Over the Waterfall

I remember thinking…

last night under a hindering sky…

I remember thinking…imageedit_1_5390726160

‘I don’t want to remember…anymore!’

With every deafening drop of water falling…

sickness spreading.

An illness I have become used to.

Like the promise of never ending rain.

A fist of compounded…sexually, verbally, emotionally, physically…damning pain.

Swelling and breeding in a clogged drain.

I would pry my eyes shut…

If I could…

But they are already pried open.

the Children’s Place

You had to walk, big and tall.

In this, the children’s place.

That is,watchtower 1

if you dare walk at all.

My loose ends, from blankets of downy despair.

Shag, drab, carpeting, coveted the falls.

Baneful comforts arrived such as, gypsies in the night.

Creature comforts mere flukes.

Strings to a grounded kite.

This, my children’s place.

With no saline for the eyes.

Dares for the wicked.

For only the wicked…

Dare cry.

Callous Scenes

imageedit_19_8023520898

Mystery lane?

What beholds you?

Shrouded in slow action.

Covered in moss.

Lethargic up ’til…a turning point.

Colors of eyes that cross.

A decadent decision to turn blue to black.

Red to shattering yellow.

Burning house orange to impassioned green.

Soon, you are no longer a riddle.

You are an action which will evaporate within a family of callous scenes.imageedit_22_4540271855

 

Crowded Houses

It is a double-sided cross that gathers in my heart.

It is neither here.

Nor…there.

Yet, it is everywhere.

I try to smooth it over with words…

But the words do not come out right.

And,

with every inaction…

A splintered reaction.

Volatility, plus, age.

Makes the rising waters more difficult to bare.

Allowing for indiscretions.

A dress I prefer not to wear.

Sometimes, it is in the coveting of a curtain.

In cluttered entrances…

With pathways, nothing but uncertain.

Not so strange.

These crowded houses.

Beholding a double-sided cross.

Temperamental residents…

Moderate on the outside.

Not a glimpse to be caught.

Inside, a succubus shrine that runs hot.

White Trash Dream Team

Scattered in the muddle of the attic…

Every toy that could go wrong.

All the playmates with no shoes…

All keepsakes…black and blue.

Chaos lusts upon the ramshackle miscues.

Mayhem even friendlier…

When malice fills the musky air.

Between the clapboards dipped in mold.

Three flights up…

And, madness thickens with tall tales told.

I have attempted to piece together my place in this sullen room of stolen memories.

But the flakes of lead shatter by a grip too tight.

Well aware, I am, that the firmer the hold the more I lose sight.

What a cast of characters these floor boards have seen.

A white trash dream team.

Broken by birth certificates…Hidden by girlie magazines.

Twelves steps littered by the ashes of former lovers.

An obligatory glamour shot of someone else’s mother.

Shame on me for not dwelling in another harbor from the past.

For not trading an unmade bed of delusions for cash.

But this heightened abode is my home.

No matter how far into sanity I roam.