WRITTEN BY @heidivansauce

Isn’t it so terrible?

Isn’t life so hard?

Aren’t you so unloveable?

Isn’t Earth so charred?

Isn’t your mother nearing fifty

And aren’t you nearing twenty?

And don’t the rich convey their riches?

Though they have a-plenty

Isn’t money just faux power we accrue?

Don’t you hate your hair and face

Don’t they disagree with you?

Didn’t last month feel like decades?

And doesn’t this one too?

I’m in my golden age

My girlhood’s well and gone

When I’m in my silver age

Will I still be so forlorn?

Share thesunshinechronicles

Art by: @ANGELAIFEE

I should like to promise the world will see my agony– feel it

beneath their skin–

Eyes swelling up and hands shaking just so slightly–

Strumming this decade-old guitar– retirement collected behind

this curtain–

This this this– This is where I am shoving my emotions

in front of you–

See her? See that there?

I should promise her innocence– I should I should–

I should paint this grief–

Blues and greens and the fur in that bag– Sorry dear we usually

have different

containers– this will do, yes? Your son? In this bag?

Feeling is within my chest– feeling the textures and graphs of his life–

The screams and pants and scratches– it is Green

Darks and lights on canvas

It is not pretty

But it is him and it is life and death and the in between

and here is where that woman is stepping on stage left

the curtian was not positioned correctly and I cannot promise

that my agony will recall his cue

So if you paid for front row seats I am sorry to disappoint But this is a promise I cannot keep.

Share

Flowers look into me

I know

in a blur decision

we cannot get distracted

for longings

only quiet understanding

Powerful passion

life seems to

haunt my light’s wound

Fantasies always go

in clusters

autopsies of an afternoon

that still leaves

Then

look for the moon

taste the sun

and with. casual remain

wait

Share

To feed the man: abrupt grunts

To feed the man: caressed absences

To feed the man: winged bristles in the air

To feed the man: a burp and maybe even a slurp

To feed the man: a lady to rest,

To confide in, the respect of splinters.

“Everyday” oil paint by: DUSTIN WILSON

Share

Subscribe now