MazWeaver

I hardly know what to call you There was no blood between us Unless you counted the blood I spilled After yet another cold phone call When from two thousand miles away You sat out in the sun And refused the charges You always refused the charges Should I call you Mister Sir (please, sir, I want some) Husband-of-my-mother (Standing in the garden in your powder-blue suit Accepting congratulations And manoeuvring to keep me out of the photos) Daddy (Daddy, you bastard) Critic Judge You’re gone now You’ve been gone for two years So I suppose this is some kind of anniversary And all the pop psych self-help Dr Phil bullshit Tells m

Our teachers ask, 'what do you want to be when you grow up'? And we say robot, princess, Superman, and if we're lucky they don't tell us those are impossible, and leave us to dream. Our parents' friends ask, 'what do you want to do when you leave school'? And we say win an Oscar, cure cancer, bring world peace, and if we're lucky they don't tell us those are one-in-a-million, and leave us to dream. No one asks - except perhaps the friends closest to our hearts, and then only in the dark - did you ever truly think you’d end up here? And if you could, would you tell your child-self to dream smaller? 10/4/18, 3.49 pm

I loved them More than anything More than life More than him They tied me here They kept me Real They were My blood His breath Our flesh The last link of my chains

She was easy She trusted me She took that wedding gift And never Not even for a moment Thought I was anything But a gracious loser I watched her burn And I heard him screaming And it wasn’t enough

I never knew That the extremes you could be driven to Were not limits Merely starting points I thought I’d spilled enough blood That I was done with the darkness That there was a reward For what I’d done That he was my reward That I could leave behind Everything But all he wanted was Everything And all I gave was Everything And all I had left was Pain And I needed him To hurt

This is the wages Of sin This is the price Of my choices I should never I suppose it was too much to ask That I could leave behind the cold That I could find refuge in his heat That he would love a woman Who killed for him Who turned her back on everything For him I suppose I fooled myself Into thinking he wanted me When he just needed me And when he was done with me He threw me away

She was beautiful Untouched Unspoiled Young She offered me words of sympathy Her voice like rich honey But there was pity in her clear eyes She told me she would love my children Love my husband Take my place She was golden She was shining And I was a mute shadow Falling to the floor Discarded

I told myself We were happy That the sidelong glances And the murmurs of witch Could not touch us That I would be content To be the outsider As long as he loved me I told myself That his child at my breast His arms around me His body pressed against mine Was enough to keep away The memory of blood The taste of betrayal I told myself when he turned away from me And refused to meet my eyes That he was just Tired

i speak through the radio to the shadow of a boy i vaguely knew in highschool i learn that the soundtrack to heaven is less winehouse than windy city, less whitney than houston skyline, a mountain of concrete blocking out the sun, a sky ringing with dead stars, the face you once remembered losing itself in applause. and the metaphor is always space. an echo down the long hall of what we have come to call childhood. you could be this too, you say. the soft whisper of reunion, a hologram on the mainstage of someone else’s encore set. the empty bedroom or stadium or ocean of lukewarm bathwater, speakers vomiting and just out of reac

and at the end of the valley, you say, turn left at the burning bush. continue on through the charred earth or ocean of glass, all needle and forty oz. listen: it is not the wind, clattering like pill bottles or fistfuls of keys stumbling out the front door for what you remember as the last time. then heaven parts like a mosaic, the pickled red sun smiling back through the wreckage. and then, a way out. so i climb a ladder that is also a railroad and also a beanstalk and the boy who told me of its breath or spot in the imaginary sky. and you, the boy. you, the scattered ash in the mausoleum of my memory. rumor has it that at the top there is

it looks like the stars have been scattered across the ground, you say we just the fools attempting to find ourselves at our own respective frequencies, an absent something growing into the horizon through the scattered glass of rearview. & have you seen the way this world seems to stretch beyond the infinity that has become so intimate? have you seen everyone you love die & be reborn as a fresh faced stranger on the next train? this is what happens when you let the story play out to finish: joy & then memory & then the inexplicable return to deep & dreamless sleep. maybe the end of everything is the beginning of a whole new everything. maybe

in praise of the molted clot, the missing socks, the field of fucks i forgot to harvest. in praise of my open mouth: catacomb, vagabond, reaching out to take in another like a wet handshake. in praise of the smile i found you with, cheshire & defiant, handing out like business cards to try on & see if it fits. in praise of you, the metaphor, the convenient counterpart in this illusion, the dream in which we wake up together or alone but still whole & filling space like the swollen planet would want us to. in praise of the blinding unison, the patient observers, the strange creatures stopping to filter the moment for someone not here. i

they laugh and ask him how he stays so calm when the world is burning down but they never noticed how grey his smile is; how grey his eyes are; how he has lived (and died) a million lifetimes in the blink of an eye - no-one ever stops to notice that his trust is a bridge crumbled to dust, that his skin is tearing apart at the seams like worn out clothes somebody threw on the floor when they were done wearing him out. they ask him how he stays so calm when the world is burning down and he laughs. (because he's spent so long living in fire that he has learned to dance in the flames)

  by YOKOKY (https://www.deviantart.com/yokoky),  Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse                                                                                        THEY  put me in a cage- give me some food one time in each 2 days...                                                                                                                               THEY -put me sand in my mouth to make me  eat my words i was screaming...                                                                                                                   THEY- put an a hard band on my mouth ,to be sure that the sand is inside...                  THEY- touch my body- wi

This is my breathy window Jotunheim is revived in the Midwest Shrouds of spider silk Dress the glass in tatters-- A token of autumn What to think of The driveway needs shoveling, The roads are slick and thick with sleet The hail rips into the trees The dog can wait until morning Thoughts plaster themselves Over the glass that overlooks The street and Christmas garlands Winter has not been kind-- Against the hail of today, yesterday Tomorrow the window webs flay and Unravel into the breeze The darkness outside is easy on eyes For lamplights too are muted Staring into the beyond is a black And white affair That dilates my pupils I retreat

Volcano heart in the mouse. Electrified porridge. A kind of lemon compromise, bound to the ghost’s network, Wide round about, feverishly still, The prayer that backfires, truly still, Trying to make use of fiery time, dirty dreams, Heaven’s strands set aflame with Hellfire, A raw radiance, still in the zone of ‘still don’t know’, The zone of invalidated options, shadow cloth, Given an electrified blanket after the swim, Something necessary, according to the roundabout insanity, If all are cursed then what then? To embrace the curse, To fully vibrate the purpose, to question the fields, An exception in the night,