You tell her
she is worthy
and just because her dad left
and never calls to say hello
it doesn’t mean she is unloveable
And you dry her tears
and you say over and over
it’s all going to be okay
because you will be there
to pick up the pieces he left behind
Her tears, though dry
leave stains that no words can wash away
So you pray
and you love your little lonely child
hug away her doubts
seize every giggle in tightly clasped hands
and watch the sun rise in her beauty
And you realize
she is you
Ghost
The taste of dark brew
conversations overheard
from a wooden chair at the coffee shop
where the clatter of glass
a laugh a smile
all of these are reminders
of what was had and what is lost
and of the fleeting, dizzying pace of time
all things go on
as I go on
your ghost
like fading photographs
my company
Words
You are
my harvest sunshine
burning scarlet
against an azure sky
that beats
to the sound of my heart
when I’m alone
letters that form words
that roll off tongues
and become music
to those who listen
with their eyes and
feel your beauty
with their souls
locked away
time and again
you wait for me
to come back to you
to wrap me in your embrace
and love me, still
desiring only
that I open the pages
of my book
and set you free.
Conversation with my Self: Part 1
“Once upon a times
and happy endings
are for dreamers
much too clean”
she said
she preferred life messy
and dramatic, looped where
most preferred straight lines
because “the truth,” she said
“is most are lost anyway
and only pretending that the
by-line was authored in smiles
and sunshine
the subtext and addendum hidden
deeply within themselves
and they are miserable”
“Well I,” she said, “know Life,
and for the record,
she is one bitch
who expects no platitudes
or compliments
and will give none.
Life expects only that you dig in,
get dirty and learn that in the muck, the mire…the messy places…
You find yourself.
Fuck the fairy tale,” she said.
“It’s a lie. Don’t search for
neatly written and lovely words,
the alignment of the stars,
the magical fix…
All these things are far
from where you really need to be and certainly aren’t realistic
or obtainable and when you miss the mark where do you land?
In the same stubborn place
as all the other fools
who live in the illusion of perfection
that the fairy tale dreamers sell.”
“You see,” she said, “with a fire in her eyes that spoke truth,
“in that indeterminable amount of mess and flaws and imperfection, those who really look beyond the chaos and see
with seeing eyes,
find perfection they had searched for
all along.”
Pittance
Cast crumbs before the tiny winged thing
believing them to be a gift
from the Almighty, you
You forget that she can fly
and will, if she must
fly miles and miles alone
Majesty her own
she does not need your pittance.
You
You are my world in words
a shaft of sunlight splitting through
a dusty library window
where in silence lives
a heartbeat heard only in your embrace
my face pressed close to you
and your tattoos
every page
my love
Gone
her pillow is her company
since illusion has dissolved
to reality
like darkness to dawn
an understanding
that you and she could never work
despite her desire
and she was forced to face
her neediness and loneliness
and in some instances complete lack of any sense of self so lost
she hates it all and how
you strung up her dead dignity
and let it swing in the wind to be ridiculed
she was alive
the girl who once colored rainbows in black and white lines
is unpacking dark emotions
this purge may not bring purity
but it has brought clarity
and she is glad you are gone
Random thoughts
Off the top of my head
I’ve plucked thoughts of laundry
dinner and love
how one is never done
one must always be planned
and one is never mine
at least not
to my exact specifications
and how all of them
begin with something clean
a cloth a pan a heart
and end up stained
dirty broken or burnt
and I am left to (with some trepidation)
try to get what’s dirty
clean again
Cheers
Drinking Red Bull and Jäger
in a barroom where
broken promises and hearts mingle
with slurred words; distortions
and the beat of glass striking tabletops
instead of tears
an “upper downer” so to speak
that in its own strange way
helps me to take it all in
acceptance that tomorrow
is just another of the very same
day
She writes
She scrawls out heartbreak
in black ink
across white space
a solitary blood-letting
rivulets mark the page
in messy loops and turns
until a clot forms
to bottle up her nerves
and she can breathe
one deep sigh
confirms catharsis…
for now
she is ok.
Golifely 