A heart attack will surely follow. In a different realm. I will die again. In the darkness of greed I stay with the lion. The lion has taken hold of me as I allow it to control me.
Sara Holbrook's Blog Spot: Democracy Democracy: Toilet Paper and Mud Wrestling
And another death to follow. When the earth gets sick of me and suffocates my last breath. Into a hole I, go to rot. I am still that wounded child dealing with her trauma. I do not like the future… The future is murky and I cannot see myself. But I see myself clearly in the past. I fume in an oven of resentment. Resentment I know I should get over. The past is the past. Yet I hold on to it for dear life. The past brings tears of happiness and deep sorrow into my eyes. The older I get the more I lose certain details of memories.
Things that I replaces with sadness. What did my cousin use to sound like? What would she of turned out to be if she was still here? I wake up every morning the same way. To an alarm. Whatever stuff I need to do insert here. She is gone. I need to pee. I question everything, over analyzing my life.
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Am I living for a purpose? Why am I working here?
I am not sure of the purpose of this post. I am also not sure how to end this.
Things That Go Bump in the Night
So to be continued…. It took you It took me 53 days. Day 1 denial. Day 10 feel the guilt of what you must of felt for me when you abandoned me. Day 17 reflect on what I did to you. Feel the loneliness at night cry out. As I replicate the same tune.
Guide Poems That Thump in the Dark
Day 36 get out of bed and start living a new life without you. Getting up crossing big long grass Stalking a big brown deer Creeping low, grabs a leg, bites with razor sharp teeth And kills straight away.
Elephants Big brown soft eyes. Ears thrashing against the wind. Small and big grey shapes in the distance, Slowly plonking along. The elephant lifts up her trunk Brrrrrr, the trumpeting sound fills the air, As they charge towards the water hole. They are running in the water, The little one stumbles, The mother nudges it back up again.
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Then they swarm around me like bees. Silently they vanish over the horizon Holly D, year 4. Giraffes Long stretchy legs, one swaying tail A flagpole neck A soaking blue tongue and stomping hooves. It would be a dingy red square upon a blue ribbon far removed from the sun igniting our valley. Something dark is coming this way, he said. I nodded, but what is a man to do.
healthinsure.website/wp-includes/runadyhyg/grande-namoro.php There was a military academy below us. There was Vietnam. There were heart attacks. There were clocks with metal tongues counting our days. There were gray faced women with gay lit bows wrought in foreign shops by lives long locked away. And the sun was beating down upon us, so that we shed our shirts and began to burn; Would it be so bad, we thought, if something dark were coming this way, when we could see it all so very well.
We have the time to plan; we have a vista spread about us. We can feel the roots of the earth taking hold. We looked to the sunsets and waves of grain to our west; even there along the marsh drawn margins of the river where mallards and mergansers nest and long legged egrets stretch between two cosmologies to pull coins from the waters while wild rice rises into evenings catching fire along its flaring tips.
Deer fill the dreams of our suburban alleyways, always moving, shifting shadows at the edge of sight, and wild maidens clasp them to their hearts, run bare-legged into thickets of desire we cannot understand but will come to cope with. Why would it be hard with all these flames of life swaying with the waves of autumn and a rising sun: If something dark were to come this way, it would be filled with light.
In time, a shirt turns into a thousand pounds of metal at 80 miles per hour. It turns into thirty tons of metal at miles per hour.
- Read PDF Poems That Thump in the Dark;
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It turns into a factory of crushed stone where life sweats into the cellar seeps. It turns into a lair built of fallen trees, wrought iron, and electric needles. It becomes a game of rock-paper-scissors where somehow the paper shears off mountainsides and cuts metal.
Shadows come crashing through our windowpanes to take small pills at night from bedside tables; and, yes, an older man needs to sleep sometimes while the world keeps up. And, yes, I can sleep, and can still keep it up as well as any man: Even when something dark is coming toward us I am eager to pump light into it. There is nothing gentle in a big black box barreling down a concrete river, though its heart and soul and every shadow within its bulk is filled with grains of the earth that could feed an endless multitude.
Not with the sun's rays igniting all it touches at miles per hour contained within the dark. He stubs the morning's sales beneath a worn boot heel, and looks to stars that have not been seen for generations. Babies are hung out to dry from fire escapes.
A truck becomes a German steelworker's family clearing their throats outside a vacant echoing oven in Detroit. A broken hydrant leaks into the gutter, becomes a flood, washes years from a plot where the pavement ends. The man is a newspaper soaked into his own days, where one page becomes glued onto another indelible and indistinguishable from the stench of drunken nights. I was ready. I never felt right in my body and I never felt terribly connected to my face.
One of my third-grade teachers once told me I was pretty and without thinking, I said "thank you but you should really tell that to my parents. We are resilient. We are beautiful. We are strong. They are also about healing. I could feel sexual trauma from my childhood that had finally made its way up to the surface leave my body. I had been working on that trauma for over twenty years — first in the heart, then the head and now through the body.
Before this, I felt like I was hiding. I am not hiding anymore.