not letting go

the man kept wringing.
the last few droplets fell
and only moisture remained.
but the man kept wringing.

his hands were white now,
veins popping out an inch.
beads of sweat fell from his brow
he kept wringing long past normalcy.

she begged him to stop,
this man she once loved.
but he was unrelenting
and simply would not let go.

he kept wringing the heart,
eventually risking a tear.
he let go of the shriveled thing,
watched it beat once, and left.

the queen of omilia

the queen of omilia sleeps naked,
at least her servants tell me so.
for i haven't witnessed it -
'twould be sin to see a toe.

yet they have not either,
seen a single leg or breast.
only her clothes are evidence,
she enters dreams undressed.

they lie on floor beside her,
as sheets wrap around her frame.
yet none can touch her body -
what a travesty! what a shame!

yet one for no man, dirty mind,
'tis a sadness only for one.
a burden she must carry,
while we all carry none.

my life is made up of chapters,
all inside an assortment of books.
one is clean and tidy,
with extra large font.
another is black and formidable,
with a chain lock forming an X.
a certain book is stained blood-red
with torn pages and smeared ink.
and yet another is orderly and green,
but nothing is written in that book.

where is the book with frilly laces,
and hearts drawn in page corners?
with cupid acting as publisher
of its thick, massive volume?
and photos - lots of photos -
too many to fit on the pages...

the answer is quite easy:
i simply haven't written it yet.

the things i don't do in a day

i don't get up immediately when my alarm goes off. i don't turn on the lights and open up my curtains. i don't shave in the morning. i don't eat breakfast. i don't drink coffee. i don't carefully select what i wear.

i don't talk to anyone before class. i don't talk to anyone after class. i don't eat lunch with anybody. i don't let that bother me. i don't try to start conversations. i don't take my time going from place to place.

i don't call someone i might like. i don't tell my family i love them. i don't tell my friends i appreciate them. i don't remember to call my grandparents. i don't eat dinner with anybody.

i don't do homework late at night. i don't kiss anyone before going to bed. i don't tuck anyone in. i don't pray. i don't get a good night's sleep. i don't get up immediately when my alarm goes off.

--

While the things we -don't- do can seem negative, they can help to show us what we need to work on.

in riddles and rhymes
i practice my craft,
from the final copy,
to the very first draft.

a spark, an idea,
love for a person or thing.
writing it is the pleasure,
reading is just a fling.

if i'm sad the sky is dark,
but happy if rain pours down.
i'd be glad to get wet,
and i'd even be happy to drown.

so won't you love me?
if i love you in return?
of course not, silly -
love is something you earn.

does not a starving man die,
if he is too patient for food?
or a thirsty man perish
if he waits too long to drink?

then why must i wait
if patience could kill me,
driving from the inside out
that abhorring, dark force?

who will suppress it,
if not me?
i think i know -
but "shh," it's a secret.

voice mail

he was so angry with himself
as he listened to the message again.
she had called to remind him of something,
which irritated him at the time.

she ended with "i love you,"
before hanging up the phone.
it was out of habit and luck
that he didn't delete it right away.

a few weeks later,
she died in an accident,
and he mourned for days
and weeks and years.

he knows he must let go,
to delete the last scrap
of her existence
she left him before she passed.

clutching his cell tight,
he listened to it again,
finger hovering over delete,
before failing yet again.

allow me the pleasure of going back. several years ago, in fact, around seventh or eighth grade, possibly sixth, but if it began that early i cannot be sure.

it was lunch time. as typical of my school the classrooms of three different sections, a, b and c went to lunch at different times. it just so happened that my section was last, and overflowed on to a table that floated separate from the others like an exclusive island.

of course, only the most popular inhabited said island. the table had 8 circle seats that were much too small. i believe on the first day, if memory serves correct, i sat at that table. but of the 8 seats there were 9. i forget what the extra did that day. i think he may have pulled up a chair, or sat at the normal table, with just normal people that were made fun of at this little paradise.

nevertheless, it came to pass that the next day when i arrived at this table, which consisted of what i would at the time have considered friends, all 8 seats were filled. alas, it was voted on in this silent ritual that i would be the one to leave the table, for there were never open seats again.

i went and ate with the normal people, peons of the social world, and found many of them to be most enjoyable. some were even quite funny. so on one particular day of no particular importance, when i was asked if i would like to sit at the highest court of the cafeteria with only the noblest lords, one of who was apparently ill, i deferred. i received a most queer look. it was a hint of "you're joking right?" with a tint of "are you sure?"

they ate with 7 at the table that day, and i made new friends.

and that, boys and girls, is pretty much the story of my life.