 1970…or there about.

He did not offer a love song.

Though in his icy stare…100_1336

it had been apparent to see the End wished for me to stay.

His movement so flawed, so free, like a cold sweat on a summer’s day.

If I could only pass Death by…

There would be no need to ask why.

Positioned knee to knee…

‘should I stay or should I go.’

With a chance glance to smoke from a January sky…

I turned back and Death had gone.

Leaving me with only lyrics to a love song.

Understanding the Blues

The screams would never jostle me awake.

Loud torrents of torment would lull me to sleep.

Mind over matter came with no consistency.

Games of pretend came and went…offering little tranquility.

My bed became a soft rock…providing little cover.

Wild words…a free for all.

Enough so that…I could understand the blues.

The Weight of Night

The weight of desperation to leave…an elephant’s foot.

A heft of which… a granite wall…immortal, lifeless.

Little runaway, I tried, I tried.

Ravaged by midday hours…late twilight had been my hour.

I tumble as a result of…my own fall.imageedit_4_4797812923

Darting, dodging, I could only take the route practiced and untamed.

Stuffed animals in the trees…dangling echos…all about.

Deep in a true vault of pine and birch…both shedding onto my perch.

I tumbled…as a result of my own fall.

 

the Rocking

She gave birth to me…having already believed in rickety chairs.

Having diluted her secrets like a paperback mystery.

Her book and dismembered seat have been passed down.

Her small moments of rocking back and forth…provided few victories.

Every now and again,

I will set myself to rocking…

it appears to soothe me.

Cut the Shit…News!

Wrong from so many angles…are the abuse of others, bullying and making one feel in anyway, small.

I grew up in a family that endorsed abuse.  I can say, no good came from it!

That is not to say, murder is the answer.  However, when all exits off a treacherous highway have been cut…we are sometimes left with no choice but to save ourselves.

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From the beginning, Cyntoia Brown’s life story has been heartbreaking. She was put up for adoption at the age of 2, and her life after that was a traumatic spiral of verbal abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, and substance abuse.

At the age of 16, she was sold as a sex-slave to a 43-year-old Nashville realtor—Johnny Mitchell Allan. She was subjected to more abuse by Allan, and in a documentary about her life, she described the abuse and how it made her paranoid.

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