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Reviews Requested- Contains upsetting material - Apples Poem.
Apples
I was fifteen and it was three am,
the emergency room therapist
looks up from his clipboard
with eyes that are paid to care.
He asks my mother if I see
people who aren’t really there.
She looks up from her salty-crumpled
tissue and just sniffs.
I squirm in the plastic chair,
which I am sure they make purposely hard.
I want to scream, at my mother,
the world, the apples in the trees
in the orchard near my house.
But I don’t scream, I remember,
I was twelve and you were trying
to teach me how to blow smoke rings
in that Apple orchard.
The leaves were falling then,
falling like they were falling
in love with the earth.
We sat facing each other so close
I could almost reach your heart
and hold it to my ear like a sea-shell
and I would hear the waves
of every tear you ever cried.
You put the rolled tobacco to your lips
and pulled. I watched the nicotine rise
from your lips like Halos.
Behind the trees hiding like ghosts
were our rich, beautiful bullies.
They were waiting,
sharpening their insults
on the wet stones of their tongues.
And then they came with force
of feet and mouths full and their
hands full of apples, rain upon
rain of apples.
They flew, flung like missiles,
honed like hornets,
stinging their mark.
We ran, all the way to fifteen
but somehow along the way
I lost you to the clamor of voices
so loud that god heard but
did nothing.
I am sitting in this emergency room
with the therapist, my mother and memories of you.
I look down, six stitches in my left wrist. .
I wasn’t trying to kill myself,
I just wanted to see what my pulse
looked like from the inside.
And inside, I missed you.
And when I looked at my palm,
my lifelines looked like the branches
of those Apple trees.
My Box
My Square, cube,
four sides, I hide, secret away
myself. Solitude wrapped around me
like my scared arms from battles
within. My silver, salty
tears, slide down my flushed cheeks.
I am losing myself
In the emerald moss, twisted tree
and misty fields of my thoughts.
I am standing on the wall I built,
white sneakers pressed into grey rock.
The wind,
It stings and burns, cold and sharp,
yet I lean into it.
I am sitting on my mother’s lap,
Where it all began, were my feelings were
Blue like icebergs, lost floating too
far south. The cool wind chimes
Clink together in the red-orange
evening breeze. Where I built four sides
and top, tasted my silver, tears
and where I cling to myself.
Last edited by missundastood74 : 03-04-2011 at 06:00 PM.
Reason: Adding new Poem
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