The Monsters in My Bed

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During the day,

I’m equipped to keep the monsters at bay.

But at night, when I’m asleep, I’m helpless.

Naked.

Stripped of saber.

Devoid of strategy.

So the monsters crawl under my sheets and, when I wake,

their talons are wrapped around my throat.

 

Sweet dreams are easy.

Sweet awakenings are another story.

Monsters

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Your monsters are slick

like movie villians

-they always get the the cool costumes.

They smoke cigarettes

and lurk in dark alleys.

They hide behind trees in forests.

They creep into your houses

and into your daughters’ dolls

to make their heads spin.

They hide in your basements

and wait in the darkest corners

for you to go downstairs.

And

when they are ready

they arch their backs and scurry like crabs

up walls and onto ceilings.

But my monster is different.

She crept in between my thighs

after I had a cocktail

or three

and slipped inside, warm and gentle.

She swam through my veins

until she reached my brain

where she curled up

and now the two of us

sleep together

and wake together

and think

and act

and stay

together

even in the sunlight.

 

 

 

Complacency

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It is impossible to be unhappy on this beautiful day.

The sky is clear and blue

only blue-the perfect compliment to the newly sprung leaves of verdant green

under whose canopy I sit and appreciate

the gentle breeze and glorious sun

whose rays sneak through this lush umbrella

to kiss my skin

-softly, gently.

*

It is impossible to be unhappy.

Is it not?

*

But the breeze-it lulls me to sleep

a dull dreamless sleep

which I do not wish to enter.

*

I long for a sharp and bitter wind

to jolt me awake.

*

My eyelids are heavy.

My limbs carry the invisible weight of complacency.

*

But it is just so pretty

and comfortable

sitting here.

Just sitting.

It is impossible to be unhappy.

 

This poem was originally published on June 3, 2018

Is This Death?

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Is this death, this dull ache in my back?

What of these pains that pulse through my body?

This fear that sleeps and wakes with me, is it death

like a crow picking on carrion in the street?

Is she death, this face that greets me in the mirror each morning?

This woman I do not recognize?

This exhaustion, is it death

ringing the bell, waring me that the time for eternal rest is fast approaching?

 

Perhaps it is death.

I do not like it though.

I prefer to believe it is life.

Life marching on.

Life marching over me.

 

Perhaps I will grab hold of it

and let it carry me along

through this maelstrom that rages for an eternity

or a moment.

 

Perhaps, when the winds die and the sea stops churning,

there will be peace

peace in this life

before death.

 

 

Shadows and Light

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Four years ago, I wrote this poem. Four years ago, I let go of the misguided belief that to write about painful family relationships is to be disloyal. Four years ago, I began the process of becoming an artist. Make no mistake-you cannot be an artist if you censor yourself; if you hid your past; if you sacrifice your truth to protect others.

Shadows & Light

Life with you was shadows and light.

On days when there was only light,

there was never only light.

A small step

in either direction

and you would cast your shadow.

Some days it would remain small

yet present.

It would lurk

and wait

and then grow.

It would grow

until it reigned over us.

And tears would rain

from eyes

that searched,

longing for light’s return.

If only it was always shadow,

the light would not be missed.

But such was not our fate.

.

Now that you are gone, it is only shadow-

that haunts my memories

that burdens my conscience

that chases the light.

Shadows

Light

You

I

Life

Death

An end

that never ends

Sway Me

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Congreve, Lucan, May.

All three knew

music

to soothe

and sway;

bend

and turn.

So sway me.

Bend me.

Turn me

to face you

and let’s see

if you can tame

that baser part of me.

And bend it to your will

And make it good

and quiet

and still.

Let’s see.

Come, sweet music.

Dance with me.