There’s been more deaths by
shootings than days of the year yet.
Yet the cries of rights
overshadow the cries of fright
from the children in schools.
We spend years practicing for our time
learning how to run, how to fight, how to hide.
The clock is ticking inside each of us --
Worries of which comes first, my turn or my graduation?
Nearly 50 years of the right to choose
tossed away by those without wombs.
The cries of babies protected
overshadow the cries of babies abandoned.
We’re tired of being quiet, of
being docile and being polite.
We’ve been scorned by those sworn
to protect and to represent.
Is this the picture of progress in America?
State of the Union Address synonymous with a football fest…
people are starving, freezing, dying, and more.
While we sit around and wait to be heard,
The world is mocking us, calling us absurd.
Wanting to end:
Like an iceberg between my shoulder blades
The cold chill of life evades me —
finally.
The chill of the iceberg carries away what’s left of me,
my body my mind my everything, but
The one thing left behind --
my soul.
My soul remains as a storm on the Earth.
My soul imprinted on those I’ve left behind:
guiding you haunting you reminding you.
Like an iceberg between your shoulder blades
The cold chill of my life envelops you —
forever.
Wanting to remain:
Like an iceberg between the shoulder blades
The cold chill of life evades me
finally.
The chill of the iceberg carries away what’s left, of me,
the body the mind the everything, but
The one thing left behind --
my soul.
My soul remains as a storm on the Earth.
My soul imprinted on those I’ve left behind:
guiding you haunting you reminding you.
Like an iceberg between your shoulder blades
The cold chill of my life envelops you —
forever.
The house is full of family members usually tense & uptight,
but today
they’re lively & kind & free. & we’re outside, all together,
which are
usually phrases not put together, especially side by side when talking about us.
Side by side,
like we are, in our make shift softball field up on the hill where we
used to live.
The old house, the one that still feels like home, but sold like the gloves & bats
that, on that day,
we played with like we were all children again, despite the later bonding
over the day
& the aches & the pains & the smiling memories it left us with.
A rarity.
This feels like something
I keep somewhere deep.
Like the times I lay and weep
about you, though I’ll never know
you, or anything about you except
This feels like something