How frail is the bully on the inside? He who has likely gone through abuse unlike any most know, he who must release the pent-up energy that he’s unable to expound in the face of his own bully. Likely his parent.
Gently, I say,
understand the frightened child
as you take his punches
and then say unto him
as you bleed upon the ground,
“You are no better
than your own abuser,
asshole.”
driving happily
top down, wind in hair, I smile
between teeth, dead bugs
If I wrote a story about you,
I would use words like “mystic” and “crazy.”
I would get a hand from the gods
because the gods are my friends.
I could choose a few anecdotes –
ones that would make people laugh.
I might bake a cake and call it you,
just so I can share you with my other friends.
If I clap my hands and you come running,
I will praise you, my friend, for that means you love me too.
I might circle the globe with you,
and we might just have fun.
Even though you’re afraid of heights
and I don’t need a plane to fly.
We could ride elephants and catch heffalumps:
it’s the Pooh thing to do.
And when we get home with all our treasures
we will place them on shelves and forget they exist.
If my enthusiasm for you dies,
I will probably die.
If I decide suddenly that I shan’t drive you to the airport when you need to go
(because that’s what friends do)
you might disown me, but I’d deserve it.
And if the water of my endless ocean of devotion for you dries up,
I will be left with a salty taste in my mouth.
But chances are that’s the worst case scenario,
because you’re as crazy as I am, and us crazies need to stick together.
If I wrote a story about you,
then it would definitely include me.
This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday, because it’s totally stream of consciousness writing and it contains this week’s prompt, “if/then.”
This is part of The Daily Post because it was totally Unpredictable.
drunkenness heals not the pain
nor soothes the rage
for the dead and dying
but perhaps it dulls the sting
of the blaming tongue
and falls short
as does everything
for the sake
of the grieving mother
tomorrow shall we find sober thoughts
and calm solutions
for that which is senseless
in every way
There once was a young man named Rand
Who thought his desert rather bland
He yelled at the waiter
Who just wouldn’t cater
When Rand asked he take back the sand
Find The Daily Post prompt here.
A human infant, if left outside (safely) in a high wind may lose its breath, but it will likely survive into adulthood,
a chick, high in a nest may get blown away and never seen again,
a bee caught unawares in a sudden gust may end up in another garden,
but a fart captured by even the slightest breeze is sure to die.
Have pity for the fart. For it is a rare and short-lived species.
i can’t wait to see her
it’s been so long
i feel my heart pounding harder
with every face that
appears from the gate
is that her?
i think it is!
she’s so beautiful
and i can’t wait to
hold her in
sixty seconds of writing in honour of those who have died suddenly, senselessly, by the hands of all the misguided souls, taught to believe that we don’t all deserve to live equally. my heart bleeds for you. all of you.
when we met
your fences stood tall,
proud and mighty
of a wood that near gleamed
pristine
at a week
i saw a splinter
maybe two
and perhaps some of the sheen
dimmed
at a month
i was sure i found
chinks, chunks
and a dozen knotholes
popped
at a year
your fences made a decrepit
clown’s mouth on
an abandoned funhouse wall look
new
and today
your fences are afire
as you try
to resurrect them in time:
surrender
for my dear
i pour water upon your ruins
forsaken
to the fizzle of my love
eternal
in a certain proverbial light
you look like a rock star
all glitter and sweaty
though in truth i know
the glitter’s internal
something you show me
when we’re alone together
something about you
so private and yes
fascinating to me,
it’s that inner glitter
that keeps me coming back
now to do something
about the sweat
a shower perhaps?
do you glitter
in the shower?
Chips of presents
shattered in my mind
your heart gathers them for me
like droplets of dew’s magnetic wake
liquefy my thoughts
weep tears of joy
or leave me to be
dust
LGH
February 18, 2007
Linda G. Hill 