That little girl

That little girl under the table

that little girl under the table

scratching at knees as a mosquito might

pestering annoyingly enough;

but she’s not.

that little girl under the table

she’s not grown out of it

because she never left (even though she did)

Once in anger, once bereft,

grafting failure to achieve

something withered from the roots

Blood, not her blood, embraced her

brought her Polaroids of family blessed

as blissed as deeply remembered it to be

created in Tunes of resonant harmonies

The only home she wasn’t

that little girl under the table

who begged for scraps of affection

but the dogs eat faster, less furiously,

less needy than

that little girl under the table.

Throne

My throne near the top of the willow tree

where I could oversee

my kingdom that resounded

with mournful train chords

and springtime robin red-breast

Thin the veil between worlds

Of retrospection cursed not blessed

It’s like a perpetual bloodstain

With solidly placed blame

Thats removed quietly with disdain

Where “It’s just how they are” to

Invisibility of me to an entire crew.

But I’ll not allow their foolishness

Not in my kingdom where I am best

Where I’m more than bone deep

Better than the company they sheep.

Missed

I missed your birthday a couple of years back.

I was locked up, sorry about that.

See I got to running with a rougher crowd

They drank too much and partied too loud.

I knew they were bad, but it was so much fun

I knew my world was about to come undone.

I left you with your Grandma Jones

She took you in and gave you a home.

I couldn’t destroy myself while keeping you

I mourned your loss, but got your name tattooed

on my forearm where I see it every day.

I missed you but I had to stay away.

I hope someday you might miss me as well

while I sit here 5-10 in a 4 by 6 cell

I’m sorry I missed your birthday a couple months back

But I was locked up, sorry about that.

 

This is an imagining of why someone might leave their child behind for the sake of self-destruction. This is not based on fact or any person I’ve known living or dead.

Cycle turns

flowergarden

I am an untended garden, riddled with forget-me-nots and weeds

My earth has not been furrowed asunder; tilling life to the topsoil

I have grown fallow, un-supporting of life, but yet, there are some

perennials that cling to a hope of return, of vibrancy dallying

But I can only roll over in my floral nightgown, whimpering in my bed

allowing the blistering son to scorch my once glorious stance

I admit, I’ve become self-watering. I needn’t wait for the gardener

My groans of grief roil the soil, creating bitter roots exposed as lies

Everyone knows that when the earth laughs, people die.

She accepts their bodies back to her world, but I could still breathe

so I am not granted respite from the overabundant fertilizer spewed

over my once lush landscape. But, I will rise, for the weeds can’t hang on

when I forbid grasping of my rooted passion for life. Here she comes

the one that removes the rot with compassionate hands.

Here he comes, the one that scratches that spot in the very middle

She tends to me while singing lightly a childhood song forgotten

He digs deep with his grip, releasing the tainted, blighted plants

She opens the earth to expose me to the warmth of attention

He plants perennial seeds to grow through the coming seasons.

I inhale deeply, knowing that my rebirth will again grow fruitful.

My cycle continues in ample countenance to their loving attention.

I await my own fruition. I will grant only the very best of myself

to create the most beautiful garden I can create. This, is why I weep.

Aleppo, Syria

Omran Daqneesh
There is a little child in Aleppo born
Exploding waves of violent storm
Raging fires silently call harm
Yet the tiny child raises no alarm.
Ali Daqneesh
This is our child. Our daughter or our son
Our children have now become only one
Innocence bombed in a dawn of mourning
We heard the cries, refused the warnings.
Now we witness our barren crops dead
Help them! Somebody!
We are not what we said.

Queen in Passing

grave

Solemnity spoke

The night I prayed would never come

has whispered hallowed night

a reclamation of eternal earth

the kiss of chilled winds blight

The hands I loved have now succumbed

The fiery pyre take flesh from sight

a resolution to embrace rebirth

your angelic spirit take flight

Release

I hope he never knows the pain he’s gifted me.
I pray that his life turns out better than any of my prayers could be.
My fervent wish from my bended knee
Is that his eyes be opened enough for him to recognize and see.
I hope he never understands an abused and neglected heart
I pray that his life is filled with every color of every art.
My fervent wish although we’re apart
Is that his grays fill in with rainbow light and from darkness he depart.

Falling of the Son

There is no tree bedecked with lights

to push away the coldest nights

There is no ornament in your name to hang

There are no bells, their music to clang

There will be no feast to honor the sun

There will be no hours of festive fun

There will be dust and ashes upon my hearth

With saddened heart absent, a disguise worn of mirth

As the tears refrain down memory lane

with whispers of the joy that remains

etched on the holiday with stains of your haint

re-purposing, recycling you into glorious saint.

I’ll stare out the window to witness the world sing

As I dread your fair haunting that this season brings.

Professional Writer of Eulogies

I’ve started a business called Pro-WoE.

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I loved you anyway

I take a deep breath and realize that I’ve exhaled the negative people from my life by persistently being positive. I got accused of being draining, of taking too much time, of making them feel not good enough, of always being angry at them. Well here’s some thoughts for you, “sister:”

Draining is spending 6 hours listening to you lather rinse repeat 10 years worth of things you won’t change. Draining is trying again and again to show you the beauty that everyone else can see but yourself. Draining is lifting you up so you don’t drown in your self pity for 10 minutes. Draining is when we’ve beaten the dead horse to dusty bones that blow around like the floaties in a snow globe.

Taking too much time? To make sure you’re comfortable when you’re hurting, to make sure your needs are met, to come rescue you from another meltdown, to come meet you where you are/pick you up/believe you with tissues in hand, to listen to your troubles and offer solutions only to have every single one shot down because you really don’t want to change, you just want to complain?

If I “make” you feel like you’re not good enough, perhaps you need a new prescription for your shit colored glasses. It’s you who doesn’t think you’re good enough, not me. You repeatedly say that you’re not worth much, that you’re not important, that nobody loves you but like I’ve been saying for years and thankfully don’t have to any more, YOU ARE WORTHY! YOU ARE AS IMPORTANT AS YOU BELIEVE YOURSELF TO BE! YOU ARE LOVED BUT DON’T BELIEVE IT!

It’s not anger you’re feeling from me. It’s frustration that I’m exhibiting. Frustration that in the entire time I’ve known you, loved you, cherished you, cried with you, hugged you, laughed with you, shared with you, struggled with you, battled at your side, you called me a liar. You told me that I was wrong for believing in you. You made it very clear that everything I saw was nothing but shadows, slight of hand, and flash paper designed to distract me from your ugly interior that reeks of self-pity and self degradation. That every word I ever spoke encouraging you may as well have been a flaming bag of dog shit left on your porch.

Frustration from trying so hard to paint your gray with the colors I see and as fast as I could whip out my palette and liner brush you already had the roller of gray loaded and ready. Like gunslingers we’d sit facing each other with coffee cups loaded to full and the battle for your beauty would begin. I’d lose again and again, but I didn’t give up until you finally did. You surrendered to the gray and I had no choice but to walk away. I couldn’t take it, not for one more day.

If you’re going to point a finger accusing someone of despising you and taking away from your life, again, go into your bathroom and look in that reflective thing over the sink for a long time. That person standing there is why you can’t see yourself clearly. She is the one hiding your beauty. She is the one not believing in you. She is the one stopping you from being everything you’ve ever dreamed. Now, walk out of that room and until you can look her in the eye and say fuck you, my life my rules my way, don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.