Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Seven, Poem Number Twenty Seven: “Girl With The Bruised Knees”

She was the Girl with Bruised Knees
and the Bruised Heart
with love taken as far as it could
but still a million miles apart

Despite all her Pleading and Pleasing
her Labors bore no Recompense
aside from a Damaged psyche
uninvited Bitterness made manifest

She was the Girl with Bruised Heart
And the Bruised Knees
Battered fruit Ruined
eternally mouthing, Why Me, Why Me

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Five, Poem Number Twenty Five: “A Brusquely Told Tale of Love, Marriage, and the Death that Comes After”

He didn’t want to get married,
She didn’t want children, let alone two.
Together, away they were carried
by the things they swore they would never do.

The love came easily enough,
but not the hard work that made it count
because that’s something that never does
if it did we wouldn’t want it anyhow.

The marriage was never faultless
but it was always safe and assured.
Alone they would hardly impress,
but together they flourished and endured.

Suddenly, he was revealed a fraud
and their life was mashed and bled
like the enraged fist of God
pummeling pure innocence in the head.

He took to sleeping on the couch
only after she had left her keys
because the bed they’d shared, he found
was too big and cold and empty.

His crime was indiscretion and poor taste.
This was a fatal flaw deep in his character.
Tragedy is often what heroes await,
but brave and bold he was not – he abandoned her.

The fight swirled beneath his skin from the start.
However he refused to let it seep through.
The fear and remorse tore him apart,
his guilt shackling him to his lonely truth.

Ultimately his daughters never blamed him,
not outright to his face at least.
Yet they still learned a valuable lesson:
love is only as perfect as people can be.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Three, Poem Number Twenty Three: “Alarmed”

I woke up this morning
weeping
I don’t know why
perhaps
it was over
a dream I can’t
remember
or
a dream never
realized

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Two, Poem Number Twenty Two: “Lunch With A Ghost”

Tonight I am restless,
and tomorrow I will be incomplete;
Last week I had lunch with a ghost,
and perhaps some weekend soon
I’ll take a drive alone,
my passenger seat burdened
with heavy baggage.

I have so many books,
that I use the skinny ones as placeholders
for the bigger, heftier tomes.
They were once small,
everyday surprises, presents waiting to be opened
with the notes she left between the pages
that fit more snugly than
what I’ve replaced them with.

More and more I fill my days with
distractions, work, and time wasters
hoping to mute the booming silence
echoing off the walls and
filling my moments of solitude
with tension and terror and
spine crushing sadness
that will last for as long as
these words remain alive in us.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Nineteen, Poem Number Nineteen: “Junior”

To my unborn
and never will be born
Child
I’m not a good man,
I don’t do things right.
This is what keeps me up at night.

Had he been a boy,
here is what I would have said:
Always be responsible and fair.
Never lie, cheat or steal.
Behave in the opposite way that I do.
Love not only yourself but those around you.

Had she been a girl,
I would’ve spoiled her until she was rotten.
Daddy’s little girl surrounded by enough
stuff to keep her happy in her cage
because dating was never going happen.
All boys are dirty, just like your old man.

He would be in little league now
hitting home runs, wowing the crowd.

She would be winning the spelling bee
having no trouble with words like ‘illegitimacy.’

I pray that he doesn’t hold it against me
but that prayer is false
because it was for the best.
No matter how many sad words I write,
I gave him up without a fight

I pray that she won’t hate me
but my empty prayer will be heard by no one
because I don’t believe in God
and He doesn’t believe in me.
So what right do I have to plea?

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Eighteen, Poem Number Eighteen: “This Fix (is Hated)”

After he has chewed the scenery,
After he has sucked on a cigarette,
Out comes the gum.
Pop

Into his mouth it goes.
She’ll be there soon.
He awaits what comes next,
Kiss

Think back now,
Careful with those teeth
That’s not the way the teat likes to be treated
Suck

No, further back
He misses popsicles and lollipops and
Gum in the shape of cigarettes
Puff

No, back,
Mother’s milk, when sour
Cannot nourish the
Mouth

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Seventeen, Poem Number Seventeen: “Plagued”

You are a pervasive rash
that keeps me from sleeping properly,
Awakening me in fits of itch
until I rip my clothes, stitch by stitch.

My nails dig trenches into my thighs,
no amount of ointment or cream
can quell the firestorm raging under my skin.
You’ve turned my body against itself head to shin.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Sixteen, Poem Number Sixteen: “Twins”

You’re a wet cigarette
gone limp in the rain.
I’m a dud pack of matches
devoid of all flame.

You and I shall inherit this planet
since we are scared and meek.
When the strong kill each other with hatchets
we’ll hide in our holes for a week.

We’ll meet on the ground above,
as the last people left on the earth.
It’ll be impossible for us to fall in love
because we’re both afraid of getting hurt.

This is how the world ends
with two lonely people
who cannot be friends
or shelve their damaged egos.

The species will die off with a whimper and a sigh,
and I’ll stroke your hair, begging you not to cry.
I’m sorry I said those things about your weight
I was just upset you ate the last of the cornflakes.

You’re a wet cigarette
Gone limp in the rain
I’m a dud pack of matches
Devoid of all flame.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Fifteen, Poem Number Fifteen: “Remember When”

Remember when your confidence was low
and your boss tore you down
and I built you back up
and encouraged you to fight back?
No?

Remember when your friends deserted you
and the best one of all made you feel like dirt
and I held your hand throughout
and pressed you to be the bigger person?
No?

Remember when your parents shunned you
and ignored you after they kicked you out,
how I loved and nurtured you
and welcomed you into my own family because you were?
No?

Remember that one time when I hurt you
because I’m weak and selfish and full of doubt
and I couldn’t control myself although I knew better
and it was the worst goddamn mistake of my life?
Yes.

Of course you do.
And you’ll never forget it.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Eight, Poem Number Eight: “What Am I Giving Away Here?”

What am I giving away here?
Interwoven memories or
Merely stitched fabrics.
The smells have washed away
As have the dirt and the filth.
Hard as I try
I can’t roll around in that soil again
It wouldn’t be the same stains and grime.

What am I giving away here?
Gifts I never appreciated,
Items I’ve outgrown.
In size and scale
And humor and personality.
There were trips I never took
But falsely advertised.
And regretful acts.
And vacations taken as someone else.
I once tried to hide an unintentional publicized shame
That I now cringe at the thought of releasing.

What am I giving away here?
Control.
Over myself.
Over my past.
Over the history that is told.
They may not fit me anymore
But I am inclined to squeeze into them again.
Those roles and moments and snapshots and lives I miss living.

What am I giving away here?
The first time I truly understood what a woman felt like;
The first time I attempted (and failed) at having people take me seriously;
My innocuous attempt at revenge you’ll never know about;
My drunken attempt at reinventing myself;
No, these shall still be mine.

They will become someone else’s costume
They will tear
And rip
And mend
And love
And assemble a new life out of these rags
And perhaps they will ask themselves
What am I getting here?

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