If I could could pray to the past

If I could make moments last

If I could speak to silhouettes

And change old regrets

I’d sing to

my mothers lovers

She’s broken and worn out now

You’ve all let her down

She’s hollow in this town

I’d sing to my first mothers lover

tell him to be tender

Wrap his arms round her when she cried

Take back all the times he lied

Less time drinking and more time thinking

About ways he could return her love

If I could take her pain away

If I could make my father stay

There would have been stars in the skies

But instead it was black and sad goodbyes

I’d sing to my mothers lovers

You left her crying alone

Without a home

Left her tainted and now I’m grown

You took away what could be

She could never replace him for me

Oh my mothers lovers

Varied vast but all were thieves

This is why my mother grieves

When another bad man deceives

I’ll never know what it was like to have my childhood blessed

Or a mother smiling, laughing in jest

Because every lover was just a guest

They each left like all the rest

-a song © Rosie

I have three pebbles

One I make from sleep

One for physical energy

And one to share with someone

Other than me

If I don’t get sleep I lose a pebble

If I share a pebble with someone new

But they take not one pebble but two

I’ll fall to the floor trying to mend

Wishing my pebbles didn’t end

So sorry if I miss the date

Sorry if my smiles late

Sorry if I didn’t sleep

Sorry if I didn’t eat

Endless pebbles promised soon

In the new world, in another moon

© Rosie

Love can build a family

But it cannot build a house

This is what I have learned

My words went away

When I realised no one cares

I have fallen to my knees

Still no one offers their hand

I have souls to protect

They weigh a lot on my mind

That's why I don't forever sleep

That's why I wear a mask

Daily I paint on a smile

Pretending to be here

I'm small with broad shoulders

Quietly I feel them buckle

I can't allow them to break

Holding out my beggars cup

Shameful with low self-esteem

That in itself is soul destroying

Being ignored is heart breaking

God even turned away

If he was even watching?

________________________

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He sang to me in silence

Behind closed doors and blind

His words spoke smoke of glass

Broken numb against my mind

Fallen deaf unto the pass, I called

And beneath betrothed in kind

My throat lump cries too heavy now

And woeful are these times.

Sorrow now, as sorrow heaves

True sorrow grieves—

He sang to me in silence.

Behind closed doors and blind.

He met his moment

of defeat

with a quick stare

of disbelief

as the ghosts slowly

gathered at his grave

they welcome him there

with nothing to share

only to witness his transition

behold the ferryman with

a blood red bang

and so his fate was sealed

he lost his head

and now he’s dead

yet thanks

you for

your solemn

disposition

The restaurant was dark with a red hue eavesdropping all around. The neon sign in the window hummed like the kind of fluorescents made to kill bugs. The aquarium near the host stand kept burping: it was too green and it ran in pitches of white noise.

The glasses on our table were tall with soap scum walls and unfiltered water lukewarm. He put his hand palm up on the ivory tablecloth near them and I landed mine in it.

He looked at me and smiled with his lips still closed. I had never made eye contact with anyone for that long before. He looked beyond where I could see. I was afraid to look away and lose the moment, but I was so intimidated that I knew I would never remember it.

I scooted closer in my seat despite the round table between us, and he took a heavy bite of air.

Then time went blurry.

I wish now that I could speak then because maybe, then, it wouldn’t have ended that way.

I am broken and falling

Like the forgotten windows of

An old Southern church

Remnants of stained glass

Cracked upon the hymns and

Shattering with my tears

And reflecting the light

In shades of melancholy

Enough with this dark night.

Drop the needle on some vinyl and breathe in Roberta Flack. Black silk brushes against my thigh, smooth and languid against the pale.

Trains screech, and run through these streets, bold in their atmosphere.

The earth spins silent on its axis, apologetic to none.

My melancholy birthright.

Fyodor Dostoevsky was a renowned Russian novelist, journalist, and philosopher, born on November 11, 1821, in Moscow. He grew up in a highly religious and intellectual family, and his father was a doctor at a hospital for the poor.

After studying engineering and military science, Dostoevsky turned to literature and published his first novel, "Poor Folk," in 1846, which gained him critical acclaim. However, his writing and political activities led him to be arrested in 1849 for being involved in a liberal socialist group, and he was sentenced to death.

At the last minute, the sentence was commuted to four years in a Siberian labor camp. This experience had a profound impact on Dostoevsky's life and work, and he later wrote about it in his semi-autobiographical novel "The House of the Dead."

After his release, Dostoevsky became deeply religious and began writing his most famous works, including "Crime and Punishment," "The Brothers Karamazov," and "Notes from Underground." These novels explore the complexities of human nature and the struggles of individuals to find meaning in a world that often seems cruel and indifferent.

Dostoevsky's work has had a profound influence on literature and philosophy, and he is widely considered one of the greatest writers of all time. He died on February 9, 1881, in St. Petersburg, Russia.

Some people believe in the rulers of their religions.

They look to them for strength & guidance with every life decisions.

Then we have the skeptics, who say the hell with that, no Im not controlled to fit in.

They run their own show the way they want, the outcome basis is going on a limb

Not me though, I guess you can say Im one of the few since Im not sure who decides whether I sink or swim.

However, for everything else I like to believe the man in the moon has a hand in my requisitions.

Since I was a child I would tell him every one of my secrets and inhibitions.

He shone Just enough light into my room keeping away monsters that may have been hidden.

The man in the moon lured me into dreamland, while guiding the tides ashore, crashing in synchronized rhythm.

He‘s seen it all, every bloody war, happy nights, sad heart breaks, dinosaurs and loving kindred.

Somehow he hangs so strongly in that dark night sky, as paintings all depicted.

To me the man in the moon seems the wisest of them all, still boasting of his consistence.