To Be Lonely In Love

Fear by Maria Iakunchikova–1893-1895

I feel tightness in my bones,
breathing at night is exhausting . . .
But morning gives me another
opportunity to appreciate life.
You notice that I cut
my hair.

You tell me that you miss
the way it hung past my shoulders,
free-flowing like the wind.
I nod, make mindless conversation
with you, small talk.

We kiss,
our lips barely touching.
I feel nothing.
You remind me to take the
steak out of the freezer for
dinner.

The red potatoes, you say, will
be a great partner.
I remember the fresh asparagus
we bought from our grocer’s
a few days ago.
We plan to be home by 6 pm.

I spend five hours at work
drowning myself in everything
but you.
You call promptly at 11:30 am
to inquire about the steak
as if I’d forget to let it thaw.
We chit chat, I tell you
a meeting is beginning without me
and we end the call.

I flashback to when my heart
thumped nonstop at the thought
of you, when I raced home to
sit near your lazy arms on
our comfy couch, and when

your voice stirred me up
with overwhelming feelings.
I come back to now
and do everything within my
power to forget who you were.
It makes loving you easier.
It makes living with you tolerable.
But, I am still lonely.


Here is another recently rejected poem by a prominent literary magazine. What better place to share it than here? Thank you for reading.

Afraid of Healing

Who are we if we don’t know pain? If we don’t grow from it? I had to reblog this because I read it and it hit me and it stuck with me.

Please visit the writer’s blog to comment there, should you want to. Peace.

Angel's avatarINTROVERSE

In Their Own Words By Nathan Bond

Afraid to heal my deep wounds

Afraid life will be too simple

Afraid of missing the pain

Afraid I won’t have an excuse to disappear

Afraid I won’t need to scream at the top of my lungs when I’m too weak

Afraid I won’t grow without trauma

Afraid I’ll never be the same

I’m afraid of change

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The Decency of Common Words

The old lady downstairs has cancer
steeping in her bones.
Her daughter walks her dog now.
She greets me with pleasantries and
a brave smile.
I offer moments of wordy goodness
as we cross paths.

Her heart is breaking.
I can hear it.
What it must feel like to watch
your giver of life deteriorate at the
hands of a silent criminal that has killed
millions must be indescribable.
I think she wants to tell me
something, but the words are stuck
behind her tongue.
I never pry.

My next-door neighbor’s fianceé is
cheating on her.
She works 60-hour weeks
and comes home exhausted from
the verbal lashings she combats daily
while dealing with the public.
She tells me that my dog “is
the cutest thing ever” and I compliment
her on her uniform.
She wears it well.

I do not tell her about the dark-haired
woman who holds the hand of
her lover while she’s away.
There’ll be time for that.
And I will not be a part of
that conversation.

The thin walls of our building
will be the teller of all things
and her heart will break too.
My favorite neighbor moved out
of our building about a month ago:
leaky ceiling.
Our neighbor above him had a faulty
toilet.

I miss his freckled face and wispy
red hair that smiled at me
before he did.
I still see him from time to time.
He moved into the building
across the street, but it’s not the same.

He always had a bounty of words
that pressed into my spirit and made
me look forward to his voice.
He was the sun of our sky
and now another set of people
are blessed to feel his light.
I hope they appreciate his
heart as much as we do.


This is a recently rejected poem from a prominent literary magazine. I figured I’d share it here. Thank you in advance for reading. Peace. 

a conversation about love

Woman tying on a hat by Edgar Degas–1884

me: how can you be sure this is love?
her: she smiles every time she sees me.
me: oh, but couldn’t it just be a delight to see you?
her: I know love when I feel it. I ache at the sight of her.
me: that sounds more like a belly or headache than it does love.
her: don’t you remember, Tre? that’s exactly what love feels like.
me: silence.

scorn

Musical Selection|India Arie: That Magic

The Scornful Woman by Egon Schiele — 1910

she’d been hurt before —
this scorned woman who is learning
how to love again — live again.
I sit on my balcony and watch her
carry on with her day as if
the sun woke up just for her.

she saunters to her car,
pulls the door open, and
jumps into it ready for another
day of whatever it is that
she does for a living.

I keep my distance.
I speak when spoken to.
I do not draw good energy from
her, so it is my duty to make sure
our interactions are few.

my monster of a dog shows
her teeth at her shadow,
barks when she strikes the
ignition.
I take heed.

there are some of us who
cannot conjure up
a welcoming spirit — too stuck
in the past to allow ourselves to
witness the future.

too afraid to move forward
and march into something new.
I was where she is and
I remember how my soul
smelled.
I turned people off.

there’s always a bit of
magic around, enough to
push us into the light of day.
I think she will be
okay the moment her
feet touch illuminated ground.

I can’t take her there,
even if I do know the way — these
paths have to be walked
by those who need the journey.

I will, however, make sure
she has someone rooting
for her from the sidelines.
I think my sign is
big enough for her to see.


Originally published via Medium.

Young Minds of Medium Featured Writer: Nour

Nour is an exceptional young one whom I have had the pleasure of watching grow on Medium. Over the last eight months, this young one has broken out of her shell and is sharing her life and experiences with us.

She answered the Young Minds of Medium “How Do You Sing The Blues” challenge for A Cornered Gurl with the following prose-poem:


Just keep breathin’

Young Minds of Medium “Blues Call”

Hasty outlets of yours truly over the years.

Tainted blue creeps in,
An armed looming shadow that threatens,
Look fiercely into its eyes, impassive
Let the ink embrace your heart, squeeze the venom out on paper,
Chase down freedom with your words.


It’s disarming.

How the story unfolds sometimes. So many lies embedded in between the lines and I foolishly believe. Destruction calling my bones for release of its pent up anger. Seeping its sorrow on my pages, adding lines. And my brain does nothing but smirk in approval, unwinding me to the core. Now all the chaos — thrown at my feet, no sealing to its mouth that keeps running.

I keep falling down.

Entirety is disarming sometimes.
Disapproval clawing its way in my mind,

Smitten by blues, add more salt to her wounds … if only you’ve done this. If only you were this …

Just stop. Press pause, go on rewind your tape and you’ll see where it starts:

All. In. Your. Fucking. Head.

I hold still for a moment. Let the truth sink in. So many inviting claws I struggle to dodge.

Oh, how it’s easier to fall into depression … but will you let in temptation?

And that’s how it starts. I breathe my screams out on paper, rewrite the story …

I change lines.

The claws are no longer inviting. ‘Cause no hunter falls for their prey.
The lies fade back to their dimension, this territory ain’t going to be stained.

I don’t pause. I keep going. Destruction no longer smirks.
Entirety could be disarming … unless between the lines you checked again.


Originally published via A Cornered Gurl on Medium.