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Save it for your PriestForget the fall
It's the landing that hurts
I should've started fresh at thirty
Put aside childhood love
And just lived a little
I guess I'm stubborn that way
Only now it seems
I can't run fast enough or far enough away
Distance is key
But some people don't want to be left
If she loved me
She'd let me go
How's that for a cliché'
Instead I have to push and pull
Tear myself away
I know what you're going to say
Save it for your priest
But I don't talk to God
And I don't read the horoscope either
I never trusted mine anyway
I write instead
And not unlike yourselves
I've learned a lot along the way
Lessons old and new don't feel the same
Because after you've been burned once
It just doesn't hurt as much after that
Setting your own fires becomes easier too
Trust me on that one
I bleed over collateral damage
And let fate sort out the rest
One of those NightsThe morning sun beams through the front windshield like an intruder: brash and unwelcome forcing you to wake. Whiskey eyed, smelling like an ashtray, parked at the back end of a ghetto ass neighborhood, wondering what the hell you did the night before. Like trying to remember words you haven’t written yet. One thing is for certain: a little bit of rope goes a long way, but a lot of rope will hang you.
The Impatience of MotionI'm named after my father, the middle part anyway. I carry his name in a scrapbook, where the past continues to breathe. He tried to give me the world once; told me he never did it any good, but you never give to a dreamer, they end up drowning in the rain. So I let it fall just as he knew I would, same as all who came before me. Now he's a child who has grown old and I suffer the same fate.
It's funny how the clock winds faster, as the years increase. Some may see it differently, but I feel it with each passing day. It's the fatigue brought on by the impatience of motion, the ever-growing disinterest in the echoes of the world. It's the creaking sound as the machine begins to slow. It's the lines that crack the skin.
I know I'm growing older now; I saw angels flying over Montgomery the other day. I didn't fear for my own passing, but then it wasn't my ride to catch. I think one may have smiled down on me though, despite all of my sins. For this I can only hope, when my time comes to a
We Were Meant to FlySometimes, you have to set aside broken things and start fresh; break the chains and take flight. Words I speak more to myself than anyone else. They come not from the pipes that won't play or behind the dreamer's gaze, but from the heart; screamed so loudly, I think they'll burst from my chest. You spoke this language once, used words like fear and uncertainly, misery and suffocation, gut wrenching times to be sure, but we just weren't ready.
Now, my aim is true. My path is set, and so I step lighter these days, while you weep in dark corners; not for fear of heights or the irony of bad timing. Free spirits are meant to fly, but the ties that bind, really do bind. Like iron shackles anchoring you to the shore line; the tides roll in and slowly you drown, in a sea of misery. All I can say, is I'm sorry, as I soar overhead. Freedom is life's first happiness, enhanced only by love.
Wish It Would Stop RainingIf you could erase me
I think I'd hand you the pencil.
That forty mile hike
from Montgomery county jail
really put things
and nearly killed me,
along the way.
It seems these days
all I do is fight:
this morning it was the car,
tomorrow the mortgage company,
and the next day
it will be
Like the saying goes,
when it rains it pours.
Well it's been pouring
since I came screaming
out of my mother's womb.
She hated me too,
so why should you be any different.
I just wish
it would stop raining.
The HollowSome will say indifference
is the opposite of love
stands opposite to none;
that it takes a man
to stand on his own two feet
and a woman
to admit when he's wrong.
There are times when I feel:
I know little of such things,
but I can still remember
of my heart breaking;
A crack in the foundation
of all that was me,
that can never be re-filled.
There must have been something
in the hollow of my chest
this restless spirit down.
When all I wanted to do
was take numbers and play,
when all I wanted
was to be free.
That Age Old ClicheYou always said,
if only one could be saved
Well this is a lot like that.
It seems every time
I feel I've reached my limit,
I always find a new one.
Now I'm asking myself:
Have I become the bad guy
for letting you
You see I knew a girl once:
I loved her to tears,
and she had more love for us
than even herself.
I don't see her much anymore.
It's that age old cliché
about how people change,
and they usually do it
in the blink of eye.
When you turn with a smile
you don't know the person standing before you.
It's at that moment
you will never see that person again,
no longer exist.
Boulevard of Lost HopeNothing in these pockets
But a five dollar bill
And a pint of whiskey
In a crumpled up
Wife beater on
Carpenter style Dickies
And a ball cap
Sitting on a road side bench
Watching cars on the fast track
Doing eighty five
The boulevard of lost hope
Paved in broken glass
And ill repute
I grew up
Not far from here
I came to celebrate life changers
And wake up calls
Sold my dreams
Even in the worst of places
The world seems brighter
The Road to DisasterYou meet a girl, fall in love,
and have a couple of kids.
Blissful it seems; like a dream.
As if you've been given
the greatest of all gifts.
It's the unattainable;
something that doesn't happen
in this age of divorce.
You work hard to provide,
pushing yourself to support
that which you hold so dear,
but as a result you also neglect
and strong things become fragile.
There are four killers
on the road to disaster,
each one leads
to the next.
First you stop communicating,
and then you begin to lie,
pretty soon you've turned to another,
then anger and pain makes a home.
This is how love grows toxic;
how beautiful things
This is what destroys lives,
this is how marriages die.
But We Always Sing Together There The "old man" was maybe forty-nine, since that's the median age range for US American Indian males' longevity.
He seemed like an old man to me. I was only about twenty and terrified.
He was going to run a meeting I was supposed to attend.
I'd already heard about him.
He was said to hate seeing a woman in tipi meetings and he hated any white person there.
He hated to hear a woman sing there even more.
I was a young white woman who sang a lot in tipis, but this time I planned to skip the singing.
It would be enough just to be there.
It was my husband's fault. He was going and wanted me there with him.
We always went to meetings together and sang together, too.
Other Indians said we sounded "real good" together and that's what my husband wanted to show that old man.
In other words, he wanted to show me off as a white woman
Ode II.When I was a first-year medical student at fresher events, people used to say to me, "Oh wow, I bet you see lots of amazing stuff!" The simple answer to that was not really, not at that time. I'd been a medical student for a few weeks. No, I can't diagnose your knee problem or advise you which tablet you should be taking for your sinusitis. I've only got a few weeks on you. I certainly don't have stories of the weird and wonderful to share with you, much as I'd like to.
I think that the only time I've really sat down and reflected on this, is right now, almost at the end of my fourth year. This is when it strikes me how much has changed since I stood there in those fresher parties. Nowadays, when my friends and I get together, we do actually share stories of the weird and wonderful. I've done some rather 'special' special modules (sexual health clinic module, A&E/ER module ), so I've had some truly weird and wonderful stories to share. I think a number of people may remember me ap
Things To Consider Before Dating a GiverThere are some people, girl, who embody the phrase 'give you the shirt off his back.' He's one of them. And when I say that, I mean it. He'll do it for you-- and offer to-- several times, for many reasons. You'll love it, and you'll sleep in those clothes until they stop smelling like him. Then you'll give them back, because they are his shirts, after all.
But it won't stop there. He'd give that shirt to anyone; it's just you're on the receiving end more often because you're near him and unprepared more often than most. He's bought pizzas for strangers with his last ten dollars, and he's come over just to help your dad cut up a tree.
People have tried, unsuccessfully, to rob him-- more than once. You'll realize, as you spend more time together, that he'd be happy to give these people the money, and what upsets him is that they're not asking.
He'll blow off spending time with you to help his mom do things, and it won't be an excuse. He'll actually be very sorry that it took him hours mo
i fold paper for a livingpeople think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.
i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.
because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.
i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you ask. and i laugh at your naivety and inhale the scent of the rain.
the musky scent seeps into the paper and carries itself into the presence of the butterfly i folded. and it sits on the mantelpiece with all the other folded paper i find beauty in. i watch them on cold November mornings, when the fireplace is lit and the clouds sig
Chasefor you i would catch summer
like a teen catching glory on a lean silver bicycle-
ripping through the streets of Triumph and Nostalgia
as if i could conquer or escape each one
and rise- rise- rise with the reddening
of your cheek as it mirrors our desire-
i will chase you until my starving hands
can feel no curves; until my eyes cannot contain
the bursting of your colours like parachutes on a stale
blue sky; until my mouth no longer tastes the days of August
on your lips-
your season lingers
like a haze in the sahara:
some oversaturated mirage,
or maybe just a miracle
that winked out too fast.
i was six years old the night my mother crept into my room, spread a second quilt on top of me, and began to quietly brush the hair of my barbies. she laid down on the cold wooden floor, one ear down - as if she could hear the small specks of dust moving across the downstairs hardwood.
"we're moving to waterford," she said, staring fondly at my lovingly-kept pocahontas doll. i hadn't seen her swipe it, and she played with the silky ends of the doll's purple-sewn hair in silence.
"i don't want to go," i told her, bleary-eyed and whining, "who wants to live in a place named after water? don't they have anything exciting to name it after?"
she stood with a thoughtful smile, something twisting in the murky brown pools of her eyes.
"water is like magic," she said. "water grows beautiful things."
and with that, she patted my foot, looked me in the eye, and took pocahontas away to the hall with her.
"she is beautiful," my mother told me softly. "i want her."
i closed my eyes
The rhythm's the same
It never changes
But as he dances
he always changes
with the synths
The drums beat fast
The drums beat deep
He sings a song
and lies to self and all
And finally he lies
Down and dies
But the flashing lights were fun
The sounds and sights were beautiful
It was worth it.
And so was I.
Lancelot Price 2014 January 16
blue velvet"i think it's better to be crazy and free."
she's sitting on the balcony of my apartment. her blue dress is dark against the edge of the sky and against the paleness of her thigh, against the glittering outline of the eiffel tower just outside my window. the weather is getting colder now, late autumn fading into early winter, and the wind dances through her choppy, curled hair.
i want her to close the door, for her to come inside. i want to say something to her, to say something back, but the words aren't forming in my mouth, are lodged somewhere between my tongue and my throat.
the light from my bedroom is soft gold against the edges of her face as she slides from the rail, brushing the velvet dress off with her hands as she stands. her cream-coloured pumps, red-soled and hinting at a glamorous life, seem almost to float above the ground. perhaps she is an angel, otherworldly in the glow of an old city tinged with the impressions of a thousand old souls.
"don't you agree?"
i don't kno
LilacsStage four lung cancer, they said. Six months, at best. You held on for so long, chemotherapy jovially turning you from a white haired lady in to a wig topped moppet. Vitamin C treatments, pills, sleep. Doctors, hospitals, tears and upset stomachs. To make you feel better, we announced that I was pregnant with your eleventh grandchild, and we hoped to God in Heaven that you would meet her. And you did. You clutched her to you with the fierce passion of somebody who has created a life inside of them and spooned her cake on her first birthday...and a month later you faded away.
When the call came, I was sitting on my living room floor. It was my birthday, quietly I turned another year older while you hummed along on machines in a hospital room, far from me. Far from anywhere I needed you to be, and the last place I wanted. It was just before midnight, everything was peaceful, I was content. Contemplative.
We had been in to see you earlier, I stopped by, chatted for just a while. You coul
Harvest HomesShe says, you can tell America from the rest of the world by the color of the wallpaper, or lack thereof. That southern hospitality is refreshing after so many years in London. The stuffed animal in her grasp is named ‘Dog’. When asked why, she says, "are you blind, it is a dog after all."
When the aide handed her the night gown she asked if it was for sale. He told her it was a gift, but she couldn't accept it. However, if he wanted to lend it to her that would be “lovely”. The aide was actually a woman. When we told her so, she replied “Well, she was a man when he gave it to me.” We all laughed and she said, “Oh lovely then” and laughed while clapping her hands.
I can’t tell you how old she is; anything beyond 80 will do. I can’t tell you how crazy she is. I imagine more than a little. Needless to say, I liked her immediately.
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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