Killer

Indelible memories,
Thick as thieves,
Overtake me.
I will never change.
I am a passive aggressor,
Striking blows
My victim knows
Nothing of.
I will not make him whimper or weep.
Only an explosion and promises I choose not to keep
Will destroy him.
But there will be no lasting pain.
I am a killer.
I am always the same.

Pickled grey matter

The tears I don’t cry

get backed up into my brain

and come out as words instead.

Around and around they roll,

taking their toll.

Till I pour them out onto paper,

I can’t tell what I really think.

Too much chaos occurring

For me to connect the links.

I don’t know how to feel

and it messes me up

and my stomach aches

and I don’t eat

and the only thing I want is sleep.

All because of words that float in my

brain and tears that refuse

to fall, instead becoming

stagnant fluid, preserving

a hysterical mind forever.

Christina’s world

This was written after I had seen the painting of the same name by the artist Andrew Wyeth, which you can see for yourself here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina’s_World.  I did not know the background on the painting at the time, but the image inspired me to write the following:

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Christina sits on the side of the hill

Yearning for someone she loves still.

She’s grown so thin and so frail

with the wanting of a lover that had gone stale.

Nothing moves, nothing stirs,

we all know he should have been hers.

Nothing moves, not even the wind.

There’s a smiling sun.  Nobody sinned.

The only living thing in view,

besides the grass, it’s alive too,

and so, so tall, nobody to tame it.

The world’s so pale where Christina sits.

The earth is pale and so is the sky,

and breathes with one thought: Why? Why?

So glad she wasn’t here yesterday,

His things shipped off, there are bills to pay.

The horses they rode are gone from the pasture.

The dog may be dead, nobody’s quite sure.

The furniture, clothing, all gone from inside.

So glad Christina chose to hide

from the busy, busy moving of his things,

from the workers who had songs to whistle and to sing.

In a moment, she will stand and walk away.

With him gone, there’s no reason for her to stay.

She looks on things now only to pay homage because

she wants to remember the way that it was.

Not the way that things now seem

does she want to think of in her dreams,

but in the way she used to know

with sun shining or moon aglow,

wrapping Christina in his arms,

in no danger, fearing no harm.

Now she stands and walks away.

Since there’s no reason for her to stay.

Nothing moves, nothing cries,

she wipes the hair out of her eyes.

Hoping she doesn’t remember it like that,

she leaves the hill where Christina sat.