Doth write to thy heart's content- dare I,
Maketh thy nation a safe place to speak. Command thy people I beg thee, Doth not rede then; "How to love a nation thee?" Bestow upon us the key, Maketh thy people free. Mouths turn'd mute whilst hearts grown cold, stoned in fear.a Grace- Sire! Feel us thy people, See us thy people, Pity! Hath not? All this but a plea, For a soul shall perish lest free, Mercy- Sire! ---- *Note: My heart sings through letters.
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Lost beneath hopelessness and despair unwilling to understand the difference between wanting, caring or seeking help for hurts we all sometimes feel being alone in our pain. The cost is too much, the thought is so deeply buried under pounds of countless attempts to bargain for relief. Waiting for proof, validation anything to lift the unbearable certainty wanting life to be worth more than this, this discarded buffet of flesh. Dumped to be sifted through by laughing callous hands looking for parts to be salvaged for repurpose. Will this storm never end? Misfortunes dawdle within exhausting memories. Can there be a glimmer, a ray of hope? Drenched, defeated, wrung out, lost and burning for answers or where to look for something to hold on to, something worth more than this flood of perceptions. Standing at an intersection one way a cliff the other shrouded in obscurity. A choice can bring peace or more pain. Not choosing is a choice. Enduring the moment brings no relief only memories of the countless attempts lost to choosing not to choose. Will this time be any different? Wringing our hands dreaming for a sign, motivation, a notion that may bring movement one way or the other. The cliff or obscurity? The discarded pound of flesh or the flood of painful perception? We’ve been here before, touched the ray of hope, discarding hopelessness, to know the rainbows are real. About the author:
Rick Slottow has a self-published book of poetry. It has been over 15 years since he has thought about sharing is work with others. Most has been lost due to technology. Some was printed on paper, but most not gone will never be read. Rick just started writhing again. He is a retired Drug and Alcohol consoler. Recover alcoholic and drug addict. Living in Rhonert Park Ca. he shares his home with his wife a housemate and three dogs, 2 small under 15 pounds and one 0ver 50. In the early stages of Primary Lateral Scleroses, he wants his voice to again be heard. Fog over all spread’s confusion. Is this for real? Up is more than just up right it’s a struggle to remain standing. Still? Each step a struggle, what foot goes - brain fog - In front of the other? Left then right wobble, teeter don’t fall right then left? Step stutter step wobble stand in place and wait. Now where am I? Am I where I was when the fog came in? Standing upright waiting, move. Forword? Just another step my destination in site. The door. Open! Move though, stay up right, sway, stand, wait in the fog for the boys. Are they in? Every morning’s the same as the fog waits, I stand wobble, teeter, and step? I let the dogs out another time. Another step, keep going one more! Back in bed. The fog fades. Again, a day begins first thing in the morning. About the author:
Rick Slottow has a self-published book of poetry. It has been over 15 years since he has thought about sharing is work with others. Most has been lost due to technology. Some was printed on paper, but most not gone will never be read. Rick just started writhing again. He is a retired Drug and Alcohol consoler. Recover alcoholic and drug addict. Living in Rhonert Park Ca. he shares his home with his wife a housemate and three dogs, 2 small under 15 pounds and one 0ver 50. In the early stages of Primary Lateral Scleroses, he wants his voice to again be heard. I'd stopped gone back to where I always was This home of no sky, cracked bottles, pain in just the right places except I lived & the world turned gold moons, sinew, shimmered doves & darkness was both static and changing Pain churned as death, humming body, hollowed out desolation, I lived through, decay in clumps, clusters, wasps on cold floors, numbness, sharp jaw, insides ripped, unclean surfaces, skin, breath, enough blood to drown the leopards, vomiting their names, violence towards myself, too many times to count or more than the rest, those days, so many, or that one hour that took away the light, oh silence, sometimes you are not sweet, not mountain air, not the slow ripple of water, sometimes you are worse than anything else About the author:
Louise Mather is a writer from Northern England and founding editor of Acropolis Journal. A finalist in the Streetcake Poetry Prize, her work is published in various print and online literary journals including The North, Acumen, Fly on the Wall Press, Dust Poetry Magazine, Cape and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dredging of Rituals’ was published in 2021. She writes about ancestry, rituals, endometriosis, fatigue and mental health. Twitter @lm2020uk IG: louise.mather.uk |
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