New artsy dining tables,
blue vintage-ish sleeper sofa,
An apartment on the river,
A new star delivery,
My favorite parts of town,
And just so much more beautiful serenity twined serendipity.
Counting the dreams until settled.
I’m going everywhere it calls ❤
You coming? 🙂
When they said she might be bipolar it all made sense.
One full day of hospitals.
More hatred than I could imagine from my own kid.
The one I had sacrificed for, spoiled, given everything to, the one I wore the same clothes to give to for at least 5 years.
The one who would never let me comfort her. The one I couldn’t help with bike riding. The one that outright lies for no reason about a teacher not letting her eat lunch when she’s 7.
The one that’s told me how to mother her, her entire life.
I thought it was my fault anyway.
Until the medical professionals started looking at me like Frankenstein because my daughter just swallowed 75 of her Ritalin pills.
She’s something else.
A different disorder.
But she’s got her therapist around her finger because damn is she good at that.
I’m just different.
Different with her, with my son,
Just less of something I cannot ever put into words.
It’s mostly war and quiet and tired mixed with it all. Whatever it is.
I’m not sure it gets better.
You get used to a certain level of the misery though according to some psychologist comedian.
So there’s that.
I just constantly hope that I can learn to not be like every other mother and keep my happiness disproportional to hers directly.
I remember the physicist.
He said his daughter was 35,
And it was another boy too,
It was the 8th stent since 15.
And I remember the feeling of actually not having to dumb my words down to have a conversation. Or having to sugarcoat anything. Or having to pretend I even cared to fit into a society that didn’t help any of the four of us before then. One that probably led to it all anyway.
I’m reading all the books he recommended now.
And it’s just statistics despite the advertising on the cover. Things I can do for myself.
I just got this roll and it’s mine to roll with too.
I do get the occasional entertainment of watching men lose their minds over her.
Yes, she’s absolutely gorgeous, mostly nice when she wants something or attention, but batshit, her sperm donor is a military ballistics psychopath, she’s warp the entire rest of your life manipulative, never be satisfied, controlling, hoarder from my mother crazy. Good luck to you brother.
I’m her mother. I get the limited really good days by default.
Let my hair rest on your shoulders,
As my skin touches yours,Like fingers fascinated by frosted windows, Etching stories of my desire as a vellum of the gambler’s debts to the men of numbers.
Whispering of all the blue moon’s since the beginning of this Moirai reckoning dipped in each eventide.
Feel the opacity of my hunger for only you in my throaty psalms of names between the desperation of frenzied taste and scented famine.
Empty all the final heedless murmurs just before bodies leave rosettes of love’s liquification on the edges of Aurora’s balmy infancy of beyond any and all of this.
This world is and isn’t ours to hold on to anymore.
Words: M(e.)Twilight Temple Tresses: a6a7
Songs of Seamlessly Stitched Sanity: https://youtu.be/Sn3-1kvv6u4
Present to myself goal in 18 months as I sing the end of the dead breed and learn to be a sinner saint.
Wicked red forty eight special fits baby. Watch the dust, please.
Black velvet hair and first time banshee bangs sound divine in the mean time.
Don’t think I’ll recognize myself either. Good thing,
I’m going to outrun the bounty you think you still have on me.
Ooo oui ooo 🖤
Lines should be as blurred as sandy white noise and the brass between thievery, flattery, and the black blood of decision sprayed across the room.
Mind those deltas following suit.
I don’t want to burden anyone with the weight of love anymore.
Caring for a minimum of 18 people a day does not allow much left to give.
How could I be anything but too much and not enough simultaneously?
How would I be anything more than Saturnine the days I should have slept more?
I’d love to be a second sun instead, leaving beams for reflection instead of all this lead swirled with flammable gases.
But it’s winter in my marrow sometimes, instead of some light to fade the rain.
And all of my words trying to sustain life before the rings of my discontent cost me all of it, forever.
Maybe I just need someone to hibernate with during the right seasons.
A large inch sliver of my wedding ring finger,
Lodged between razor blades.
A tinge of excruciation every time I bump it.
The blood that doesn’t stop until I seal it with the sting of black powder potassium ferrate.
And I get home to the internet connection again for the first time in 12 hours to claws again.
I’m stuck with nothing to say.
Stuck not explaining or caring.
Wedged between the commonality and the opposites
Trapped wondering if I should even bother because there’s a million other places and people calling me.
Tied living in doubt of my accuracy.
My bed seems closer,
Yet, less comforting and less confusing.
I just want to show someone all the places Eden hides.
Introduce someone to all the one of a kinds.
My words hang like gallows being near another slice of flesh today and how much more that imaginary one will out do the real one.
An eraser or a pen, a conversation or an idea, a rough beginning or premature end,
And a wheel of fortune spins.
Maybe I’ll buy a better body like every other American,
A new front door,
Then let just pretty fleeting things grace my floor.
Perhaps I’ll just lie on the soaked ground until this expired body finally lets my electricity go or I turn into a mountain.
Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to show you the cosmic current.
Maybe I’ll admit it too myself too.
For now, it’s just always 11:11, or almost every other possibility.
And words slipped through songs on playlists just before you capture them.
Me, forever being seriously scared of you.
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
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"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
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