Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Patron Saint of Painful Regrets

You are my home.

Though you elude me,

I am still thawed,

awed by your warmth.

Gazing,

glimpsing at your form,

never forgetting the way you towered over a trembling child,

that was lost to the loneliness of life.

You are miraculous snowfall,

sent from God,

to replace my mistakes,

keeping me safe,

inside a crypt,

where I can recover,

doves dancing on my lips,

as I sleep sweetly.

I asked you once,

if you’d forgive me,

but I wonder,

if I can forgive myself?

I wonder if I deserve damnation,

for all the things,

I always thought I’d never do.

I wanted to be young forever,

the way you remember,

the way you saw me last,

when life was just learning,

and growing.

I want to be pure,

but I’m afraid,

there is no such thing.

The knives in my sides,

are not Roman,

but of my own making.

You are my home,

but I don’t know

if I’ll ever return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Toyland

Summer seeps through the spokes,
of your baby blue bicycle wheels.
From the sidewalk,
I stare,
through long lashes,
and tinted glasses,
a popsicle in my pastel pout.

I hope you’ll fall,
graze your knee,
tumbling in my direction,
so I can peek,
through tinted glasses,
and eager eyes,
at what you hide,
in your toy chest.

Take me to Toyland,
on the very next train.
Wind in the white ribbons,
my mother hoped could keep me pure,
as we lean out the window,
making faces at the future.

I’m tentatively tempted,
to give in to growing up.
Discovery is a toy for two,
but once we play,
we can never return,
to being just friends,
or being just strangers,
or being untouched,
by the claws of candy concupiscence.

pexels-photo-1056555

You lay out the board,
like you’ve done this before.
Mystic, merry, mistakes are made,
your intentions spilled in my lap,
crawling up and down my legs,
as I coax myself from the ceiling,
with promises that nobody will know,
and that all the cool kids are doing it.

Then,
it is done,
and I am torn from the grounds of Toyland.
Marched to the gates,
by beanie babies,
who hold my white dress,
spotted with my innocence,
above my head,
monkeys playing the drums of my demise.

I can never return again,
and I don’t have your heart,
to remember you by,
because you only wanted to play,
for the afternoon.


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