Sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3)


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They are already there. You have to be committed to your craft. You have to take vows. Some of us become so wounded in the process of rejection we see it as. We forget we are poets.


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You need grit. It is going to take you far wanderer like Moses in the wilderness. I was born into the wild of this country. A wilderness of steel wasteland; sky and street shadow me like the white sun, yellow moon, star Hiroshima, moon Nagasaki people, thumbprints trapped on pages of long overdue library books. There are incidents that cannot be accounted for and the world is still, even when coming home from the sea. Sand like diamonds in my shoes and my hair. Bloodlines visible from the neck down in peacock-blue circles, which slip beneath the surface, like threads no one can see.

There was another woman in the house, my doppelganger. Grief burned her in a rush of women-speak. So, as cat wrestles with bird, a mess of feathers everywhere and as red dots appear, I feel light-headed like I could disappear into thin air, with the mercy of flight because you, the sane me is no longer here.

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So, what if I know these playing fields like the back of my hand; these frontiers and borders of my own childhood making. I wish you were here daddy. They have a name for it. I am the one who has to live with it.

In Flanders Fields

They want us to be safe, to feel as if we are well looked after. They make excuses for the others, the rest of the family, the cousins I never see anyway, the aunts and uncles that seemed to have vanished into the thin blue air, my brother and my sister. But somehow, they forgot that I bleed like they do. Everything tastes metallic here even the texture of the sandwiches we get served at tea and before we go to bed.

How Do People Communicate Before Death? - The Atlantic

The Milo makes me gag but I drink it anyway. It fills me up.

I have grown accustomed to the nurses outfitted in their navy. They move like ghosts. But the thing is the in-patients move around the building and the rooms in exactly the same way. You have all the time in the world to sketch in compositions, write notes to your self, have whole conversations with your self about the girl who left in the middle of the night with an ambulance. She wore black all the time, even black nail polish and told you to watch out for her, that she was a Goth and could invoke a higher power.

Then there was the woman who woke you up in the middle of the night and told you that she was the reincarnation of Jesus. She wanted to read Scriptures to you, quote it at you. You were sleepy, your head like wool, just about to fall asleep so you told her before you turned around to go back to bed. There were days when courage failed me and when I had no voice to speak of or opinion. There were just the chemicals interacting in my bloodstream nourishing me, feeding, overwhelming hospitalized me. All my stamina was leaking out of me and I was left apathetic.

It was a pretty room with cheerful curtains at the window, wooden tables and chairs. I could feel the sky as I walked outside. It was a sensation that I thought an addict would probably feel. I remember my flight from Johannesburg as if it was yesterday and the impulse of the recollection of the powerful flow and energy of the haze that came with it.

I remembered feeling that all sense had left me and all I was left with was intuition. This was wrong and that was right. Red signaled danger to me as if something not of this world, alien and subversive was trying to contact me. My insomnia and confusion and when and if I was confused the world around me was a television world. Noise was louder. Traffic was a line of cars blocking my way through to get back home to my parents. All I wanted was the two of them looking at me with pride and love, loving me in the state I was in and addressing it.

I knew by instinct that they would know what to do. I wanted peace. I wanted quiet. I told the cab driver to turn his radio down and I refused to pay him. I said that I had no money. But he was determined in his own way. He said that I had to pay him. So, I told him to wait and knocked on my front door. Everyone was still sleeping. No one knew I had come home.

No one knew that anything was wrong yet. I still had the ghost of a blue shirt and cigarettes and the language of first love inside my heart, parading around my head as if I had given it permission to be there.

A diagrammatic serenade to nature in primary colors.

Of course, when they took one hard and long look at me they knew something was wrong. Was it drugs? I had to say that with commitment.

edited by Erin Wildermuth

My mother gave me money to pay for the cab. In the days that followed I wrote on walls my own brand of graffiti , I drew pictures in my own blood. Just enough to wound my spirit, to remind myself I was alive, part of the living, a human being. My parents were nice about it in a sane way. They would tell me how sick I was making myself.

I wished they had said that over and over again. I wish I could remember them saying that they loved me over and over again but my mother began to see past the things that I was doing and on the whole my father ignored me.

esunmentekh.ga He had his own depression and his own questions. For my mother it was obvious that all the turn of events in the household since I returned from Johannesburg was psychological in origin.

sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3) Sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3)
sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3) Sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3)
sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3) Sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3)
sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3) Sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3)
sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3) Sometimes theres just days (poem journals Book 3)

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