“Poetry Ain’t Dating” - Someone Said This To Me
This got me thinking: Aren't we flirting with our words, peeking just a tiny bit out of our comfort zone, to express ourselves? We're getting to know our creativity and our ability to pull people in with our writing. It might not be considered "dating" in its usual form, but if such a thing as a "love song" exists, then poetry can be a form of dating.
Excuse my rambling! XD
As I Join You
I didn't plan to fail
binge til drunk
on my own blubbering tears
Robin William hung himself
from a doorknob with just his own weight
shake my hand
as I join you.
Delusions of a Megalomaniac
The pressure to evolve
Grow in punitive strength
Become more powerful
A higher wavelength
Mortals don’t understand
Live merely to exist
They’ll simply follow me
I’m a godly theurgist
I fear I am a god
As my power unfurls
Now I am become death
The destroyer of worlds
i was so calmed by the ocean in your eyes
that i did not see the storm on your horizon
forget the captain; i went down with this ship.
the thing about baggage is that it travels very well,
and along its many journeys, it writes stories it can tell.
as carefully as you pack it up
it often becomes messy;
things do not remain where they were when you got them ready.
the thing about baggage is that the cleaner that you keep it
the lesser that it's traveled and the longer that you need it.
as time and distance weather it,
your baggage becomes lighter;
you learn to travel with your needs and not to pack the bothers.
you will notice that with your baggage that the farther that it's carried,
the kind of things you keep inside will begin to vary,
maybe it can contain less,
maybe it grows stronger,
maybe it has lost a wheel and can't be pulled much longer.
maybe you're late to your flight when your baggage just bursts open,
and all the things you worked so hard to pack away showing,
you quickly pick your baggage up,
you feel like you're embarrassed,
but you're not the only person in the airport to unintentionally bare it.
the other thing about our baggage is that it's not ours on our own,
we let our loved ones take the handle when we are heading home,
and strangers sometimes take our baggage
to places where we can't see it
we may not know the reason or know how they're going to treat it.
at times we lose a piece of what we kept inside our suitcase,
sometimes that item being lost forces you into a new place,
unprepared and overwhelmed
in foreign territories,
take that weathered, messy baggage and keep writing its stories.
It’s okay if you make me Bleed
Drive it into me
that memory of need
we revved into high speed
for the thrill of it
It's not to late
if we can create
out of brokenness
and shattered dreams
like you used to
before we built this zone
sticky with caution tape
and fear of the known
I can't reach
by myself or
with anyone else
Escape with me
into the dark corners
and hidden streets,
kiss me in the stairwell
where we would secretly meet
and drive me
until we have found once more
that no one else can
I have no idea
how others feel
how their minds bodies
I only know
I never questioned
undeniable monthly cramps
and ovarian cysts.
So What If I Were Feeling Like…
…So I go to my appointment I wrote done 68 days ago in a state and home now not even a memory thinking I was early walking in at 1:35 for the 2:00. It is the same place I went to every 6 weeks or so going back to March 1992. Julie is not there. I stand at the counter a few minutes until a squat blond women directs me to sit in front of her cubical. She is not amused.
”Hi. I’m early but I’m here for my new patient intake appointment.”
”Your appointment was at 1:00.”
”No, I wrote it down…it was before we moved.”
”Your appointment was at 1:00.”
”I’m early so I still have 25 minutes left.”
”It’s 1:44. She’s with a patient.”
”How can that be? Wasn’t it for an hour?”
”You didn’t show. She’s with a patient. Do you want to reschedule?”
”No. I‘ve been waiting over two months. Why can’t I wait and then have my 25 minutes…it shouldn’t take long…it is a formality…I am not a new patient…I saw Dr. B for over 27 years.”
”Do you want to reschedule?”
”Really?” She is staring me down now. “Okay, I suppose.”
She glances at her monitor tapping, “Carla has a 10:40 February 23, 2023.”
”You must be kidding. I just moved here and need meds…I was only given 90 day worth…”
”Should I schedule you for that time then? We’ll call if we have a cancellation.”
”No. You must be kidding. You have all my records. I was Dr. B’s third patient ever. Is he here?” I glanced at the lit frosted glass door. There were four people in the waiting room. New fish in the large aquarium. Dim lighting, music playing softly.
”He’s with a patient.”
”If I could just speak with him.”
”He’s with a patient.”
”Is Julie here?’
”She has Mondays off.”
”Here is your appointment.” She pushes a card halfway through the slot under the glass between us.
”That date is unworkable. I will need meds.”
She withdrew the card, turned it over and wrote a phone number on the back in blue ink. “Call this number if you have special needs.”
”I don’t have special needs. I came here over 27 years moved out of state for less than 3 years and called before I moved and made this appointment. I am not a new patient. I don’t need a new patient intake. You have all my records. I take sleep aides and only got 90 days supply from the doctor in Florida. I’ll run out. I told my husband it would be an hour and I don’t have a car. You don’t seem to understand…I am a long-term bipolar maintenance patient.” Oops…I said the b word.
She was done with me. She saw crazies every hour of every day. She had been taught never to listen, never to empathize, never to step out of the system she was here to defend.
“You can take a seat over there while you wait for your ride.”
I wasn’t moving. “You don’t seem to grasp my situation.” She had already turned to her monitor typing.
”You don’t seem to grasp my situation.” She was done really with me. She picked up her phone and made a call. I wasn’t moving.
”So…tell me…” I was not moving. “What would someone do if they needed to see someone…if they needed medication…care? Do you offer alternatives?”
”We direct them to the ER.” She had hung up but kept typing. She spoke but did not turn her face toward me.
It was just then it occurred to me to say, “So if I were feeling like I wanted to come back here in an hour, legally buy a gun and shoot you all dead…you’d still not be able to find some better why to accommodate my needs….?” But knew better…knew if I just said the words, to just speak out loud that you’ve ever had the thought to harm yourself or others…the police would could and I’d be on the local news…locked up, drugged and all…so I took a seat, in fact made myself a mocha knowing there would be powdered hot chocolate that I always mixed with coffee adding a couple of pods of creamer and was looking through the coloring books that had been there forever admiring old pages I had colored in through the years, when the door opened and Dr. B emerged from his familiar frosted lit door.
I couldn’t help myself. Just ran over and said, “Help me. I made an appointment but was late and now they won’t see me until February and I need meds...Help me.”
And he, visibly older, looked over his reading glasses, empty coffee cup in one hand, smiled and said, “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while…what’s going on?”
”Help me…I made an appointment but was late and now they won’t see me until February and I need meds.” I repeated in one breath, feeling tears come.
It was then he hugged me. He stopped hugging patients in the 1990s. Everyone knew that. The squat blond, those waiting and even Clara, the intake woman who wandered idly by. He hugged me hard with one his free hand and simply said to everyone now intent, ”She’s next.”
Brought to you by my crippling mental illness…
Quad Shot and an extra shot or so...
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
Here's a video we just posted on YouTube for the channel. Pretty sure TheWolfeDen gets featured twice... haha. Been a weird morning. But this was a fun video to make. See the featured writers in the comments. MeeJong leads the way into these great profiles!
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Gin as tonic
The Weight of
though an empty bottle
across the floor
and bleed tears,
loud and ugly,