Emily

Young girls in patriarchy:

She didn't quite understand the word.

We were never that smart in the beginning, but it's like getting a drift of

fascism, or rape.

Stealing and verbal abuse,

gaslighting, and manipulation

dismissive conversation

subversive alienation

favoritism folly

segregation

denile and lies

social media spies

war loving gun toters

and racist homophobic hate mongers...

You can ask mother for a definition, but she won't know either.

Maybe around 30 years of age or so she'll decide her own fate,

and what it means to have been indefinitely erased. ..

Have your clothes taken off after a thunder storm.

After you are cold, and drenched to the bone,

and the term "Monetary value" is shrugged.

There's no riches in my blood.

She is of the same.

You too are just as worthless;

young child of the same womb.

Fine wines age.

That's when they hold a value.

But I

was a bad year.

Every one after that was fruitful.

The suiters praise, and fathers should mourn,

because by thy fruit has verily been spoiled.

She's useless brat

that I had many hopes for.

When she cries out about death,

when kings and masters dispute our final match,

I will no longer hold a fight.

She's an adult now, with her own thoughts an ideas.

I must have tried a hundred times to cease before the next hour

while she extends throughout a million lifetimes...

as a girl who I will remember

without any name.

Reasons for writing----and the backstories that have been hidden in creativity.

Hello Readers,
I have maintained this blog for years, and had received questions every so often about where it comes from.  Sometimes people know exactly who I am referring to.  Other times, people are waaaaay off.  Sometimes it's about something I've been going through, and sometimes it's something that happened a very long time ago.
Poetry, in my opinion, is a creative outlet for feelings we are having a hard time expressing.  That being said, I will be writing explanations (to whom which I owe no one, just to clarify) in my Medium account.  You can also search my written pieces that are on this blog through 40 Story Radio tower on Medium too. 
I will link each piece I choose to have a dialog about on Medium.  So follow, if you dare!  You might learn something about yourself that you never even knew!

And as a writer, one of the things that I've always been interested in doing is actually invading your comfort space. Because that's what we're supposed to do. Get under your skin, and make you react.
-Stephen King


https://medium.com/@annekrajnak/courage-is-a-hell-of-a-thing-7321183079f4

Love to Hate me

It's easy to blame.
Talk out of both sides of your mouth.
Forgetting some inconvenience
from a tattle tell
jealous heart.

Paranoia hangs a trust
that is one lie too many.
If you can remember
what you said to me,
or the touch I had to see
broadcasting what I should
ignore in vain.

I can't feel sorry for intuition
because the ones who love to hate me
clarified it to be so.
Call it tough love.
Explain to me that no one will care
as time goes by.
Their happiness is my lonesome agreeable pessimism,
and my aches stem
from a deformation of character
I unknowingly placed
into condescending hands.

I review stupidity in bed.
Rise like I ran a marathon
shaking nuances of visions
into my head.

Tell me I am ridiculous.

Nervously laugh at my shame.
The love should be freedom
not chains,
or fused lips to dread.
To share with ignorance
criticizing much past
cursed lethargy in topics
that should be dead.

Love to hate me.
It requires energy,
and a time worth spent.
So you can sleep tonight
never worrying.
Everything is alright
while heavy sighs explain
tyranny without slumber
in a flaming bed.

The sneaking balance holds true.
I am off kilter of anything I do.
You can love to hate me.
To walk I need to first
learn how to stand up
for what is right,
and you are not.

It takes confidence in my truth.
Aren't you proud to say I doubt myself once again?
May all of your profits be sold.
The costs are an empty soul.
I nod, and smile
like I always do.
It seems easier to admit
when you aren't bothered by my bill
as long as I don't make you pay for anything.

Staying remorseful
to make sure everyone else
can receive the gain.
Because they love to hate me,
and at least I cause an emotion,
or a feeling
by words that could be better off unsaid.
I'm going to write it anyway.
Even if it means I am a stubborn, misguided brat...
like you say.
I chose to exist like this
another day.

The proof is in discouragement.
I invite you to love
even when it was decided to hate,
and for this desperation
we'll call it fate.
To karmic flows of profanity
spoken with my name.
This is the character of grudges
receiving all your blame.

They unknowingly celebrate
my wretched existence everyday.
By judging and smirking
sarcastically at my pride.
Posing great self esteem
suggested that you've never lied.

Simply, love to hate me
especially when you see me cry.
Insulting my intellegence
because I decided to live
and not die.
For courtship of worth,
and fair weathered friends...
dumbfounded mistakes to which
doesn't break,
but contorts and bends.
You know what has persistently been true.
You love to hate me,
and it will always be the same
until I comply and do exactly
what you tell me I should do.

This life isn't my own.
I bet on low priority
a remorseful thoughtless
temperamental minority
that never brings joy to mind.

Let's just see how much the unfaithful
enjoy being called out.
It's easy to blame.
Have a discussion that goes in one ear
and out the other.
Absence of precision
tells a lot about a person
who has a broken heart.

Whenever I should feel happy again
I am quickly reminded how
they love to hate me.

Ladders of Vainglory

At the ground level
debris builds around a ladder
with unsated rungs
of vainglory.
These are the bars that lead to proprium.
Ostentation supposedly misguided
as friendly conversation.

I lay back and look to the sky
numbering the bars of this estimation.
How far will I go to win your friendship?
My dignity was a cheap thrill to gasconade. 
A slight brush of hand directing movement
that I regrettably followed forward,
but only as a means to please you, vainglory. 

Your ladder is much like a see-saw
creaking and swaying
from the applause
to your disdain.  
Take my words
and use them to your liking.
Cut and sand
splintered steps
because it's only an illusion. 
A way conciet offers a favor
then becomes a victim
because I took advantage of
irresolute kindness. 

My mistakes take note of your ego. 
I can't really rise above
on this broken ladder that you provided. 
Vainglory loves to see me fail. 
When I do
expect to know
through my exploitation. 
She is only happy
if she can look down on me.

Aesthetic

Aesthetically,
warm my heart
as if you are my cup
in the morning,
pressed against my chest
as I stare at shimmering, damp leaves.
They lay on the ground,
not urbane
or with your type of certain appeal.
Listless, and unappreciated for the season of death.

I marvel at such beauty;
Rays of sun between branches of trees....
It has since been raining,
and the aesthetic influence
of afflicted eyes and a drawn, aging face
said there was nothing warm
or comforting
about Autumn...
or how I choose to state an
out of context arrangement of words
piled on each other
as the leaves compacted under my heavy, awkward rain boots every day.

Under is all,
I know there's something inspiring.
An aesthetically proven chance
to mention a refrain.
The calmer, clearer meaning
to my heartfelt behavior.
Something lovely, without annoyance.

He asked if there was something I was sad about this October.
I can finally give an absolutely breath taking answer:
You my dear.  Only you.

Silver Hair

The singular silver hair

on his head

was what I counted

instead of sheep 

every night

 just around 2 a.m.

But it's only one,

and I lay awake

 with these lists of my personal

insolence and temperamental 

self-control.

I can only estimate how many times he 

had to smooth

and comb over 

from the ruffling breezes of

exhaled sunshine

now saturated with rain,

or maybe tears...

I can't tell. 

I am focusing on making lists.

Many lists. 

Lists to keep myself distracted.

Like the full head of hair he has

tucked under a hat. 

These are just lucid accounts where 

 I should beg to brush my fingers across his head

as mine

 has not been comfortable for hours.

Actually, days.

 Some of which he knew I hadn't slept.

I try to close my eyes.

I will keep quiet.

Whatever makes you happy.

The lists stay awake

breathing heavily at dawn.

His hair, the clock.

My hands.

The pain in my feet.

Cobwebs in the corners

where the ceiling meets the wall...

The wall.  

The one I put back up.

I see that it's raining again.

How many other worries can I jot

down tonight?

I stopped counting after one.

Sister's wedding.

Train whistles that sound

 just like everywhere else. 

 I used to think that it was romantic.

I'm not feeling well.

 My torn clothes.

 Inadequate heat.

Spider bites.

Broken down cars.

Him....Him...her...

Too much coffee.

 An entire 6 pack of beer....

The concerns about lies.

Who is lying to me? 

Someone... I just know it.

All of the groceries are laying out on the counter.

 Rotten, because no one put anything away.

There was a woman on the bus that told 

everyone to read the Bible.

 I don't think there's ever going to be

an end in sight for me.

No rest for the wicked.

That's what they say about me you know,

and Jesus Christ, I sure am an asshole.

Father, or that other one.

Absentee Mothers.

Alcoholic stepfather.

 Award winning, timely exits.

He said I didn't leave a moment too soon.

I usually know when I should,

except that one time...

What about...

 half lit cigarettes

 strewn across a porch.

 Homeless men throwing 

 beer cans at you as you try

to cross the street.

What's my problem anyway?

She said I was fucking stupid.

He was livid when I wondered why 

 there wasn't a trace of a smile on his face.

I don't have the right to ask questions anymore.

Don't care. 

 Just don't give a shit.

Let go!

I dressed up very pretty 

 last week to find a little confidence,

but the man laying on the sidewalk 

 said my true colors weren't shining that day.

He was right.

I am not going to ask why.

Back to counting.

1....2....3

It's getting very late.

Breath.

Don't rip your clothes.

You don't need another cigarette.

Calmly now,

try to get some rest.

Think happy thoughts....

There's only one silver hair on his head.

It's my favorite.

 

Weatherman

If the sun in the sky
should set the past in
clouds that brim the morning;
Turbulent in the middle of yesterday
and usually gone by afternoon.....
Then the sky was blue
as the color of your eyes
tangible in my refinement.
Stay strick.
It's always as unpredictable as the weather.

Come day, go day
as there seems to be nothing new,
but it's a whistle in the air that blew
quite loudly enough
to draw all the foggy dew;
trembling in steamy tea leaves
and those who
evidently
know you.
Can you predict the future?
No.
But trust as those bright horizons will ensue
as a bolt of lightning
or hurried engagements brought forth who
will celebrate your new day
and said they will see you through.
Trust is a prediction.
I spend much time betting it all
on everything uncertain.

My dear weatherman,
I said it's been storming
and you replied with half of a forecast.
I am clearly waiting to step outside
to hear engaging silence,
and a warm breeze to wrap my head around.
I'd settle just for an overcast
 so I can be the one
who
dared to stand against
 a force of nature...
 Be sure to tell me if there seems to be a storm up ahead.
Take cover and shield me when I can't get out of my head,
and we will be fine.
Just never,
and I mean ever
lie about weather.

The Sleepy and Hollow

I had a hope once.
A thought that kept returning
long after I left a haunted town.
They say it's a paranormal wrath.
A curse.
A karmic reason why these spirits stick around.
They cannot see the light,
and they do not know that they are dead.

I am the Sleepy Hollow;
without a head
this dream doesn't think.
It's all heart
riding without direction,
as long as I am far away from you.
This heart has led me astray
in a dream that I knew would never last.
We're just stories written before I sleep.

That apparition in my mind
was one I never justified.
I failed to say what needed to be said.
You see,
I had a hope once,
but I killed that thought many times.
Now I believe in ghosts,
because I am one.

Alone I ride
faster, wiser, with awakened heart.
I ride past vampires with crooked teeth
for I am steel.
The werewolves howl,
for my love runs much wilder than them.

Some days I still long for the sleepy and hollow.
The lazy drunks that seemed to not have anything beating in their chests.
The thoughtless whims of the headless stumbling,
speaking of some fictitious folklore.
Especially the tales where they said they were in love.

The Masquerade

As read on 40 Story Radio Tower, Episode 28.


In the shadows of the morning, Loretta puts on her masks, caring for her pale young skin.  She should age, but no, that's the time for reflection.  She can't handle seeing her knowledge.
She was a caring girl behind all of her tough behavior. Magnificent with beauty.  Some days she would try to understand why the men with wives would follow her. Why she frequently had to run home frightened late at night.   Her face would itch and swell with welts.  Yet everyday, the mask was fitted on so very tightly.  By her family, by her lover, by the people she thought cared.

Think about how sad it is for the masquerade to never be able to feel what it meant to be loved. It's a fight never won.
 Loretta became just as fake as her mask. Waxy, and with a head full of hair that wasn't her own.  Was it her heart beating, or just the water dripping into the eroded metal sink?  You couldn't even tell if she was breathing. Air so shallowly moving her belly, which was bloated from not eating for days.  She just forgot.

She used the masks to get what she wanted.  She used the masks to signify trust.  Masks for friendship.  Masks for lust.  They are all there.  Created in her likeness, but also out of sheer greed and narcissism.  If she didn't wear one, no one paid attention.  It became a daily crutch.
"Who am I?", Loretta asked the brightly lit silver bathroom mirror.  "Mirror, oh Mirror.... the falseness falls off every night as I bash my sobbing face off of these faded, half painted walls."
These masks, they are always in front of me, waiting for who I need to be today.
How did this happen?

Loretta stood in the street as the sun rose in the cloudy sky, threatening an annoying spritz.  "I renounce these addictions!" she wailed as the pavement under her feet grew cold.
Time for a new plan.  "I will be a story teller, just like them...pretending that my every surly heart cry is nothing but poetry hanging in my fine lace dress."  It is so splattered and stained, much like my face.  I've had to hide behind my false truth.  It seems like I'm covered in lies.  My fault for being so proud.
I'll figure out what it's like to be an Artist, or a Writer, maybe I'll be a Musician.  I hear they get a lot of attention....but only if you're good.  Maybe I can fake that too.  Oh shit!  Shit, I can't be false.  I can't be a fraud.
So how do you do this?

She spent the entire day in bed, contemplating a fresh look.  A new day.  Somewhere, something, someone that is real.  The times before the masks and the people who remembered her.  The real Loretta.  A beautiful mess full of warmth.  A compassionate soul who never meant any harm.  A thankful person who wanted to believe there is good in the world.  It was surely just a broken heart that made her run so cold.

You should see her now.  After she hid all of the masquerader's confessions, and the empty grumbles they spewed at her weary, porcelain cracks, her face had fallen down into nothing but that mask.  The one they had gazed so deeply on, sinking down into the shame.  The one they kissed and pretended it meant nothing, over, and over, and over again.  There became so many layers of masks just so she could look at them.  Finally she realized, "I thought they loved me, but it's as false as this face."  As she spoke, the mask she fixated on wilted, and gave away through her pallid, spindle fingers as she traced the floorboards in flaying swoop.

Today, the same town she has lived in for many years, doesn't recognize Loretta.  The masquerade never sends an invitation.  She doesn't have an appearance worth noting, or knowing....except for some.  The ones who greet her in the morning.  The ones that ask her how her day was.  The few, proud and true, who kiss her cheek and tell her how lovely it is to see the person she promised to be.  Loretta is loved by all the right people.

They are not the sun,
They are in the shadows
wearing a mask.
When they choose to know me,
be with all certainty
that I am not the one they can hide behind.
Not the one you can use and abuse,
or the one who agrees on your lies.
I am the brilliant light,
and a wrinkled face
because I have learned
what it's like to dance in the masquerade.

Sad Clown

Afternoons at the Bigtop.
Around town stupidity,
and stale old popcorn.
An old dancer balances
on a tired elephant.
I too
should be afraid of
imminent knowledge.

The sad clown doesn't wear a frown.
She can make you laugh.
She can make you smile.

Calming melodies drift late
one night
outside of the constant show.
She cried because it was lyrics
of truth muddled
in basic lessons
of all of these crowded streets
filled with people
who need to be entertained.

She remembers colored balloons
and performers
who brought an overcoming joy
even when the circus was cancelled.

Her heart reminds her
late at night
what isn't funny
anymore.

Pale, comical...
snarky, and offensive.
Sunshine burns her skin
just so she can feel
something else.
She is dim.
Rising the curtain
just so you can watch her
fall down.
Applaud.
Slap your knee.
Isn't this grief hilarious?

Your Menu

I simmer in truth
stirring in the silence
waving away the clouds of steam
swimming in high air.

In Hell's kitchen
the menu offered
a delicacy;
a one of a time special...

Stewing in my thoughts:
What do you have cooking
good looking?
It's a horrible dish
unless you sit across from me
eyes locked
asking to pass the salt
across the table.
Rub it in deep.
I felt only a season of you.
Maybe I'm too bland,
but there's a
pressure lumbering
as if there was an elephant
on my chest.
My ribs ache.

Where did you get this recipe
for disaster?
Bitter side glances.
Odiferous, drunken advances.
I've been boiling, turning, lifeless
in the middle
of a four course spread.
Tea for two...
clinging glasses of wine.
Everyone is here for blowout time,
but it's my head on the platter,
and your carving knives
take the first cut.

I hope you feel nourished.
I have been picked apart.
After there is nothing but a shell
of my body
I hope you have
at least
saved my heart.
It was yours anyway.

The Question

Who in consistent inquest
paces for orientation?
Succumbing to mauling query:
bother and pother.
Turpitude in a serpentine twist.
All of which
should be assigned
a sword that splits
a blade of grass.
In each side
an answer
that sensations trouble
the same.

Daily awaken with
the same questions.
Was I a thought today,
terrifying your mind?
Did my absence retrieve
a patient sleuth,
gumshoeing
the idea of our worst tyranny?

Situations,
at a glance...
Face to face:
the only time
all of my inquiry
becomes still.
I just wanted some answers.
Lean in and press.
I didn't learn anything.

What bothers me,
fidelity?
I can't tell you.
When our eyes met I forgot the damn question.

Before

Before.
What's in store,
as the door slightly creaks
and you
are continuing to peer through.
Anxious for the minutes
as the time came to pass.
I verbalize yesterday
but worry about tomorrow.

Lovely days of before,
chest clenched and sore
only by the ties of narration.
I tell about your virtue
in storytelling lore
although
I don't think my counterparts feel the same.

Conclusions about before
often a reflection you seemed to ignore
as I fight for a valid reason in this convocation of obscurity:
opinionated plebeian biased irregularity.
Friends who turned out to be enemies
sent out a draft
but I didn't go to war.

Instead
my heart just aches.
Some ghosts are actually alive.
These days, I lock and bolt the door.

I'll be Poe if you are Eleanor.
Haunting me
not in mustering flight
but with nightmares that I may not be able
to see you again.

Rest yourself
and be assured
I am as authentically real
as the last time you remembered.
Impermanence of life
pushes even the most stubborn....
One day this may not be a recollection
but for now
everyday I carry you with me
I love you just as much as I did before.

I'm Tired

I'm tired.
The slumber is thoughts of which become sleepy times,
wrestling in nestles of clear blue sky.

I've walked a lonesome trek,
and wind blown snow's beauty made me feel worse....
Because...
I'm tired.
It was just the day before when I thought he loved me and I pronounced the language that concluded an open door.
Today it's shut.

I'm tired.
Do you know my name?
Exhaustion meant that I can't introduce myself.
He knows all others,
but I slept in a daydream that replayed yesterday and
the introduction of my belief will tell you in a solemn lullaby.
Rock me to sleep.
You are so tired of playing...
its no longer fun.
Go to sleep,
your tears will have them on the run.
They are so well rested.
I lay awake.
I'm so tired.
He's my nightmare.

Battle

Pick axes and cleavers.
Barreled guns and torturous constraints.
Out to battle
for sovereign safety.
Behind an enemy line
to defend these escapes from lips
and thoughts
that time life
by the ungrateful death
of a tragedy.
I have been taken
as a prisoner of war.

They said I was part of a
meaningless battle.
That the peace
that should follow
is only drawn out of fate.
One from the other side
since cowards who combat
truth barely exist.
It was nothing short of treachery.
The way they separated my pride...
the heralded advance in my change of policy.
It's all over once I touch his face.
Have you missed me since I've left for war?

I escaped for a moment.
The sleep deprivation
had terrorized every second
after home again.
Post traumatic loving disorder....
I returned to shine my boots.
Confessed the disgrace.
Hang my medals on the wall.
Add up loses
and admit I couldn't withstand the fight.
So much for my tenderly apparent warfare.

A contention is simple apprehension.
Striking down the series
of treaties I wrote for justice.
Ceasefire.
You know you've won.
All is fair in love and war.

Window

Don't be mistaken
when the painted glass shatters away,
and rose scented memories fill the room.
We've been colored lights
dancing until dawn
in deep chuckling breaths.
A shadow came along.
I failed to believe it.

The light hues,
and stained panes
have been adequate to see through.
Soldered.
Fixed in freeze frames.
Reveling a pleasant time.
My misery evolves.
Certain colors tamper with trust.
I should paint over this glass.
The fine lines of concern
settle in the cracks.
We are beautiful.

Chips settle slowly in the light.
Mosaic-ed in shades
that stop some in their tracks.
Water color traces the mirrored profile.
Severed in short
sharp edges.
The surface had our appearances
smoothed over carefully.
Conference agreed.
This is worth saving.
Clean, transparent views
started after I took a hammer to the wall.
Now a couple can be caught
looking longingly out the window.

Brutal

Struggling is a heart song
I brutally dance to.
Play a different melody please.
I need to forget how difficult things have been.
Let my chest vibrate at the noise of you.

A jukebox with limbs and personality
will accept silence as a payment.
I guess I didn't hear anything at all.

Back to my own anthem.
If you hear me humming
it's because I didn't divulge any
lyrical conviction.
I sing everything that I remember about us to myself.
Brutal aberration to interrupt a mutilated distraction.
I do this through poetry....
you can add the music.
I manage to dance through refinement.
Through the distrust.
In hysterical confusion,
and permeating lust.
All of the mutiny hardships can offer.
I don't merely manage to stand....
move my feet.
I celebrate them through ballroom waltzes.
You already warned that you can't dance.

Brutally fallen on the cusp of moonlight.
The sun was torn from the sky.
Let me hear what bellows in the tragedy.
To become this whisper
I had to be brutal.

The same voice that laughs at the wind,
and has seen starlight and vengeance simultaneously in shades of purple.
Goodnight to the loose stitching.
All are undone.
So long to the waves at the river.
It was brutal to keep my head above water.
When you intentionally envy all who bare to run away,
and I chanced to circumstance all that brutally remain.
Thrust on.
Vicious is love and terrible time is only forgivable if I savagely burn away.
They all dump buckets on my head.....
Hearts that haven't any pity.
Brutal compliance,
we both know my soul ferociously awaits.

Work of Art

Art is never finished.
Only abandoned.
So are we.

Shutters get nailed shut.
I see you tap the nails into the walls.
We can display
what has taken hours on end.
Hang it up.
Let's say that we are proud
although something is missing.

The years will go by
and I alienate
the glow in this room.
I couldn't stand
to see my memories on the wall.
Will you remember
when I slowly painted on my face?
I felt so uninspired.
Struggling to pose....
trying to create a structural presence.

After years of being left alone
bricks will crumble
and all of the paintings peel.
Remember when you had a smile before  it was done.
Hello hope.
Art is a work of life.
Some of it is spilled and smeared.
We had creative ideas of rare informality.
Study or sing:
I'll remember this without blatant disregard any day.
I only hold value when I am gone.

I will find this
in a cardboard box
down in the basement.

Art is never finished.
Only abandoned.
We walked away
when we saw it was too difficult
to love something imperfect to ourselves.
Bring out a fresh canvas.
Let me draw you
a loving, obeying
picture so I know you look at
my faith hanging
from time to time.
Won't you love what I've done?

Number Sentence

If number were letters,
and I added them up to an equation
that sums up my past and your's equally:
Shall I see a value
in a vagrant richness
that's expensive,
and worth everything I've ever had.
100% heartache
with zero down payment.
Maybe you use cheap words.

I'll reach deep into my pockets
for change to count this out.
You jingle when you walk,
and I can't wait to hear the sound.
Like wind chimes in an Autumn wind.
I barely two cents
to rub together
like lips and a face that had 5 o'clock shadow.
There and gone.
Continuing to be a bit worthless.

I calculate these words.
What's left should be an account
of a broke heart.
A definition of sacred titled texts
and people you call upon late at night.
Zero is a number
celebrants waiver
in my empty wallet of mind.
One is in a heart
without any want
or need
of monetary value
for the other.
I never keep spare,
loose change in my mind.

I hold my coin purse;
a thesaurus,
as he knows this will cost me.
We wait in the sallow cold.
I counted the smiling wrinkles
next to his eye
belonging to a wondering
banker who empties
satirical thought.
I must cost a pretty penny.
May I have a rate again
in a town full of trash and stupidity.
These affections are costing a fortune
not in dollar bills,
but in hands and feet.
I will ask of nothing,
but still look at the value
of the hours I stay awake.
The numbers on the clock.
My thoughts on who has worth.
This sums up a word problem.
You can say "I love you" but what's the percentage interest these days?
I am your figure
paid in paragraphs
in contiguous claim.
One of these days
the mean will be nothing at all.
I hope you think about savings.
It's all but a description
of who's always in your mind.

Legacy Matches and Wasted Time

As I explained all questions
we headed for the basement;
a place of dust and rust
excusable for dirty habits.

Brought out matches
saved from a missed Mother.
He said, "Darling, do you know why we smoke so much?"
We have processed a thought
dragging us down...
tethering my careful woe.
He took out a match.
We inhale a drawl.
The stupid stick unfocused all
heavy internal thought.
When I quake and roll..
stammer and pace...
there's a conscience effort
to turn off reflection.

We always burn with thoughts:
Memories of his Mother
throwing an ashtray,
and myself
wishing I had better news.

Smoke and a shoulder
as I kill myself slowly
with legacy matches and the stupid sticks.
We already have the cancer
of an intellectual mind that would rather
be barreling through our greater work.
These days come and go like the smoke
stinking up the truth.
I'm just procrastinating what needs to be dealt with.

Let this burn for a moment.
There's a certain peace found
in legacy matches and the stupid sticks
when we stop talking
and decide to enjoy each other's company instead.
Silence isn't a waste of time
but addictions to fragments of zen
take time off my life.