Pain

If pain can be measured
How would it be?
It’s value unknown
Pain is a secret
Spoken only by a soul
Sleeping in sickness
Not one shall pass
From this life and beyond 
Without its embrace
There are clinics and pills
Remedies and therapies
The frowned faces
Pouring in their doors
And lotions and shamans
Pain is invisible 
Like prayers
For folded hands
Much work to do
Pain is never unemployed

Prose

We’ve expired 
With smeared ink
A reminder
To make me think
Our life finite 
In a wink

Lifting tea
Thoughtfully
Pen in hand
Skillfully
A writer’s pose
You expressed
Dislike of prose
Dislike at best

Halting words 
From fine print
Spun inside
My eyes squint
Left unsigned
The paper rot
An intertwined
Twisted plot

I wanted to retract
I wanted to hide
The deed lay stacked
Like groom and bride 

Bleeding on a page
You dislike prose
A treasure cage
From which my hand flows

Word mined  jewels
To hasten your feet
Twin swollen soles
Took to the street

My spools strayed
You descended steps
A heart retrograde 
Where our words wept 

Revels of dismay
An abacus clone
Counting the days
Of numbers unknown

It’s what you now chose
Leaving me alone
With your dislike
Of my pretty prose

Mother

I saw my Mother, today. Some may say that often, for me, the sight is scarce. I sat on the steps, she straddled in pain, the walk  over to me. She looked, like her grandmother, a woman who died when I was a child. Grey and swollen, as if time had rusted, from the inside out. 
I felt like a child, today. Perhaps seeing my future fate. We chatted, about her garden, my father broke his glasses, he was cutting hay today. It’s quite an occurrence, to be bewildered, by one’s own DNA. The one who writhed in my birth, often writhed by my existence. Her body now shrunken, her gait so unsteady. I sat on the steps, she straddled in pain, the walk, away from me; and I felt like a child. 

Pause Button

Why do break ups cause an internal pain, from which no being born, separated by placenta, can escape? Even the word “break”, a verb meaning to separate into pieces by shock or blow or strain, to interrupt, gives clear indication, this cannot feel good. Break can be a noun, meaning a pause in work or activity.
We have pressed the pause button, permanently. Perhaps, my soul can live better with that definition, we are merely on pause, that way, I can trick my mind and heart into believing this can be resumed one day. Let us claim the noun, let us not be the verb, let us not be broken…how does one live broken? Lord Byron wrote:
“The heart will break, but broken live on. ” is this to give comfort to those who grapple their chests and heave with such strength in pain that this is not terminal? 

Noteworthy – Letters Unsent #2

I poured our pain unto pure white pages. Those words woven and sewn between the lines and veering off blindly in margins, was an antidote to our death.  We are noteworthy.  
Should the world of words not know? Shall it remain unwritten, without characters and commas and cursive motions, to unwind in prose?
 We no longer remain. We are just words now. Bold and stoic, standing at attention on pages, pleading for eyes to salute.
 Find us there, dear, living forever: punctuated, proofread and perfected.

Latest Style

Here
See me now
Complete
All the years
Etched 
In corners
Of eyes and mouth
Little doll
Still sweet
Showing cracks
I still pose 
Painted smile
Pretty dress
Covers most
Here
Take me now
Complete
All the pain
Tucked inside
Still sweet
You can 
Have me 
For awhile
I still pose
In the dark
Latest style
Covers most