“In anticipation of your death”

 

 

“In anticipation of your death”

In anticipation of your death,

I wanted you to know,

that we wasted so much time.

That, we barely scraped the surface of truth between us.

So much is left unsaid.

So much won’t be said.

The majority of this was done out of psychological survival.

As your weapons grade narcissism,

only allowed for one person to speak at a time.

You were always this person.

In anticipation of your death,

I rejoice at the notion, that your gravity will no longer influence my orbit.

Mistakes were made,

people hurt.

Squandered days and nights,

nothing put right.

The truth between us:

you took me for granted, and I enabled that in you.

I thread the needle of spite, with a spool of gradual disappointments.

I will sew the seams of our straitjacket life,

and desperately donate it to charity.

Hopefully, it gets caught in a wayward dumpster and tears beyond repair.

Once it’s gone, I will breathe again.

Once you are gone, I will breathe again.

“Packed Lunch”

Image courtesy of L. Alvarado

“Packed Lunch”

Cherry tomatoes, celery.

Mini-carrots, stringy cheese.

Butter crackers, square Cheez-Its.

snack-sized baggies, so it fits.

Raspberry juice box, flexi straw,

ice pack cooling, as it thaws.

My day brings many, many things,

while you’re at school, I’m in meetings.

The only way I get to be,

there for you, is when you eat.

So, look at each and every piece,

and know I put my love in between.

When I make your lunch for you,

I’m hoping your day goes smooth.

We’ll meet up later,

to hash it out.

And you’ll tell me,

what to keep out.

And when I go to make it new,

I’ll remember the revised menu.

“Pollenhate”

“Pollenhate”

You’re a ham fisted, nostril puss, put off.

A suffocating, son of a bitch.

A red-eyed, torn membrane, scratchy gulch.

Itchy pyrrhic sandpaper senses,

begetting a breathing tragedy.

Comfort, an oasis, yearning for the first frost of winter.

Dirty seed, blowing to the winds, blowing from the trees.

Blow me!

Grizzly gross green.

Headaches thumping.

Kleenex pumping.

Burst pipe nostrils.

Sinus clog, green-yellow eyeliner.

Sophisticated spores spawning misery.

Crusted, nasal mineshaft vein,

haunted by cemented boogerplasms.

Nose hair tendrils throughout, impossible to retrieve without a monumental effort.

A quick blow, or two,

A Rorschach tableau, if you will?

Winds of seasons change,

a necessity now,

not just a want.

“Low Battery”

“Low Battery”

Where went the urgency we once had?

What happened to our fluid flow?

Life got a hold of both of us,

and placed passion in escrow.

Get getting gotten gone,

resolve to start again.

A Once to hang Upon,

beginning nears an end.

The daily grind of living,

smothers spontaneity.

A self-imposed life sentence,

oh, dream of liberty.

End of days, dark silence.

Sitting hand in hand.

A quieted alliance,

is what true love demands.