She wrote with sound and fury. She wrote like a Warrior Poet, and she won her freedom.
The beauty of a daffodil
lies in my Mother’s hands.
Mom’s palm
is fast to calm any grief.
Mom’s passing went so fast and so slow
but silently none the less.
Oh God, my dear God, how do I make it through this.
I have my Mom’s hands; they make daisies beautiful.
Away above the clouds she dwelled
until slumber I took.
In her left hand, she grasped a plain, wooden bowl
In her right, an ornate, porcelain vase.
In dark, I slept in terrors as her lengthy arms fell from the sky
Grasping the bowl down my throat, she scooped me out.
Misery, we shared.
But, as the day began to creep back in,
her magical potions of clear, cool water caressed me through with joy and jubilation. Dig me deep and fill me up, my wise, wizened Mother.
Is it the left hand or the right tonight?
Like every night, it’s both.
I drank a cup of poison today
opened her up and slewed her down.
And, all of the folk who wished me harm,
regretted there wishes and were over come with a mass of frowns.
I said I drank a cup of poison today
would have eaten it if I could
But, I knew that drink was all my tummy would take,
Otherwise, gnashing I would.
You drank some, too, my dear ones
And, agreed that it’s better than guns…
except in a true duel
Cannot breathe
Sheets smell of a two day continuous fart gala
Eeeww!…He flicked a booger on me that he had balled up like a balloon.
I have become a waste can for fresh, newly picked boogers.
How do you get raped while the rapist picks his nose?
You remember the punishment that will befall you next time Mom and dad are away.
Between the tears and his sweat your Tweey Bird nightie is drenched and a full breath is impossible.
He’s so scrawny yet feels like a boulder on your chest.
Rolling off of me, he does a gymnastic type dance and is on the floor.
“Get out of my bed, slut” he remarks in a sneering yet comical way,
but you can still get the hint that he means business.
I was eight.
She’s a no good harlot!
She’s possessed with evil intent.
She paints her face and wears improper clothes.
But, the winds scream Mary.
Why is she this way?
No one but she and her God know what happened to her.
One act of kindness from the Right Person-
She is healed.
And, the wind whispered Mary
My Catholic named is Mary Magdalene.
I know her pain and see through the lies.
Her invisible scars speak to me.
And, I cry MARY!
*giant nod to Jimi
Curling my fingers around you like a Twizzler in my hand,
Chewing off the top and bottom carefully as not to be noticed.
A deep inhale brings a sigh of relief and a pang of worry.
You infiltrating my lungs as if long lost friends,
Sighing out the vapor is bittersweet-I don’t want to say goodbye but I want to say hello again and again and again…
How will I stop;
When will it end?
Momma scoured the house every night
making sure the windows were closed and locked tight.
Like nails in a coffin.
What she didn’t realize was that she was locking the evil in-
as dad watched tv and wore out the carpet just itching his feet.
Was it in my genes
To be like you?
To lie, to maim, to kill,
you did atrocities for sport;
I committed them for survival.
Survival from you, your family, your kind-
I never meant to cause pain.
Now, I am haunted and hunted by those I loved the most.
Should I go and drink the charcoal
or stay home and eat the burnt toast?
How innocent is a flower
after being plucked a half dozen times?
Or a snowflake that has already melted
on a tongue?
How rosy are the cheeks
of a Holocaust survivor during their camping trip?
Or a worn to the bone mother of nine
who can’t recall which end of the blush brush
paints her pale skin haunting
her prominent cheekbones?
How many pens can a victim use
to tell what you have done ?
Or pages of paper-tear stained paper?
How many hells will you endure
before and after your death?
I don’t care.
As I stand trying,
the world goes on around me.
Little do I know what happens next.
I am loved by about three people in the universe.
Which is fine for most,
but not for me.
I want to be cherished and radically loved-
not for the potential but for the me.
I love but do not feel loved.
Yes, this is possible!
I am a burden to many,
loved by few, tossed and turned by the waves of life.
My depression breaks down the door.
Doors are just the polite way of coming in.
When is my turn
Or did I miss it?
I know I live in this house to learn,
but, please, let school be over.
I have tried beyond belief.
Punishing me; let this time be over!!!
I have learned.
Let school be over.
Let my freedom bells ring.
Let there be peace today!
Thank you for reading! I hope that you have an amazing day!!♥️♥️♥️
Susan Awakening 