“God Bless America.. Land that I…”
Since when did lying become a part of the soldiers’ creed.
I still sleep with the letter that you sent to me 6 months ago…
still smells like the day you left.
Cold and unknown.
You told me to don’t let mom see this because this is for siblings only…
we wore that title like
matching varsity Jackets
and they never went out of style
even when we had to cut
the back out of yours
so you could wear it to your new home.
In an effort to break you they shattered this family.
Your bones have become too brittle
to mend you back into the brother I knew .
They treated you like a burden
But you died like a King.
You wrote
to me in your last week.
I have been holding the mailman hostages,
30 mins, Monday through Saturday,
I know that you wouldn’t
lie to me
They much know you special you were cause they can’t let go of you either.
I will never see silver jewelry boxes the same…
since when did they make one
big enough to fit my hero.
I am still sending you e-mails …
CC’d God just in case you haven’t
stopped running away from bombs….
It reads your little sister misses you…
write back sometimes,
I will be waiting.
But for now
I will looking into the stars,
hold the flag they say is in your honor,
and pretend that the mailman will finally bring me good news.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Hear Me.
He said I was made for him,
knew that I wouldn’t say a word.
He’s confused the absence of voice for acceptance
Pleading for him to stop.
No, in any language should be deafening,
he refused to look at me.
Said I wanted it
and fighting would only make
this last longer.
Feel better.
Wish my eyes were gouge out the same time that my voice was,
Never been unwilling to read lips
felt his swollen lips rake over my skin,
I am sure the surface was distorted by sun along with his sense of family.
Heavy hands wrapped around petite waist,
I was made just for him.
Being your brother’s daughter does not
mean off limits just easier to get to.
Role playing , his favorite weapon.
He, the master
I, the slave.
He always picked rooms with mirrors
coronas capturing every agonizing moment.
Said, seeing us together
in reflections would
turn his sin into our salvation.
I didn’t find any salvation
Just his sweat, mixed with my tears
and a shredded hymens mingles into the same fractures of my childhood.
I didn’t notice when his curled toes and body spasms overwhelmed him.
All I could see was a little girl,
Screaming at me to save her,
I watched as life slowly seeped from
her beautiful brown eyes,
cut wrist to know she still had some left to keep fighting.
These positions and visions are nothing new.
This temple has not been my own since I was 13.
now ,16. Breast and hips are too fully formed
To hide my uncle weekly play dates.
But no one say nothing. No one sees nothing.
I am tired of fighting,
From the life that God thinks I am strong enough for.
But sometimes, I am just a girl named Amanda,
who loves reading, hates math
and looks more and more like the mother that my uncle could never get over.
I want to say:
“Help me”
“Stop”
“No more”
This voice is getting stronger
I live for the day when he will
Finally hear my voice through the cracks of my fingertips and his love.
knew that I wouldn’t say a word.
He’s confused the absence of voice for acceptance
Pleading for him to stop.
No, in any language should be deafening,
he refused to look at me.
Said I wanted it
and fighting would only make
this last longer.
Feel better.
Wish my eyes were gouge out the same time that my voice was,
Never been unwilling to read lips
felt his swollen lips rake over my skin,
I am sure the surface was distorted by sun along with his sense of family.
Heavy hands wrapped around petite waist,
I was made just for him.
Being your brother’s daughter does not
mean off limits just easier to get to.
Role playing , his favorite weapon.
He, the master
I, the slave.
He always picked rooms with mirrors
coronas capturing every agonizing moment.
Said, seeing us together
in reflections would
turn his sin into our salvation.
I didn’t find any salvation
Just his sweat, mixed with my tears
and a shredded hymens mingles into the same fractures of my childhood.
I didn’t notice when his curled toes and body spasms overwhelmed him.
All I could see was a little girl,
Screaming at me to save her,
I watched as life slowly seeped from
her beautiful brown eyes,
cut wrist to know she still had some left to keep fighting.
These positions and visions are nothing new.
This temple has not been my own since I was 13.
now ,16. Breast and hips are too fully formed
To hide my uncle weekly play dates.
But no one say nothing. No one sees nothing.
I am tired of fighting,
From the life that God thinks I am strong enough for.
But sometimes, I am just a girl named Amanda,
who loves reading, hates math
and looks more and more like the mother that my uncle could never get over.
I want to say:
“Help me”
“Stop”
“No more”
This voice is getting stronger
I live for the day when he will
Finally hear my voice through the cracks of my fingertips and his love.
HE
He is a fatherless son.
He is the bullet of suicide prayer.
He is death fighting not to live, but so afraid of the die.
He is the little boy who wanted a Barbie but smiled when he got a baseball.
He is the receiver of his mother’s unwanted touches.
He is a dick who has used himself in acts of hate.
He life in full circle.
He hides his seeds in men’s secret places but refuses to call himself gay.
He is gay, and fears that his mother calling him faggot may be the cause
He is a husband with commitment issues.
He fits his father’s shoes so well that he is now a sonless father.
He is a beautiful mistake and doesn’t understand why that makes sense.
He is sharp notes in Beethoven 5th Symphony
He is the piano that we won’t keep in tune.
He is more than the part that make him whole.
He is love
And just wants believe that his life was not one big joke, but knows that the punch lines are only getting better with time.
He is hate
Just tired of trying to prove himself when the look in your eyes say other wise
He is alive.
Just waiting for something to die for at least then he would have the last laugh.
He is dead.
Zombie like appearance, he is too much of a coward to not get off the fence.
But today he learned how to fly.
I wish you could have seen it, his landing was beautiful.
He is the bullet of suicide prayer.
He is death fighting not to live, but so afraid of the die.
He is the little boy who wanted a Barbie but smiled when he got a baseball.
He is the receiver of his mother’s unwanted touches.
He is a dick who has used himself in acts of hate.
He life in full circle.
He hides his seeds in men’s secret places but refuses to call himself gay.
He is gay, and fears that his mother calling him faggot may be the cause
He is a husband with commitment issues.
He fits his father’s shoes so well that he is now a sonless father.
He is a beautiful mistake and doesn’t understand why that makes sense.
He is sharp notes in Beethoven 5th Symphony
He is the piano that we won’t keep in tune.
He is more than the part that make him whole.
He is love
And just wants believe that his life was not one big joke, but knows that the punch lines are only getting better with time.
He is hate
Just tired of trying to prove himself when the look in your eyes say other wise
He is alive.
Just waiting for something to die for at least then he would have the last laugh.
He is dead.
Zombie like appearance, he is too much of a coward to not get off the fence.
But today he learned how to fly.
I wish you could have seen it, his landing was beautiful.
Secrets
Dear You:
When will I become less like your secret
and more like your Queen?
When will you pull me from the
corners of your rib cage so I
can see the man I wanted to fall in love with?
When will you hold my heart like
I have always held yours?
You have mixed her and my moans into one…
calling us baby and honey so much that you have
forgotten the beauty in our names.
Our closet has become too full to fit our
insecurities, so what will we do then?
What will you do when I no longer say…
Yes, we can meet up later.
Yes, you can slip out of our bed to get your kids off to school.
Yes, I will get on my knees and do the things she won’t do…
Yes .. Yes.
Your clicks of Morris code on my temples are undeniable.
All I wanted to do was write your wrongs but you just kept turning your back on me.
It’s hard to fight for something when you can’t see
the light at the end of the tunnel,
or the restaurant,
or the hotel room.
Do you even remember what your wife tasted like?
Was she as sweet as honey like you said I was?
Does her body react to the touch of your hand like mine did,
do you sometimes forget which name you are cumming to… tell me.
I wonder if you mistake her curves for mine when
you make love to her, make lust to her.
I don’t think you know the difference anymore.
What will you do when there are no more excuses in my toolbox,
I cannot fix this anymore,
I cannot fix you anymore.
This is not just a fucking poem, but my goodbye.
So sleep, take back your broken radio you call a heart, put it back behind your newly developed walls, it and you are no longer needed.
Dream , maybe then you will see what you have done to yourself from the inside out.
Forget, the gaping hole in your ribs, it will fill with the life that you have settled for.
I hope that you find happiness in your world of secrets.
Sincerely
Your Pen.
When will I become less like your secret
and more like your Queen?
When will you pull me from the
corners of your rib cage so I
can see the man I wanted to fall in love with?
When will you hold my heart like
I have always held yours?
You have mixed her and my moans into one…
calling us baby and honey so much that you have
forgotten the beauty in our names.
Our closet has become too full to fit our
insecurities, so what will we do then?
What will you do when I no longer say…
Yes, we can meet up later.
Yes, you can slip out of our bed to get your kids off to school.
Yes, I will get on my knees and do the things she won’t do…
Yes .. Yes.
Your clicks of Morris code on my temples are undeniable.
All I wanted to do was write your wrongs but you just kept turning your back on me.
It’s hard to fight for something when you can’t see
the light at the end of the tunnel,
or the restaurant,
or the hotel room.
Do you even remember what your wife tasted like?
Was she as sweet as honey like you said I was?
Does her body react to the touch of your hand like mine did,
do you sometimes forget which name you are cumming to… tell me.
I wonder if you mistake her curves for mine when
you make love to her, make lust to her.
I don’t think you know the difference anymore.
What will you do when there are no more excuses in my toolbox,
I cannot fix this anymore,
I cannot fix you anymore.
This is not just a fucking poem, but my goodbye.
So sleep, take back your broken radio you call a heart, put it back behind your newly developed walls, it and you are no longer needed.
Dream , maybe then you will see what you have done to yourself from the inside out.
Forget, the gaping hole in your ribs, it will fill with the life that you have settled for.
I hope that you find happiness in your world of secrets.
Sincerely
Your Pen.
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