Humor Me
Page Introductory
To me humor and poetry have something in common. To fully understand them, one should hear or read them in their original language and to know the culture from where they are emerging. Metaphors, references, slangs, history background, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
As for humor goes, I’m more than apt in delivering a punchline or coming up with a quick respond, and throwing piercing sarcasm if it is necessary, especially when I use my native language Farsi.
But when it comes to poetry, the aptness goes out the door. I’m a mediocre poet. My interest in poetry—both classic and modern—was almost non-existence. Sure, I enjoyed cream of crop verses of famous poets, but I never went out of my way to read them unless I had to—except for Hafiz. And since my elected subject in high school and college was Farsi literature and history, I read, analyzed, and dissected many lines, but never entertained the thought to read poetry for entertainment.
But writing my first book, based on life and teaching of Rumi, changed something in my brain, and I started to read other medieval writers like Attar and Nezami, and many modern poets like Moshiri, Farokhzad, and Sepehri. Meanwhile, I began to write poetry both in Farsi and English.
This page is the house for all those verses I wrote in the past eleven years and those I will write. Please humor me and take a peek into my poetic self.
Hi there. Today is a lovely and sunny day in my neck of the woods. Spring is around the corner, and I miss my childhood.
Anyways, the poem below has nothing to do with Spring, and though it portrays a depressing scene, just felt to post it.
As always I welcome your critiques.
A Scene In A Bedroom
“What have I given you?” She whispered.
They were both sitting on his bed
in his dim bedroom.
His hollow orbs were fixed
on a hypodermic
over used syringe.
She was quiet and seductive
resting in a spoon
waiting to be lit with the fire
of convoluted desires.
His sweat-soaked
wife beater clanged
to his emaciated body.
His briefs hung loose
and drowned his puny balls.
“She was at it again,” he thought
“I am not going to succumb.”
But chills were coming
and he needed her warmth
and melting loving.
“I have given you the best of your life.”
She smirked.
“Did you?” He thought
and the lie hurt him
but other lies hurt more.
He shrugged.
He picked.
He lit.
He tied.
He popped.
He slammed.
Ahhhhh
Hi. I wrote the below poem, sometimes in 2013, and was posted on my original website . Like all poems, Seamstress House is a work in progress, and still unedited. So, if you have any idea for its improvement, please email me at: sohailawrites@gmail.com. Love to hear from you.
Seamstress’ house
Dimly lit cul-de- sac alley
reeked with smell of urine,
as it always did,
and the fall air
couldn’t mask it a bit.
Gasoline laced air invaded little lungs,
mine and my sister’s,
as it always did,
and the early autumn air
couldn’t filter it a bit.
We were almost two years apart,
almost five and seven we were,
she the older one.
Both were holding our mother’s hands,
leaving behind the small green door
of seamstress’ house,
at the end of the cul-de-sac,
rushing towards the main street.
It was getting dark.
We weren’t even halfway through,
when we detected two young boys,
a few paces ahead,
standing in a doorway
of a two story house to our left,
staring, checking us advancing.
They were brothers it seemed.
Two years apart maybe, and
were looking at us with disgust.
You know the look,
a territorial look.
A look that tells the lookers, “you don’t belong here.”
Women without Hijab,
in that part of the town, are almost stateless.
Their stares screamed,
“you should go back where you belong.
Uptown is the place you should roam around,
where all the decadent rejects of humanity residing.”
All things about people like us offend them.
Western style outerwear offends them.
Armenian dressmaker
living at the end of the cul-de-sac,
offends them.
“How dare she dresses them like that,”
in this sacred land?”
That’s what boys’ looks told us,
“how dare they are giving her their business,
Armenian the dog.
The whores of Babylon they are.
They should be disgraced and their seductive hair
should be plucked at the hands of Satan
strand by strand. They should burn in the pit of hell
for they evoke scorching flames of desires
in the heart of innocent devout men,
with their unscrupulous curves.
They should be purged.”
That’s what boys’ looks told us
before they disappeared into their fortress.
It was getting darker.
We were almost there.
Rushing us girls toward the main street,
Mother knew best.
Something was stirring in the air
In a wrong way.
She knew something evil was afoot.
Us girls too.
Almost there,
it was getting darker.
Then things happened fast,
in the midst of slowness of our movement
from the roof of the fortress,
a brick was pitched.
In a split second, a head was split open.
Mother held tight to our little hands,
leaned against the wall, slowly slid down,
and us sisters with her.
Blood was gushing from mom’s forehead.
Oblivion took over for a minute or a century.
It was dark.
Mother didn’t have the luxury of being down.
With blood trickling down her face,
obscuring her sight,
she looked up,
squinting through its veil.
We looked up too.
And the brothers stole their heads,
for the cowards they were.
Maman let go of our hands,
and stood up.
We stood up too.
It was dark.
No time to waste on the culprits.
Blood was gushing
and as luck had it, there appeared
a hospital on the corner.
Father joined us an hour later.
So much wanting to strangle the boys
with his own hands.
Mother, already cleaned up,
stitched and bandaged,
stopped him.
Not that she lacked courage,
on the contrary,
she was a brave woman,
but she was wise too.
“They are not but children.” She said
“My girls are not but children.” He said
“They don’t know better.” She said
“I don’t know better either.” He said
“Yes, you do, and you know well what I mean.” She said.
“Forgive their ignorance,
and let their ignorance not to forgive them.”
So my father swallowed his pride,
and didn’t let revenge devour him.
After all we weren’t belong there,
the stinking, suffocating bloody
dark alley of prejudices and self- righteousness,
was not our state.
We never went back to the poor dressmaker.
Thus the Armenian seamstress
lost another client.
to the cruelty of her neighbors.
I never forget the blood,
the pain,
and the fright
the sisters and the mother endured.
Ever.
As for those boys went,
I do not know what happened to them.
My parents never pressed charges.
They weren’t even questioned.
But what I know is that decades later,
as my mother predicted,
the whole nation was ablaze
In the unrelenting fury of unforgiving ignorance.
A Poem of affirmation
Following Hanna Arendt’s
The Banality of evil.
Lies, lies, white lies, dark lies,
Every electromagnetic frequency in between lies,
Fast ones, stretched ones, lingering ones,
Lies that save ass, the ones that save ego,
Lies that save face,
Lies we tell ourselves,
The ones we tell to our loved ones,
The ones that are half and half,
With a sliver of truth treading its way
Through its fabric,
The worst kind of lies, the most malignant of all,
They all come from fear,
The fear that facilitates the “banality of evil.”
Lies, lies, all those sanctimonious lies,
Told about our gods,
Told to line the pockets of masters of lies,
Told to make feel good
A crowd of lazy fucks,
Waiting for the end game,
Waiting for a myth,
To take them away,
To a mythical place, high up in the sky,
Through a rung- less ladder,
Lies that manufactured through the ages,
By sociopath reverends,
Played on the most fearful,
The most naive, the most impressible and impressionable
The least learned, the least worldly, the least suspecting,
Played in the tune of fear
Like music in our ears
The fear that facilitates the “banality of evil.”
Lies, lies, the social ones,
The one we tell ourselves,
The one we tell others,
I am this and that,
You are that and this,
They are not like us,
We are not like them,
There are less of us,
There are more of them,
They will take our share,
This noble us, wishing them all dead,
Based on a big, fat lie,
That resources are scarce,
And we listen to this logic
Bobbing our heads
To validate this brand of cynicism
As the fundamental truth,
That some must die, to save lives,
They are all based on lies,
That comes out of mouth of greed
To instill fear in our little, petty mind,
The fear that facilitates the “banality of evil.”
Lies, lies, the “Social Darwinist” lies,
The pretentious pseudoscience lies,
So based on them, one can keep stealing and cheating,
Setting example for generations to come,
Lies that compels the self-delusion of grandiose
Which leads to more malignant ones,
like “I am greater than life” lie,
So I can devour it in its entirety lie,
The lies that keep you hungry and hallow,
The lies that create psychopathic societies,
And sociopaths to run amuck within it,
Lies that hinders compassion,
And mocks empathy,
Lies that forbids the growth of humanity,
Lies based on the fear of falling behind
And losing it all to the next hungry beast,
The very fear that facilitates the “banality of evil.”
But one day, these piling lies,
Lies that smell like lilacs,
These appeasing and appealing lies,
Motivated by our fears,
Will bring us to a point,
No longer able to hide the putrid stench of
Evil which comes out in rolling waves,
From deepest core of its commonplace,
As it has done in the past,
-From the death marches of a nation
Through god forsaken lands of agony
From sprawling stretch of torture camps,
Odorless gas chambers,
And chimneys laced and greased by human’s ashes,
From poisonous plumes made in the shape of fungi,
With a bang or two,
Clouding over once innocent cities,
Rendering survivors barren and diseased
For generations to come,
From killing fields in the lush and green jungles,
Which witnessed wholesale destruction of life
While teeming with it,
From the towns and villages of Dark Continent,
This birthplace of so-called intelligent life,
Limbless, headless mangled bodies of young and old
Strewn everywhere,
A macabre street art works of merchants of death,
From bloody streets of a tiny war worn country,
Forgetting that thousand years war has ended
In gore and blood and human shame not long ago,
A country unable to forget the past revenge,
From the graves of millions,
In the name of revolution and twisted ideologies
Concocted by a disturbed and convoluted mind or two,
From ongoing restricting, starving, occupying and bombing Nations whose their fault is just happened to be sitting on a Coveted shimmering black liquid,
Or residing around a meaningless golden dome
In an ancient place bearing ancient lies,
Which means a world to occupants of half of the world,-
It will force us to look into its eyes once more
And it will shock us with its banality,
-This evil of our own making,-
One just can hope
A poem in progress
I’ve decided to dedicate a whole segment to a poem in making. I’ve written its first draft a couple of month ago and sent it to my editor Bambi Here. While I was working on my poem, tweaking, trimming, and adding, I’ve decided to post my work in progress. Since the initial draft was long, I broke it down to three sections. This way the reader will be privy to my creative methods and style of editing which was agreed upon between me and Bambi Here.
The first entry is the second draft of the first segment with Bambi Here content edits in parenthesis or indicated by an asterisk , followed with the third draft with my rewrite and edits. At this point we are just concentrating on the content and its artistic wellbeing. We decided not to get bugged down by copy editing and formatting at this point. I hope this experiment be useful to those who are interested in the artistic endeavor.
Thank you again for visiting my website, and I welcome your comments, suggestions, and questions.
DIARY OF A FAILED POET
These days my dark moods
Are of low energy nature.
Slow rising smokey ribbons of sorrow
Growing out of thin air
Encompasses my world
And starts to grow inward.
At first, they feel soft and silky.
One might think with grief
Comes obsoletion.
But not always.
*Add image moment
(What does the bed look like, the clock is ticking,
a prop, bedding, my head is killing me, etc. )
Like a bad horror movie
The soft and silky ribbons
Turn into a long, thick rope,
And it spoons my soul
In its tight grip,
Breathing its nightmares
In and out of my dreams.
What a cruel lover?
*Do more Lost World for this section
It’s morning and I’m awake.
Awake from its cruel touch
I face my grief
Eye to hollow eyes.
“I watched you dream,” he whispers.
*Tiny Image Moment here.
“I’m going mad.” I close my eyes.
*Develop the dialogue. Who is “he”
I sink into my bedding.
I ignore its presence.
I feel its grip spooning my soul again.
I drift off.
I feel its hollow gaze at me.
With its mouth wide open,
I open my eyes.
There it is,
Hovering over me,
Like a wanting lover,
A foul breathed
Wanting lover,
Who doesn’t take no for an answer.
My grief looks hungrier than ever.
Foul breathed than ever.
I feel a lump in my throat.
I close my eyes.
Don’t want to deal with sadness.
Not just yet.
But my bladder doesn’t care.
I swallow the lump,
As I sit on the toilet.
I wish I could release my sorrows
The way I release my human waste.
Down into the core of the planet.
“You half -wit piece of shit,” I say to myself,
“As if you’re not polluting the planet enough.”
“Fuck you and your sorrows.”
“Get up and get on with your pitiful life.”
I’m in a dark mood today,
No matter how many times
I gulp down the lumps of sorrows,
With each meaningless pep talk,
And force the white light
Unto me
Through my crown chakra,
A dark veil made of sorrows
Wraps itself around me
And kills all the rainbow
Within me.
Grief is gripping.
“You ignored me for too long.” It hisses at me.
I shrug away the smokey ghost,
“Not now,” I say to it.
“Life must go on. One must not stop moving.”
*Who us speaking here.
“Idleness is grief’s codependent,
“Together they swallow the one whole.”
“The ultimate cannibalism,” I say to myself.
I’m in a dark mood today.
But I swallow the lump
And dress my self
In a militant color
Hunter green utility sweatpants,
And tank top.
A straw hat on,
Sunglasses on,
A sublime music on,
*What music?
Always a mask on—
Always a mask on—
Always a mask on.
I leave the house,
For my routine walk.
I like routine.
Routine is good.
Routine grounds me.
Routine is a crutch
For my wobbly soul.
The subline music
Repeats its beats and melodies.
*Details of what you see on your walk
I give myself to the repeating beat
As I merge onto Ventura Blvd.
I’m trying to go with the flow
But the grief teeth’s glows grow.
“You cannot ignore me for long,” it says.
I feel a jab
In a tiny blood cell
Right in the middle of a heartbeat.
I dismiss the pain.
“Hey monkey brain pay attention to the breathing.”
“Yes, yes must focus.”
“Breath in. Breath out.”
Then I stop breathing.
I see the face of my estranged
Youngest sibling.
It’s been years.
*Describe how your sister looks.
Why has she lost her faith?
More info.
She has lost her faith
In me.
I don’t blame her.
I was too crazy.
Too unpredictable.
Too angry,
To understand her.
•Another “To….
At Motel 6 where she resides now
My sister said,
“I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
I looked into her pale golden green eyes.
There was no sparkle in them.
No optimism, no trust.
It was then that I knew
It was too late.
*More details about that.
More about your sister.
What was her pain/trust.
*End quote here to close the Image Moment.
And with knowledge comes darkness.
What’s life without trust
Nothing but loveless
Slow death.
My beautiful baby sister
Gave up on us.
“How couldn’t I see her pain?”
“How inadequate, how thoughtless I was.”
“How cruel.”
When she married a man,
I disapproved of.
I shunned her.
Or when she came to me
Confused, disoriented, and in need of a rock,
I wobbled and refused her.
“I can’t deal with crazy,” I told her.
* More info about your refusal
“You need to seek professional help.” I advised.
And I feel another jab
Right in the middle
Of a heartbeat.
DIARY OF A FAILED POET
These days my dark moods
Are of low energy nature.
Slow rising smokey ribbons
made of sorrow
Growing out of thin air
Encompass my world
And start to grow expand inward.
At first, they feel soft and silky.
Every night,
I lay in my daybed
And succumb to their softness,
Hoping for Absolution.
The room is dark
But not as dark as me.
The lit porch casts a yellow hue
Into my tiny room.
From time to time,
A car passes by
And stirs the shadows.
I close my eyes
To the dancing shadows.
The ceiling fan rotates on low speed
and hums,
the perfect white noise
to fall asleep to.
But sleep comes by hard
these days,
Because not always
With grief
Comes absolution.
One might think with grief
Comes obsoletion
In my sleep,
-If it comes at last-
Like a bad horror movie
The soft and silky ribbons
Turn into a long, thick rope,
And it spoons my soul
In its tight grip,
Breathing its nightmares
In and out of my dreams.
What a cruel lover
this grief is,
what a sadist,
what a possessive force.
Sometimes I think
He’ll never let go of me.
Like a jealous lover,
He’ll diminish me
One tear at the time. *Do more Lost World for this section
It’s morning and I’m awake.
Awake from its his cruel touch
I open my eyes.
I face my grief
Eye to hollow eyes. *Develop the dialogue. Who is “he”
“I watched you dream,” he whispers.
“Oh, it’s you again.” I say to my grief.
The ceiling fan hums
And ruffles the curtains.
“Who else?” He says.
The nearby freeway hums
Reminding me
Everything is normal.
“Everything is not normal.” The grief snickers,
“All is a big fat illusion.”
“Like your childhood memories.”
“A big fat illusion.”
The next-door neighbor’s
air conditioner hums
And makes me shiver.
I face my grief
Eye to hollow eyes.
“What do you want from me?” I say.
“You own me already.” I say.
“And I own you.” I say.
And I see
Tears well up
In my lover’s hollow eyes.
“I’m going mad.” I say.
I close my eyes
I sink into my bedding.
I try to ignore its his presence.
I feel its his grip spooning my soul again.
“I won’t let go.” The grief whispers.
The ceiling fan hums
And stirs a cool air
Down my naked back.
I drift off.
I feel its his hollow gaze at me,
With its his mouth wide open.
I open my eyes.
There it he is,
Hovering over me,
Like a wanting lover,
A foul breathed
Wanting lover,
Who doesn’t take no for an answer.
My grief looks hungrier than ever.
Foul breathed than ever.
And sadder than ever.
I feel a lump in my throat.
I close my eyes.
Don’t want to deal with sadness.
Not just yet.
But my bladder doesn’t care.
I swallow the lump,
As I sit on the toilet.
I wish I could release my sorrows
The way I release my human waste.
Down into the core of the planet.
“You half -wit piece of shit,” I say to myself,
“As if you’re not polluting the planet enough.”
“Fuck you and your sorrows.”
“Get up and get on with your pitiful life.”
I’m in a dark mood today,
No matter how many times
I gulp down the lumps of sorrows,
With each meaningless pep talk,
And force the white light
Unto me
Through my crown chakra,
A dark veil made of sorrows
Wraps itself around me
And kills all the rainbow
Within me.
Grief is gripping.
“You ignored me for too long.” It He hisses at me.
I shrug away the smokey ghost,
“Not now,” I say.
“Life must go on.” I tell myself.
“One must not stop moving.”
*Who us speaking here.
“Idleness is grief’s codependent,
“Together they swallow the one whole.”
“The ultimate cannibalism,” I say to myself.
I’m in a dark mood today.
But I swallow the lump
And dress my self
In a militant color
Hunter green utility sweatpants,
And tank top.
A straw hat on,
Sunglasses on,
A sublime, 432 Hz
Binaural music on *What music?
Always a mask on—
Always a mask on—
Always a mask on.
I leave the house,
For my routine walk.
I like routine.
Routine is good.
Routine grounds me.
Routine is a crutch
For my wobbly soul.
The sublime music
Repeats its beats and melodies. *Details of what you see on your walk
I give myself to the repeating beat
As I merge onto Ventura Blvd.
I’ve been living a good life
in these necks of the woods.
The Blvd,
Went through changes
Since I moved here
Three decades ago.
Office buildings
And restaurants
Were built over night,
Over abandoned car lots.
Over abandoned bowling allies.
Over an abandoned way of life.
I’m trying to go with the flow
But the grief teeth’s glow grows.
“You cannot ignore me for long,” it he says.
I feel a jab
In a tiny blood cell
Right in the middle of a heartbeat.
I dismiss the pain.
I lower my mask
And take a deep breath.
The stale smell of the recent fire
penetrates the core of my olfactory nerves.
Its smokey memories
Add another layer of darkness
To my mood.
I decide to walk
Up on the hilly Neighborhood
Of the South Side of the Blvd.
The posh and the lush
Royal Hills Estates
Provides more oxygen
For my asthmatic lungs.
I don’t have to walk
Too long to get there.
On the first steep road
I pause and remove my mask
And breath in deep.
The air is chilled.
It smells of pine,
Moss, and burnt firewood.
It almost feels like fall.
And I almost enjoy the freshness.
I take another deep breath.
I feel the lump in my throat.
Grief back stabs my heart.
My eyes tear up behind
The tainted visors.
And my mask
Quenches them
As they roll down.
“I told you I’m not letting go.” The grief hissed.
“Not now.” I plea.
I sniff back my tears.
“Hey monkey brain pay attention to the breathing.”
Got to calm the monkey brain.
“Yes, yes must focus.” I say.
“Breath in. Breath out.” I say.
Then I stop breathing.
I see the face of my estranged
Youngest sibling,
As I saw her
A year ago
On a windy fiery
October night,
She called me frightened.
“I’m scared.” She said.
“I’ll be there.” I said.
I bolted out
And I headed
Towards fire stricken
Ventura county.
I found her
At Motel 6,
Where she’s been
Spending her life
Bewildered
Bewildered
Bewildered.
She looked pale
And gaunt.
All skin and bones.
Her pleading pale green eyes
Were scared and psychotic.
She hugged me tight
Crushing my ribs.
As if she wanted to make sure,
I was real.
I spent a night with her.
She spooned me
All the way
Into the dawn.
That was the last time
She hugged me.
And somehow,
I knew.
It’s been years. *Describe how your sister looks.Why has she lost her faith?More info.
She has lost her faith
In me.
I don’t blame her.
She thought me wise,
But I wasn’t.
Neither I was understanding
Or compassionate.
I just pretended.
Deep in my psyche
I was too crazy.
Too unpredictable.
Too angry,
To understand her.
To empathize •Another “To….
The day after
That fiery and windy
Late October night,
In her tiny room at Motel 6
where she resides
with her psychosis subsided
with a clearer mind,
recoiling my touch,
My sister said,
“I don’t trust anyone anymore. Do you?”
I looked into her pale golden green eyes.
There was no sparkle in them.
No optimism, no trust.
There was only distain
There was only disgust
There was only divorcement
From the rest of the humanity.
It was then that I knew
It was too late.
She was far gone.
*More details about that.
More about your sister.
What was her pain/trust.
*End quote here to close the Image Moment.
And with knowledge comes darkness.
What’s life without trust
Nothing but loveless
Slow death.
My beautiful baby sister
Gave up on us.
“How couldn’t I see her pain?”
“How inadequate, how thoughtless I was.”
“How cruel.”
When she married a man
I disapproved of,
I scolded her
I ridiculed her,
I shunned her.
When she came to me
-Going through divorce
From the second marriage,
Surviving eight miscarriages,
Surviving our parents deaths,
Surviving her first divorce,
Surviving eight years of war,
Surviving the scene
Of bullet riddled body
of her favorite teacher
laying at her feet
on the school’s sacred ground-
When she came to me
After all she went through
Confused, disoriented, and in need of a rock,
I wobbled and refused her.
“I can’t deal with crazy,” I told her. * More info about your refusal.
“You need to seek professional help.” I advised.
But it wasn’t what I said
Pisses me off
of myself.
It was how I said it.
With frustration
With impatience
With a low -grade
Misunderstood rage.
As usual I came across
Crass and uncouth
Cutting off
The life line
my little sister
imagined I could offer
Shattering all hopes.
And I feel another jab
Right in the middle
Of a heartbeat.
New Entries
Hi there again,
Today is Jan.19 2021. I’ve decided to break down my poem further into smaller and semi independent series of poems. Below you’ll find the first instalment.
DIARY OF A FAILED POET
That’s How July Nights Of Twenty Twenty Went.
These days my dark moods
are of low energy nature.
Slow rising smokey ribbons
made of sorrow
growing out of thin air
encompass my world
and expand inward.
At first
they feel soft and silky.
Every night
I lay in my daybed
and succumb to their softness
hoping for absolution.
The room is dark
but not as dark as me.
The lit porch casts a yellow hue
into my tiny room.
From time to time
a car passes by
and stirs the shades.
I close my eyes
to the dancing shadows.
The ceiling fan rotates on low speed
and hums.
A perfect white noise
to fall asleep to.
But sleep comes by hard these days.
In my sleep
-if it comes at last-
like a bad horror movie
the soft and silky ribbons of sorrow
merge into a long, thick rope
in the shape of a strange man.
He spoons my soul
in his tight grip
and becomes personal.
My very own
personal grief.
He breaths
his nightmares
in and out of my dreams
and owns my night.
What a cruel companion
this grief has become?
These days, I think
he’ll never let go of me.
Like a jealous lover
he’ll diminish me
one tear at the time
in my sleep
and in my waking hours too.
DIARY OF A FAILED POET
This is how my days started in July 2020.
It’s morning and I’m awake.
Awake from his cruel touch.
I open my eyes,
I face my grief,
eye to hollow eyes.
“I watched you dream,” he whispers.
“Oh, it’s you again.” I say to my grief.
The ceiling fan hums,
and ruffles the curtains.
“Who else?” He says.
The nearby freeway hums,
reminding me
everything is normal.
“Everything is not normal.” The grief snickers,
“All is a big fat illusion.”
“Like your childhood memories.”
“A big fat illusion.”
The next-door neighbor’s
air conditioner hums
and makes me shiver.
I face my grief.
Eye to hollow eyes.
“What do you want from me?” I say.
“You own me already.” I say.
“And I own you.” I say.
And I see
tears well up
In my lover’s hollow eyes.
“I’m going mad.” I say.
I close my eyes.
I sink into my bedding.
I try to ignore his presence.
I feel his grip spooning my soul again.
“I won’t let go.” The grief whispers.
The ceiling fan hums,
and stirs a cool air,
down my naked back.
I drift off.
I feel his hollow gaze at me,
With his mouth wide open.
I open my eyes.
There he is,
hovering over me,
like a wanting lover.
A foul breathed,
wanting lover,
who doesn’t take no for an answer.
My grief looks hungrier than ever.
Foul breathed than ever.
And sadder than ever.
I feel a lump in my throat.
I close my eyes.
Don’t want to deal with sadness.
Not just yet.
But my bladder doesn’t care.
I swallow the lump,
As I sit on the toilet.
I wish I could release my sorrows
the way I release my human waste
down into the core of the planet.
“You half -wit piece of shit,” I say to myself,
“As if you’re not polluting the planet enough.”
“Fuck you and your sorrows.”
“Get up and get on with your pitiful life.”
I’m in a dark mood today,
no matter how many times
I gulp down the lumps of sorrows
with each meaningless pep talk,
and force the white light unto me
through my crown chakra.
A dark veil made of sorrows
wraps itself around me
and kills all the rainbow
within me.
Grief is gripping.
I’m in a dark mood today.
But I swallow the lump
and dress my self
in a militant color
hunter green utility sweatpants,
and tank top.
A straw hat on,
sunglasses on,
a sublime, 432 Hz
Binaural music on
Always a mask on—
Always a mask on—
Always a mask on.
I leave the house,
for my routine walk.
I like routine.
Routine is good.
Routine grounds me.
Routine is a crutch
For my wobbly soul.
But routine also brings back the grief.
Walking besides me
mocking and teasing
with the memories
of the lost times
and lost opportunities
to mend the hearts I’ve broken
relationships I ignored
and loved ones I’ve lost.
Who’s memories my grief
would remind me this day?
It’s all for the grab.