I didn’t want to fall apart mid-sentence,
So I said less and asked more questions.
Tuned out love songs, skipped our street —
I made avoiding you look complete.

I smile and nod when your name is mentioned,
As if it doesn't pull me out of the conversation
They throw it around casually, like it's not cutting right through —
I guess I never got to cry out about you.

There was once a child
born beneath the sign
of unburial.

She carried too much—
not in arms
but in tethered memory.
Things with no names,
only weights.

A cracked watch
that ticked in reverse.
A button from a coat
that no one had worn
in three generations.

A feather
from a bird
dreamt once
by her grandmother,
never seen again.

She believed—
as those marked by absence do—
that keeping meant remembering,
and remembering meant
nothing would vanish.

Others crossed her path,
offered to help unfasten the straps.
She refused.
They did not know
which talismans bled
and which only looked like wounds.

So she walked.
Through salt seasons,
through bone-rattling frost,
through forests with no floor
and skies that never asked her name.

The bag grew heavier.
She grew cleverer.
Silent.

And then—
on a day that wasn’t special,
under a sun that wasn’t kind—
she set it down.
Not as surrender.
As an experiment.

The earth did not crack.
The ghosts did not scatter.
Her shadow did not abandon her.

She sifted the contents.
Some were dust.
Some were still singing.
Some curled away like dried petals
and begged to be left behind.

She took a key.
She took the bell.
She left the rest
for the moss.

She walked on.

Not lighter, exactly—
but less governed
by the shape
of her grief.

Someone I loved once gave to me
A box of night, no lock, no key.
I held it close with trembling hands
Not knowing then its strange demands.

It whispered cold, it swallowed light
It taught me silence, sleepless nights.
I cursed its weight, I grieved its cost
A symbol of the love I’d lost.

But seasons turned, as seasons do
And cracks let in a deeper truth.
Within that dark, a seed was sown
A strength I never would have known.

Now looking back, I see it clear
The gift was pain, the gift was fear.
But in its heart, a truth would lift
That even sorrow hides a gift.

A bit tired
Casting for inspiration
Soul in there
Soulful
Sad
Separate
From everyone
Trying hard to say something
Acceptable

I am not talented
And I refuse to believe that
I am
I realize this might be a shock, but
Talented,
Is a lie
I am not good enough
In 30 years, I will tell my children that
I have my priorities straight because
Perfect
Is more important than
Trying
I tell you this:
Once upon a time
I tried my best
But this will not be true in my era
Perfect is right
Experts tell me
Perfect is better than trying
I do not conclude that
Trying is more important
In the future,
I will be better than no one
No longer can it be said that
I have talent
It will be evident that
I will never be correct
It is foolish to presume that
I am talented
And all of this will come true unless we reverse it

Each human life is but a raindrop in hurricanes or a stream of sunshine days. Every infant ever born, each breath ever taken, every toddler's many steps, each word ever uttered, every fact ever learned, each friendship ever forged, every delight and sorrow that made us happy or sad, every love that did endear us, each death that we shall mourn--all are integral parts of the whole of countless lives. These moments and millennia are the catalogue raisonne of humanity. There will never be enough books ever written, enough museums ever to capture, enough memories ever shared to achieve a full accounting of what our ancestors experienced or our descendants will discover. Each life, therefore, is a microcosm of all that has been, is, and will be. So remember, live, and envision as best you can, and be thankful you were one of many to feel raindrops and sunshine streams.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

On High

This song, my love—
may it pierce your heart like silver-moon earrings,
the pair I clasped beneath your hair.
Close your eyes now,
and let me lift you—
let me hold you on high,
let me hold you on high.

Out where Kansas wheat outshines the stars,
we’ll tread those golden oceans;
and even if forgiveness falters,
my heart will still rise, wide and free, to love you.

Over and over—over and over—
red Georgia peaches, warm on the tongue,
Florida beaches, wave upon wave:
I’ll write you a new refrain
to carry us home, to sweep us clean,
while diamonds at dusk
wait patient on the shore.

So let Chicago’s sunrise blaze you back to life—
let dawn’s red hymn baptize your dreaming eyes.
Then breathe me in, cling tight,
like a California midnight that swears
the night is ours alone.
As sure as the ring on your finger,
let this moment be—
a hush held only by you and me.

And if your heart grows hard,
let us return to one—
let me rest again where the silver crescents shine.
Let me hold you on high,
let me hold you on high.

December is Darkness

November is what's coming

October is the magic that prepares us for them both

Admire them from afar,
Like the beautiful star they are.
You want to feel them close,
But is it worth it?

Your eyes will melt,
And your skin will burn.
You will turn into dust,
While they keep on shining and sinning
With their mere existence.

Is the cost of turning into ashes worth it,
Just to feel them close for a brief moment?
Where their brightness makes your irises explode,
And the heat makes your soul melt?

Is it all worth it,
Knowing you will suffer and see your timeline end,
While this is just another of many memories,
Part of their existence?

Old habits stick
Like I'm covered in glue
It makes me sick
I can't get them off
No matter what I do

They stain my hands
Stick to my skin
They're outside of me
And within

I try to peel
To scrub and change
But healing and growth
Still feels strange

Walking down the edge of a moonlit beach
I feel the cool sands shifting beneath my feet

Father once warned me to stay clear of the sea
But I’m already drowning, what difference is it to me?

The breeze runs through my hair.
I hear the crashing of waves, and smell salt in the air.

I walk slowly to the waters edge, ankle deep in the tide.
The waters wash against my skin and send chills down my spine

It’s but gentle reminder, of what is to come - and my only escape, from the things that I’ve done.

I’m up to my neck now, and there’s no turning back
The moonlight fades out and my vision goes black

I feel a sigh of relief as I release my last breath
And let the seas take me, into the darkest of depths.

< for the one who didn’t >

The tomatoes hang eaten.
Some rodent, maybe.
The cayenne doesn't work,
just burns the air I breathe.

Knees swell.
The doctor?
I haven’t called.

This is the small life
we once smirked about.

Summer again.
No mercy.
Too much.
Too bright.

Lately, I forget:
the grigio in the freezer
the last message,
why I opened the drawer.

Lately, I drop things,
envelopes, keys,
my grip softening
with everything.

You said,
“That’s what old looks like.”
But you didn’t get here.

We stay,
we wait,
for mail,
for quiet,
for a name to light the screen.

Oceanside,
in shopfront glass,
I glimpse my portrait
eyes storming, squinted,
shirt caught on wind.
And I ache,
to be so
briefly
here.

The dangerous thing for me is that I would die and excruciating death a thousand times just to make them smile once
And then I'll apologize if my screams from getting burned alive disrupted their sleep

Sorry you did not like it
But that is how I am dealing with a situation never expected but must accept
Long friendship has become Debnie Downer.

Only two people
have no flaws in the whole world
newly in love, both.

Waste is flowed into the streams,
into the gutters of reality realms
and our noses HELD to the homeless,
Go to work and wear your helms,
until this too becomes your fate,
Androids will spree over the gates,
And in time comes the Corp wars.
The future is AI, and your children
sadly don't understand private armies
will take over this miserable world.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                               The I.T. Department Goes Wild

We are subject to the whims of every I.T. blighter
But never have we heard
That Hemingway was locked out of his own typewriter

I've had a myriad of failed relationships
each one tore my heart open
but this one is different
however, not in a good way
they're so distant and cold
more like an acquaintance
than a partner
but maybe they need time
I'm trying to not overthink it
but ala, I am failing

The best part of waking up






is picking my nose
and rolling all my gooey boogers up
into one big ball,
an amalgamation of snot and crust,
then flicking it off
and trying to get it to stick
up on that one spot on the ceiling.

Y'know, that one slightly darkened spot
just above my *** stained desk
downstairs in the back room?

It's down there next to all those
empty Jim Beam bottles, well
I mean they're not empty anymore
because I keep filling them up with ****.
But they used to be empty at one point,
actually I guess they've been empty twice;
once before the factory added the liquor
and then again after I drank all the liquor
but before I added the ****.

I digress,
you get it.

The ****** spot on the ceiling.

Good morning. 🌞

Girl, run, run, run and chase your dreams
Never ever stop, no matter how hard it seems
You just keep flowing like a gentle stream
Keep stepping ahead and build your own theme

This life is a script — you write it on your own
Storms may rise, but you keep your power on
Through every hardship, after all, you have grown
Stand tall and brave — you’re never alone

Just run, run, run till you reach the destination
Keep moving forward with strong determination
This journey is yours — your proud creation
In the end, don’t forget to crown it with celebration
@Smita writes

we lerned how to play,
one letter at a time or
they gets stuck.

badly.

Throw her out
Close the doors
Change the lock
Destroy all evidence
Upgrade your disguises
Stay in hiding until...
Forever.    
If someone asks...
You lie
And lie
And lie
And lie
And then
Maybe the lie becomes you and
you become the the lie
If no one asks...
You cry
And cry
And cry
And cry
And cry
And then
maybe you wish you never
trained yourself like a spy
Here's your new identity.
Get cought
And you die.
(You'll most likely
Die either way, but
If your going to die
Might as well do it
With dignity.)
From now on
Your on your own.

(Good luck.)

You don't have to be president to have a first lady in your life.
It could be your mother or your wife.
Or someone you seriously like.

But you do have to treat her right.
Respect her during days or nights.
Remember, this the first lady in your life.

She is your royal jewel.
A priceless commodity with various qualities.
Yes, a pure living dream.

The same first lady you imagine she would be.
Least in your life.
Yes, the hi-light in your imagination.

One you can call a sweet sensation.

Shinning bright
in the misty night,
the only light
in sight;—
From your polished
face, I waited
once for long.
Like a song
it ended, leaving
you on my sighing
bare hands.
In the distant lands
my fame grew;—
Not a single dew
drop I saw
in my raw
life.
But why?
I cried;—
Why did
you left my
heart lie,
made of
tough;
grey steel—
Still warm
from the fire
you never meant
to stay?