Pine and Oak

I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.

I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.

The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’

Hatred and swinging leather belts.

Love mixed with skin pelts.

I write shortly of incidents others have felt.

Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.

To tiled and titled adults without a care.

Tell me now,

how polyester made life light?

Why the campfire of want…became hell?

Had I Known

Had I known this would have been our last embrace.
Would I have given more than I take.
I summon up that specter steeple.
As well as, that rare smile that graced your face.
Even now,
I ask the hereafter, with quiet reservation,
who does not falter?

Ominous choices of two forks in the road.
‘No, you did all you could.
How were you to know.
She always likened herself to beauty being bold.’

Those were the days of romantic sobriety.
Young love in tarnished hands.
A reckoning of waters,
so still they moved.
I moved.
You moved.

I am perpetually swayed back to that secular summer place…
with the worshipers in the sun’s face.
The only thing I knew to do was offer a way to leave.
Proposing a week’s reprieve.

Seven days.
It moved me.
It moved you.
And,
at the time,

that was the best that we could do.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Mum

Hurt has turned ghosts to gold

Newborns into antiquated entities

I come and go from the waters, time and time again

Yet, I cannot walk on

Questions to my state of mind

Part and particle of the disease…not the cure

Dark as a Rose

A storm within a storm within a storm within a Rose

A lily without her pad…forever sinking

So, what is in a name Rosie?

With your whirlwind of violent voices…jading and shading your blood red petals

I hear your claim to be quite alright

But I see your thorns routinely sharpened…just out of spite

Love Letters by Zelda

There’s nothing in all the world I want but you and your precious love. All the material things are nothing. I’d just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence because you’d soon love me less and less and I’d do anything — anything — to keep your heart for my own. I don’t want to live—I want to love first, and live incidentally… Don’t—don’t ever think of the things you can’t give me. You’ve trusted me with the dearest heart of all—and it’s so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had. From Zelda Fitzgerald to F. Scott Fitzgerald

Perhaps, Zelda could be best understood as…misdiagnosed with schizophrenia. When it is obvious she suffered from neglect and abuse. Even further than the lackadaisical diagnosis…is the belief that F.Scott Fitzgerald stole much of Zelda’s writings to further his own career! Both intrusions only hindered what the world could have benefited from her talents.

Zelda Fitzgerald was an icon of the Roaring Twenties. A socialite, painter, novelist, and the wife of American author F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda Fitzgerald’s audacious spirit captivated those around her and she was a muse for much of her husband’s literary work. Their famously turbulent marriage was fraught with alcoholism, violence, financial ups and downs, and Zelda’s battle with mental health issues. Her own artistic endeavors include a semi-autobiographical novel, Save Me the Waltz, a play entitled Scandalabra, as well as numerous magazine articles, short stories and paintings. She died tragically on March 10, 1948 in a fire at Highland Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina.