Sunday, December 28, 2008

I hate the fact that I've always had to sacrifice dreams for reality; passions for life. As a kid, my family was poor. Not poor enough to starve or anything like that, but we had the bare minimum and none of the cool things the other kids at school had. Mom always made sure that we had food on the table and the bills were paid, or at least kind of paid, and after that there was no money. I had to quit all the things I loved just so we could eat. I had to tell my voice coach that even though he thought I was his most promising student, my oldest sister's husband had just quit his job, so we needed to give them money. I've never gone to college because we don't have the money and according to my family, no one would give me any sort of help because my grades in high school were so crap.

Photography is something I used to do every single day. Whether it was thought out planned out shoots, or just spontaneous ones with my sisters kids or my friends. It's something I love to do, a way that I speak my ideas, my thoughts, my feelings. My camera broke last month. I've found the one I want to replace it with. It's around $900. I told Mom this morning and she just laughed at me. I told her my plan, and she laughed harder.

I can barely afford to put food on the table, but I don't care. I will have this camera. I will take all my food money, all my extra money, and put it into an account for this camera. I want it so badly. And I'm sick of losing everything I love to do because life gets in the way.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

i was walking with a ghost.

i said please
please don't exist.

Three more.

As each ray of light grew
brighter and brighter
the sheet crept
further and further
over her head.

I walked in to find her
lying there,
the stark white sheet
clinging to each of her
jutting bones.

The image froze me,
my mind replacing
the over-sized bed
with a cold
mortuary table.

I walked over to her side
and shook her gently.
She pulled down the cover
and gave me her
award winning smile,
the one that melts my heart
and makes me forget.



I wake up and run my hand
along my collarbone,
searching for any mark
of your pain.
My fingers hit the pearls
that I took from my mother's
jewelry box
last May.
I had meant to pawn her things
(now that she's gone)
and see if I could
get your heart.



'I always wanted bony fingers'
she said,
startling me,
drawing a drop of tea
from my cup.
'So elegant, you know'
I mumbled a slight yes,
in agreement.

elegant and sickly,
said my brain.

In my mind
I see her hands,
a precious gem
set in silver
from each of her

Two months later,
hands folded over her chest,
the bright beads of
the rosary
shine against her
cold pale skin.
Her precious bony fingers
and cling to that string
as if it might
still save her.


Monday, December 1, 2008

the start.

Here are three, one from 2004, one from 2005.
They may suck and for that, I apologize.

He went in because of
a simple virus.
"He'll have to stay,
observations and such."
Their voices wane
in and out.
My head is reeling from
all the terms they're
throwing at me.
how long
just tell me
how long
Who knows
(obviously no one)
You'd tell me,right?
If you knew anything,
I mean.
"Go home and get some
rest, we'll know more
in the morning."

Two weeks later and
they're finally telling me
"It's cancer.
Not much longer.
We're sorry."
Their already soft voices
(so much whispering,
so much secrecy)
fade to nothing in my ears
as they talk about
arrangements and wills.

Another three months later
and they're apologizing again
handing me his entire life
slimmed down to a
small package.
This is what hospitals do;
take a person from you
and give you an envelope
in return.



The thing elegant chain
(spun so finely it looks
like silk)
ends gracefully at her collarbone
with a heart.
"It's a nervous thing,"
she says with a childlike grin,
rubbing her thumb on the heart's
blackened epicenter.

We soon surpassed the petty small talk
that strangers often share.
Abadoned that for questions of
who why when what
and don't forget the where.
I sat and watched her
rapidly moving lips,
so full and lush.
She sat and watched
my coffee growing cold,
the steam slowed and stopped.

When all was said and done
she got up to leave.
Not a goodbye or nothing.
Stuck me with the bill.
She left me her number
but only out of good will.



she doesn't sleep anymore.
Night after night,
she lays sprawled in her bed,
her brain never willing to
completely shut down.
She never sleeps,
yet night after night he is there,
comforting her,
coaxing her to eat and
still the rumbling of her belly,
stop her lullaby.

It's been two years since
he left them all.
It's been weeks since
she's eaten.
The definition is growing
and she counts each space
between every rib.

She lays her head down at night
and each pillow transforms
into the soft touch of
his gentle arms.

And she knows that
he'll be the one to cry
over her lost body.
He'll be the one to
save her from herself.

So each night, each day,
each minute, each hour
she cries for him to come back to her,
if only for awhile
so that she may see him
and he can see her happy.

He'll take her hand and
lead her to the land of dreams
where they can be together
once again.


Tuesday, October 28, 2008

what a waste of a raccoon. they're worth good money!

I have no idea why I made this.
I have no life to speak of.
It's all silly boy drama lately.
For time to time, I'll write about my goings-on,
but I think for the most part,
this shall be a collaborative place for my writings,
so I don't lose all of them.
I'll probably start oldest to newest and add
as I track them down.
In summation,
me = lame and lonely.