When I lay my head down to sleep, I can feel your loneliness calling me; can you feel my pain calling to you? The emotional mess of what I’ve become, seemingly unaware drifting along in your own world of perfect palisades.
In my dreams, I am haunted by a creeping mist, trying to find traces; knowing you are out there but I can not seem to be able to find where; helplessly skirting the unbearable that will leave me with the just hurting.
You have to be aware of what you mean to me, I have been completely open to you always. You have hidden yourself in a murky cloud never letting me entirely near; just circling on the edges of your mind.
Leaving me writhing in kind, hopelessly wondering, withering vine. Will you ever let me in or will it be an eternity of uncontainable pain? Is it my cross to bear, the years will not be kind, my heinous crime.
Your inattentive attitude of unawareness, always keeps me there. I am a kite lost in the wind, blowing always further and further away, as the child aimlessly runs, calling, please, please come back to me.
It is draining me of what I am, leaving only an empty shell of myself. We have become the proverbial clique that pounds in my head; in the sea of life, we are the two ships that pass in the night.
I have written poetry for nearly 50 years. My first poem," A ticking of a Clock, was published in a women's magazine when I was 12. When my Mother passed away the poem was misplaced. I have been trying to locate it. I do other writing also.
A silence on the night. The day fluttered quietly in whisper soft resonance, So many colours slowly dying Like confetti in the rain, And echoes touched each other, a reunion of themselves, As though they were astounded At their resonating
Put off the lantern. I am waiting for the moon’s primal face. The lesser flamingoes were going to shed the pink color. Nude as a python, the kiss of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. I suffer in the hands of protests.
It was night sin of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading the white secret of pain in the hollow of a mayhem. Till every blunder takes a downward flight striping the outsized image of a kill. His flames are now singeing