Strings of VeinsShe plays the violin on her wrist;Balancing the bow on her fragile string;Etching along the same string;Until its red, it hurts;She moves the bow to the next;Slowly gliding it;Until she can feel it deep;And the crimson of inside the violin leaks;The bow begins to hum;A low, soft, song;The violin rests;Then the violin squirms;She picks up her bow and plays again;The same haunting tune- it never seems to end.
I Don't Know When ToI have a condition on that I don’t know when to end, I know where to begin, but not when to end, for it seems the more I speak, the more I confuse not only myself but the world around me, in that I can not end a sentence, it’s not like I don’t know how, I just feel as though I never end it correctly, for example I’m not sure if I should end my sentence with a question, should I end my sentence with a question, do you think I should end my sentence with a question, you see I’m not stupid and know that there is supposed to be a question mark, but I’ve been talking for so long why I’ve forgotten where the question mark goes? No, that was not the place of a question mark or was it, I’ve forgotten what I was saying before so I’ll just keep talking, you know, maybe I should end my sentence now, but if I do then I’ll get remarked on the fact that I have not been talking enough, or have not talked long enough, for you to understand my
Hands Were Made For Holding He sat outside the room, his heart practically throbbing out of his chest. He shook with great anticipation, his eyes fixated on the tiles. There was a cry, and then silence. The man bit his bottom lip and looked up. His wringing hands stretched out in front, a sudden heat greeting his forearms. A small bundle of warmth moved in the crooks of his elbows. He moved the blanket, discovering a small nose that twitched in the new found air. Unnoticeable tears crept along the corners his eyes, as he continued to move the blanket. Two bright eyes stared up at his own, blinking in great enthusiasm. The man looked at his pride and joy, the next years of love, joy, and heart ache. Small pink nubs reached out at the man's callused fingers. Hands were made for holding. She pondered across the street in a huff, a small girl skipping alongside her. As they reached the end of the sidewalk, she grabbed the child's hand tightly. The light changed, as she began to yank the child q
50 DaysOn the first day she was blinded by the lightOn the second day she put up a fightOn the third day she learned how to loveOn the fourth day a hand she took hold ofOn the fifth day she did nothing at allOn the sixth day she learned how to crawlOn the seventh day to school she wentOn the eighth day she fell to the cementOn the ninth day her baby clothes she outgrewOn the tenth day let go of your hand tooOn the eleventh day she got sickOn the twelfth day she learned a card trickOn the thirteenth day she looked more like her motherOn the fourteenth day she made friends with othersOn the fifteenth day you got her a phoneOn the sixteenth day you left her home aloneOn the seventh day she graduated schoolOn the eighteenth day she learned the world was cruelOn the nineteenth she felt so aloneOn the twentieth day she just wanted to go homeOn the twenty-first day she began to cryOn the twenty-second day he wanted to dieOn the twenty-third day she pulled throughOn the twenty-
FoolishlyMy mother was an interesting women. She was always happy. Even with her disabilities she was happy.I walk through the door, my school bag hung over my right shoulder. It was a long day at school, my mind was stressed. Now that I was a senior next year I would graduate. I couldn't leave my mother alone. She wasn't stable to be on her own."Hi mom. How's your day?" I call out to no response. "Mom?" Cautiously strolling over to the living room. Mother sat on the coach, staring at the television. There was nothing but static. "Mom?" A heart-wrenching laugh escaped her gut. Glazed-over baby blues still locked to the never changing screen. "What are you doing mom?" I asked, my voice sounding higher then usual. She just grinned. I look to the screen. Small pixelated black and gray dots chased each other continuously. I look back towards my mom. "It's just static, mom. There's nothing there." She continues to stare. Her gin gradually growing. Her tender skin glowed and dimples arose
Rosie Ring around the Rosie.... There was this girl I once new. I look back on it now, a cup of tea in my hands, and a book on my lap. She was fair skinned, tall, long golden hair that shone like gold when it hit the sun. I take a sip of my tea, sweet peppermint. She was so, prefect. Everyone at school thought so. The boys, naturally, were drawn to her looks. Long batting eyelashes and perfect curls. A smile that could melt the snow. Us girls couldn't help admire her perfection. So sweet, innocent, a math whiz at best, and better at everything else. Her name was the most striking feature about her. Rosie. Like the pink colour of her cheeks as she strolled on those cold winter nights and hot summer days. Rosie. Her name haunts me even now. I take another sip of my tea and flip the page with my free hand. Pocket full of posies... Recess was the best time of day. While I played house with the other girls, and the boys tag. Mother was my