You. I haven’t felt the bite of sugar thighs or honeysuckle in a thousand years. I feel seventy-six. Drowning in skin and muscles and wrinkled hands. I wear yellow cardigans and eat from take-out containers; trace the bark of your alabaster magazines. I want to paint, and scream, and play you the…
…
I use my words to describe the continuous creation of images in my head that are too fantastic to paint =)
Jordie…….by me
Every day, the kids teased him
They hit and kicked him.
Sometimes, they even spit on him.
Poor, Jordie. He was different.
I’d watch as they called him dummy.
I saw how he wanted to hide, but his legs just wouldn’t move,
Couldn’t move.
Poor, poor Jordie. He was different.
One day, Jordie didn’t come to school.
The teacher sat us down. She had an announcement to make.
Jordie died in his sleep, something to do with his condition.
We were all silent.
I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.
Poor, poor Jordie. He left me different.
Retirement Home…..by me
Her veined hands grasped the door knob, but it wouldn’t turn.
Defeated, she knew she would remain hidden.
Tucked away in the crevices of their memory, only to be acknowledged on Thanksgiving and Christmas, this was her home.
“I raised you, but you abandon me,” she thought.
“Funny, when the tables turned, people left their seats.”
About me
Interested in things that are totally random, and passionate about the betterment of the world as a whole. Can be somehwat egotistical at times, but who isn't?
