Author. Reader. Mother.
I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.
~Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Three Stories
My son, forgive me I tried to show my angels But taught my demons
Written for dVerse ~ Poet’s Pub‘s 11th year celebration prompt: Poetics ~ Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
There is nothing more torturous than an agitated mind.
It’s like a treasure chest of unspoken riches
Selfishly guarded, every jewel meticulously analyzed
Accumulating over a short time–
Epiphanies, suspicions, fears, schemes–
Until it overflows
And the tortured realizes too late
That it was easier to open than shut.
Written in response to Patrick Jenning’s Pic and a Word Challenge: Experience ~ Pic and a World Challenge #313
Every bit of me
Wants to believe we
Are real, that in
Our silences, a chord,
Silvery, binds us together.
Unseen but felt, reminding
Us that we are
Kindred souls in love
Fated to be by
God or whatever force
That put us here.
Every bit of me
Wants to believe this.
But the wounds from
Past chords prevent me.
Chords I believed were
Like ours—precious loves—
Until brutishly snatched away
Like ripping an embedded
Hangnail from a finger.
In my eyes
My wounds prove
“Love” is foolish.
Yet,
Every bit of me
Wants you to
Prove me wrong.
She was here.
Physically.
But not really.
Mentally.
She’s in limbo.
Like between sleeping and awake.
Like between breathing and not.
An elaborate veneer of external liveliness.
Silent afternoon
Smooth coffee and old pages
No care in the world
I play a sick game with my Unconscious
I hand it my woes—
The ones that prevent me from functioning—
And plead, “Don’t let me remember this.”
But the bastard always reminds me
When it senses it did its job too well.
Already he knows her sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.
Dracula, Bram Stoker
She possessed a smile that could pierce light into the deepest parts of a man’s soul. A light he’d swear to worship for all his days until he discovered it false. But, by then, it was usually too late.
Sweet pomegranate lips
Promised love on a platter
Words dipped in poison
Written for: dVerse. I’ve long forgotten from which post, however *blush.* The prompt was to take a quote from a book, turn it on its head, and craft a haibun.
My days are filled with
Grief from the past
Fear of the future.
What I would give
For a day of emptiness.
To simply be present.
Picture: Person Wearing Blue Jeans by Sincerely Media via Unsplash.
Tender midnight spray
Tapping concrete and metal
Tires drag in the distance