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blake kathryn

@theartofmadeline

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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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@riphank
Too Quiet
In days of retrospect in daze of days I've discovered my disfunction the core to the fruit of my very being my belief my construction my perfection is in the unwavering knowledge that next is always the best place to be where up ends and deep is unimaginable but next is definitive inevitable and invited to a world of what ifs
Please Stand Away from the Platform's Edge (this piece will keep growing)
I wrote this the other day and I thought to myself that a poem is a writers day and a novel his life. But what if I write a poem all the time? From the same head in the same place from the same routine. Of what monument will this ever growing poem read? What type of world will these words paint? So that is what I’ll do. Write of an entire lifetime in one cohesive voice and one big ass poem…
I’m writing these words on the subway. From the very back of the car, against the two doors that join them. I’m writing from the bowels of a tin coffin. Herded along with everyone going nowhere. It is the place where my everyday begins and every one ends.
Of what sadness these pages will sing. From such a hell this story is born. These words will be hurried along, lined up and stuffed in. Just like the hand that wields the pen. This will not be my story. It will be the one forced upon me by circumstance and fate. What a demoralizing opening and what a defeated end these confines will take us.
I remember when I first got here. When I first started on this journey. It was all very exciting. There was so much track laid ahead. Even on the grey, rainy days it was magic. I would watch the drops race each other across the pane and behind them lied the reflection of a young and hopeful man with eyes toward the future.
Today is another grey and rainy day after decades of grey rainy days, but today does not feel like magic. Today feels wet and cold. Today I can feel the weight of every drop I carry. Today my eyes are on a different race and there’s a smell of death in the air.
Someone is losing
On other days riding the rail to nowhere breaks me quietly. It whispers a death sentence in my ear. Stop after stop.
On those days it’s me that’s losing and I’m just not fitting in. I fidget and shrink even smaller then I already am but I’m still in the way. It’s times like this that I know like everyday this day is not my day.
That today I’ve been beaten my spirit strangled by a man with less of a heart telling me mine is not beating fast enough. It’s days like this and those that follow that tell me I’m on the wrong track tracing the wrong line down the wrong path and incapable of turning it around.
But forward always goes back and that is all the change I seek. Just a reprieve from the now just a breath of freedom. It is not a new course just a day off from the one I’m on. But even those ride heavy on the rail. For though there are fewer faces with more dignity there is a somber inevitability in the air. There is a pit in my stomach that promises to sprout a tomorrow. And though you might pluck it from view its roots run deep choking out a flower’s hope and thriving in the depths of perennial monotony.
If only I stood a few inches closer to heaven I would think it possible. But tomorrow the bell will sound too early too late and just in time for me to watch the train pull away.
I will miss it.
Like my chances my dreams my love.
It will move on and carry the rest of the world with it. Leaving just me on the platform.
Like the day and the night and the ones before that.
With only 6 minutes to go.
If only.
The Way it Works
There is a plant that sits in my kitchen. It is not a big plant and is the only one I own. It is rarely watered often ignored and always thirsty. I have had it a long time. It is browning and sparse and shaped by it’s environment; yet it hangs on through the smoke and neglect. It lives alone in the corner the only bit of life within this dead landscape The only splash of color on this blank canvas. I’ve carried it with me through the years through the troubled times from then till now. It’s traveled with me through the dim and days. I’ve cared for it as best I could and today it sits alone in my kitchen patiently waiting for one of us to die.
Missed Connections
To the girl across the way. They say there’s only one.
Are you?
Are you dead or dying?
Are you broken battered and beaten?
Is your mind a wreck your heart a casualty and beating against the odds?
Are you at it alone and have you been for years.
Has everything you tried turned on you failed for you and sent you back to the square?
Do you drink to forget dream to remember and wake to a nightmare?
Are you still trying?
Do you see the beauty there that I do here?
Do you love the girl across the way or feel regrets of a sunny day?
Do you paint pictures prettier than the view or know the truth in the boy that loves you leaves you and remembers what could have been?
The Man Behind the Curtain
It gets lonely in my head and outside it too. Years of looking straight ahead left the world on the wings. I sometimes wonder what it is I’m creating whether the work is worth the wear. It’s a lonely place between the lines just wild loops to the outside and right back in line. Without rhyme nor reason this game has me for write or wrong it’s kept me through thick and thin it keeps me going keeps me hoping for the day I purge the poison and pencil the world in.
Careless
There are fires burning all over town. Old haunts old drunks new comers rats and roaches all scattering looking to land somewhere safe. It's chaos in the world today and caring hands are trying to pick up the pieces hopeful minds trying to control the damage caring hearts trying to mend the fences. What a chore it is to care how exhausting it is to watch them scramble but I'm no bucket brigade never could line up for the greater good. My own banks have breached long ago and I've been treading water ever since. Learn to swim or take a deep breath in. That's the best I can do...
Hauntings
Walking old streets among the new breed. Young girls with fresh flesh youthful smiles and high hopes; short skirts and long legs stride past as I fall behind. I miss my youth I missed the chance. It's a shame to follow such a lovely tail such a wonderful place to be left behind in. It's sometimes sad to be a weed in such a beautiful garden but doesn't change the view and as I stroll along careless as a breeze; my welcome may be worn my spirit, broke but I am here always have been; stubborn as stone stable as steps and still able to dream.
Holding Hopeless
I do not hold to hope or believe in ghosts closed for renovation means done for good and when you are gone you're gone for good. Time will pass you loved ones lost and no one is waiting to greet you at goodbye. That is why when you left I knew it was forever.
More Popular Than Jesus
I have 163 followers while Jesus 12 and what does that make me who do I give a shit about except one girl at one time and every second in the moment; and what of him a rumor of a man too good to be true promising forever. I am short and sweet and often awful but I've learned to love the moments instead of pray for a miracle.
Mondays, while the rest of the world hurries along; a worthless weed digs in deep.
Short and sweet were some of my best times
Short and sweet were some of my best times