A Promise

I will stop being the deadbeat dad of this blog.

I will write more to post on this blog.

I will write more for myself.

I will write.

I will.

Of Love

All of a sudden,
I have room to breathe,
room to see
that's not what I want.
You see?

Being alone does not compare,
to when your presence is felt,
on my skin
my mortal sin,
my mind directly focused on you;
to whom I don't compare,
my better half- quite cliche,
you're my one and only half,
to make me whole
my one to cherish
my one to hold.

Aftermath

Pulsing pain - rapture stained,
from neck to deck of salvaged wreck.
The price of pain too hard to feign,
un-tilled silence stumbles after
jagged violence binds the captured.
What has happened to all the laughter?

A Lesson in English

My Sister.

It’s been many days

Since I’ve seen the graves

The Seas swallow my eyes.

It seems strange, but the grass is greener since the last time I came. No one in my family has been here yet this spring. Two years have passed since I was here. The open ended questions fill my head again. I am an only child but I wouldn’t have been. Maybe if she was born in a time when technology was better? What if I was first and she was second? Hundreds of graves surround her. So close together they seem; I always tread lightly here. Pinwheels and stuffed animals scattered throughout. These children will never grow up; children that are forever young. There is child next to child next to child for a football field’s length. Only the grass grows now. I trim around the edges of the headstone with my hand. Pulling patches out methodically. Then brush off the debris and I stare.

It’s been many days

Since I’ve seen the name

That is all I’ve ever known.

Blurb.

The sultry sheen of shadowy souls
Projecting from the words of prose
Comes love and hate, too rare, too far.
Contemplation quiet in contempt,
Fear of uncertainty and abyssal magnitude
Polarities shift, evolve, implode.
Is this the burden I was born to bare,
Will there ever be room to grow.

My First Murder

Now for a super high chair memory. It is Christmas time and I am sitting in my highchair playing with a porcelain Santa Claus. He is your typical Santa. Red suit with white trim and black boots. Rosy cheeks and a "fluffy" white beard. My kitchen resembles that of the late 70s to mid 80s style; dark wood and linoleum floors. There is a yellow tint to the white walls. The images I see are my hands trying to wrap around the Santa figurine. It's like playing a first person shooter at the age of two and Santa is my gun. I keep playing with him noticing his jolly face and bright red attire. I progressively begin to play more rapidly with the figurine. I start to spin him. He is spinning. He is spinning. This is fun. He is--I spin him off the table portion of the highchair and had sent him crashing, yet twirling, to the kitchen floor. It is a slow motion Baryshnikov ballet of terror, guilt, and silence. I had done it now. I had killed fucking Santa Claus. I had a tender spot for the jolliest of jolly fat men. He brought me presents and all I gave him was cookies and milk. But no the perfect deal was broken, he was dead, smashed into a fuck-ton of pieces and all I could do was scream like the tooth fairy had shot him from the grassy knoll of a planter in the corner of the living room. My parents scattered like an air-raid siren went off. I can still feel the pressure exuding from my lungs and the sound piercing my own ears. Things begin to get hazy. It all fades away.