Mood Swing Swing

I tried to close the dark timber door,
The hinges were doused in slime, swing swing,
A thousand fears pushed against the other side.
I was a child in the ocean, a wave on the horizon.

No matter how hard you push,
The water slides between your fingers,
Outstretched your hands are useless.
Things you wish out come through, swing swing.

Sadness crashes upon my soul.
I succumb to the wailing, I weep, swing swing.
How else does one empty themselves?
Else the ocean drowns you, lose the ocean.

I am a withered leaf, life unspoken.
White mass upon the floorboards, swing swing.
Slowly I melt into my abyss, lose myself.
I hang there lifeless, as if from a noose.

I am so noisy, like a flock of parrots.
Screaming, mood swings attack, swing swing.
They steal my smiles away, I am all that’s left.
Alone, heavy, clenched, and sickly.

Swing, swing, the hinges of my sanity,
Back and forth without a decision.
Where am I, and what do I want?
These choices I fear to make.

Pale flesh outstretched in an empty house, swing swing.
Splayed on a sundial, telling the time, I am lit.
Burning inside, a bird has flown away.
I watch shudders of shadows from the wings.

Haunted by past mistakes, today’s mistakes,
Every mistake lined up like trees, swing swing.
Their roots run deep within my heart,
I try to burn them, but they are made of steel.

I feel so small, then happy.
Light switch, on off, off on.
Flip like a gymnast, fall like a kamikaze.
These are my trials, swing swing.

I open my eyes, I see the sky.
I wallow, for I am not one of the stars.
Pity for me, swing swing, swing swing.
Stop the pendulum on the right side, forever.

I nail the golden disk to the wall.
The angle is that of a rising wing.
It will always be ready to come down,
To lift me higher, swing swing.

Like a seagull flapping down to go up.
I die, I am born, I wish for more.
I want to escape the chains of emotion,
I am stuck in my childhood, swing swing.

My window is a memory, reality.
I can see the cars pass by, lives unfolding.
I stay in my room; I bar the door from the water.
Still flooding, I am drowned daily, swing swing.

Justify my hatred, condone my sadness.
Make me one of you, one of me.
Frost upon the eyelids, frozen shut, swing swing.
No more water may pass this icy wall.

I am alteration, hear me swing swing, swing swing, swing swing, swing swing.

Bad Father

The lights convulsed above her.
The street light hummed in the silence.
She was nothing more than a silhouette,
In the neighborhood, dogs barked.

Her heart held no guilt, only freedom.
Her bag held her sins, and her cigarettes.
She wore a pale veil of calm.
Her fire red snarl gleamed against her skin.

Daddy wouldn’t yell.
Daddy wouldn’t swing.
Daddy was finally paying,
She dabbed at the stain on her lavender dress.

Like a tree his arms were inanimate.
He could no longer break the silence.
Only a distant echo of his last words,
Hung in the cold night air.

Fingernails scratching upon the walls.
Like a cockroach he scuttled.
Across the floor as he crawled.
Little, lying, wicked roach.

The clock’s hands were tied.
The windows stayed sealed.
The walls covered their eyes.
The door stayed fastened shut.

In that little shed where he would lock her.
She dragged him with the strength of vengeance.
Nonchalance became her blue eyes.
Her breath froze in the air as the door shut.

The key in her bag would hide.
The heels she wore kept her tall.
When the bus arrived she approached.
Two quarters, and she was away.

Memorabilia

Signs across the street from my house,
Bright yellow, lines and word, yield.
Who are these signs for?
They are, after all, outside of MY home.

I fall into a cup full of memories,
The scent of lavender tugs me back,
To a single mother, and three young boys,
And how she would lull them to sleep.

Lullabies are my favorite byes.
Sang as you fall into slumber, not waking.
In sleep dreams chase me.
They are more pleasant than reality.

A sunny warm world where you hold me,
And you and I are meant to be together.
No sex is needed, just warm intimate company.
Why do I wake to find only empty walls?

Sitting by my window I ponder these things.
Rain falls upon a carpet of fiery leaves.
The slick black pavement glistens like my eyes.
I cry like the clouds, and I empty my pain.

Don’t smile at me anymore.
It hurts to know I cannot touch you.
I ache for arms to hold me, but all I have are my own.
I wish I could learn from the trees; they are content in solitude.

Thinkers are the saddest people alive.
How could this not be so?
Only ignorance is bliss for me.
If I didn’t know you, I couldn’t love you.

Eventually this too shall pass.
The feelings will be buried deep inside of my heart.
Until, somewhere I see you in a reflection.
Then I will turn back, and remember how I miss you.

We are nothing more than a myth.
We are nothing more than a dream.
There will never be a “we”.
There will always be an “I”.

How lonely the “I” must feel.
One line and no shape.
Cursed is the “I”.
To look and never find.

Miss Zoie

Stepping into that old house.
I hear the familiar tinkling,
Of glass ornaments in the window.
The window is now dust covered.
The door squeaks louder than before.
The floor groans as I enter.

I can still smell that smell.
The archaic pungency that made me high,
When I would lay upon the carpets as a child.
It still makes me heady, even now.
Who knows what could have made that scent.
I used to blame the wrinkled dust gremlins.

My eyes slowly glide across the room.
It’s not like before, it’s dead.
A dirty, rosy pink carpet, broken blinds.
These are remnants of a happy home.
The wall paper peels, and the ceiling fan rotates.
Furniture from another era stands ever still.

We are the laborers sent to dismantle this world.
I help lift a table with a peach marble top.
How many tea cups rested here?
It used to sit by a sea foam couch.
And a menagerie of odds and ends.
These all were watched by a girl and a well on the wall.

She cried when we took her car.
She marched two miles to the store alone.
She told the neighbors such a passionate thing,
“They can have my car, but they can’t take my legs!”
The children just watched Miss Zoie,
As she made her way down the street.

It hurts us to admit that she cannot be here.
It hurt us seeing tears from such a proud woman.
If only time wasn’t so greedy, and relentless;
Then maybe she could still care for herself.
None of these thoughts help as I work.
I can see her standing outside just standing.

Her legs do not tremble, and her chin is set.
Miss Zoie is more courageous than all of us.