the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

She wished her tears could fall as gently as the rain.
Her eyes are almost always sunny, sometimes partly cloudy
But they never rain.
They may sprinkle for a moment but nothing more
Her emotions take over like a category five hurricane
They come in gently in then all at once.
There's a moment in the middle the eye
Where everything is safe and calm for a moment
And that's when she's in therapy.
She feels safe and calm in between four walls,
They're not just any four walls,
They're non judging walls,
they're be herself walls,
They're it's okay to be vulnerable walls,
And most importantly stable walls.
No matter what she brings in between then
They're not going to fall or fail
They'll support and her help shelter her from the storm that's raging outside.
They won't fall fall and crumble and create more chaos
But instead they help her heal and strengthen.
This calm eye of the storm comes once a week in between mostly storms and a few times of sunshine
This oasis is her salvation
For without it she would be lost
Or eve dead.

The words were stuck like a chicken bone in her throat.
They wouldn't go anywhere,
They wouldn't go away back to the hell they were made
But they also wouldn't crawl out
They were lodged
They liked it where they were
They were safe
They couldn't cause anymore harm
They couldn't become a reality
But they could be felt
They were known and couldn't stew
And the feelings that came with them couldn't
Be shoved back down to be ignored.
To be left alone with no one to care for them.
That's what they needed, to be cared for
To be seen, to be heard to be felt.
The feelings
the words
The pain.
That's what they needed.
To be held gently,
To be loved and cared for
But they didn't get it
Because she was afraid
She was afraid of what they might do to her
They weren't going to love and care for her
She felt they were going to hurt her
She didn't know what was going to happen
If she poured them out and laid them on the table
And carefully examined and loved each one.
Tears might fall
Breathing may be lumbered
Shaking may take over
And shame might settle in.
So she swallows them back down
Into the bottle where they're not looked upon
And screws on the cap as tight as she can
And then new begins a new day.
But each new day brings more feelings and thoughts and words
And eventually the bottle can't hold them anymore and it shatters
And they make their way back up to her throat again.
And the cycle repeats.
She's stuck, and so are they.

You think it's okay
But it's not.
Both of our lives
Are racing against the clock
Tick,tick,tick.
And when the big hands on the two.
And the little hands on the three
We're done.
There's no going back.
There's no changing the mistakes we've made.
There's no saying I love you one last time.
There's no taking on more whiff of the fresh cut grass,
Or your favorite perfume.
Tick tick,tick
There's no more adventure.
There's no more heartbreak.
There's no more anything.
We'll.
be.
gone.
Tick, tick, tick
So we need to do it now.
We need to indulge on the gifts we have now.
It's okay to order that piece of cake
It's okay to get that hair cut you love
But everyone else hates.
It's your life not theirs.
Tick,tick,tick
Do something you love
Because you love doing it.
Even if everyone tells you you're wrong.
Because our clock is ticking.
We can't see it.
We don't know if the big hand has almost reached the two.
And if it's almost there
And our time is up.
Did we live the life we wanted to?
Tick,tick,tick.

To cook something beautiful
You need a few unsightly ingredients.
Like to make a cake
You need flour and baking soda
Baking powder, sugar, and a hint of salt
Water and eggs.
They aren't appealing to look at
By themselves
Or even when mixed together.
But when handled right,
And with a little time
Love and care
An oven and a spatula
You conform them into exactly the right shape
And those unsightly ingredients become
A tasty treat,
But what's a cake without frosting?
It's something bigger than what it was.
It's a combination
The frosting makes it more
Visually appealing,
It masks the overly cooked
Side.
Some air pockets from
An inexperienced
Or careless chef.
It's masks imperfections.
You can't force a cake to become perfect.
It needs time,
it needs love,
it needs care.
Dare I say it again,
It needs time,
It needs love,
It needs care.
When the cake
Gets those, and is left alone
To bake,
To think about what it's job is,
To not just be beautiful
Covered in frosting
But without it as well,
You'll have the best ****
Cake you've ever made.
It won't be over done on one side
Or the other,
It won't have air bubbles,
It'll glisten and gleam,
And be pristine.
You'll have a cake
Beautiful
On the inside and out.

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.