Poetry and Various Other Writings
- Locked due to inactivity on Apr 4, '17 3:54am
Thread Topic: Poetry and Various Other Writings
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Dr panther NoviceSay a walk through the woods or should I not wishing I would of above me he lurks in the trees where know one can hear my screams the palest man the blackest suit big then the tallest brute six black arm will hold you tight or stalk you tell you just give up he'll leave your body not to eat but to staple your corpse upon a tree beware the man the slender man for he can do what know one can
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I meant this as a personal thread but I mean if you wanna hop in that's okay too ig
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Dr panther NoviceOh sorry
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You're fine, I don't care either way.
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More
I'm always trying to be
More than her
More than her words
More than the soft red welts
She made on my soft pale skin
More than the wire hangers
More than anything she could touch
More than anything she could understand
I will be more
More than the abuse
More than therapy sessions
More than her lies and threats
More than the fear she has sentenced me to
Because I am more
Because I am more than her -
p o s h
When I was younger, there was a restaurant my Gramma loved. It was a Mexican restaurant, in which the tables were collaged with advertisements from various places; jewellers, insurance companies, car dealerships, etc. My Gramma always ordered the tamales. I was little and didn't exactly handle spices well, so I always ordered the tamest, most abstemious plate I could find (so as not to overeat, as I tend to do).
One evening, I went to this restaurant with my Gramma and my father. As we sat in this place buzzing with excitement and bursting with colours almost as loud as the music, one of the advertisements caught my attention.
I set my water glass in the middle of one square. It had a lady on it, the background a navy blue that contrasted nicely against the delicate white pearls she wore. "I'll put my glass here because it's my favourite," I exclaimed with the pride and confidence only a child could have.
My Gramma might have chuckled. All that I really remember is what she said next.
"I like it. It's very posh."
"Posh?"
"Yes, it's very fancy and elegant." She enunciated her words with graceful precision, in a matter-of-fact look and tone that would have you believe everything she said. Gramma had a captivating sort of wisdom and sass that only appeared in the best kinds of people.
"Posh..."
Posh
/pSH/
adjective
elegant or stylishly luxurious.
My family was always poor, but Gramma was as close to posh as a Southern lady from Oklahoma could be.
The night she died, I was sleeping on her living room couch. She died in the office chair at the computer desk in the room right next to me. Nobody was awake when she passed. She had tucked me in and told me she loved me for the last time, bit I didn't say it back. I was in a bad mood, and I didn't get to tell her I loved her for the last time.
I don't blame myself, but the regret will follow me to my grave.
When I spoke at her funeral, everybody told me that my speech was the best. I didn't write my speech. I want even scheduled to speak. Instead, it was more like a sort of magnetic power that computers me to stand up that day. It pulled me out of the comforting, velvet passed church pew and dragged me to the podium, where strangers, family, and friends could watch me as I gathered all of the confidence an 11 year old could muster. I spoke of her, of the little things she always did. I spoke of her specific body languages, her quiet wisdom, and the way lipstick would sick to her upper teeth. I spoke, and I laughed, and I cried.
People like to talk about time travel. It has fascinated people since the very conception of time itself. If you could go back and change one thing, what would you change? If you could go back in time, where would you go?
For me, maybe I'd go back to those times. Maybe I'd go back to the simpler times when I would watch her at her sewing machine. Maybe I'd go back to watching British sitcoms with her late at night, even when I didn't get the humour. Maybe it'd travel to that night and tell her I loved her for the very last, sacred time. Maybe I'd go back to that busy restaurant with colours almost as loud as the music, and maybe if sit there one last time with my chin up, glowing with the childish pride of learning a new word. Maybe I would, but it wouldn't change the truth.
The truth was and is that she has passed. The effects of her death will never leave me, but I've moved past the stage of brooding. I may cry, but I'll always remember her, her warmth, her wisdom, the lipstick that stuck to her top two teeth, and I'll always remember "posh". -
i wasn't trying to hide it dude
Like I blatantly talked about the above piece in my thread with the same name so....???
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