What about my heart ?

"WHEN life becomes nothing but ASHES, its time to reBUILD and reTHINK" --------->>>>--------->>>>****** I am Freelance writer of short stories, poetry, screenplays, fiction and a memoir or two. --------->>>>>> Email All Inquiries* all WRITTEN works (c))...

[the-hurt-locker187]

Boss said he was the black sheep. I asked what that meant? The screw up, the mess up, compared to his older brother. He was older than me, and I thought it was a vintage idea to feel that way. But now I’m closer to his age now, and I get it. Parents have all these aspirations and hopes for you, and when you are middle aged, they assume that is as far as you will go. And they lament. 2023.

[the-hurt-locker187]

----------These Are The Things We Don’t Talk About----------

I have built a tomb out of paper.

And I find my tongue, tied under my shoes.

The parallel lengua of “the people”

The sinister pride and propping up of tales.

How do you find happiness, after the splinter has been pulled out

                                           How

            do 

                                          you 

manage 

                                                                 the fragility 

                      of this

                                               floppy 

                                                                              flesh.

                        Everything hurts.

Everything aches.

                       Everything feels like the end.

The bull horns and the supporters smile and yell “All you have to do is keep sober” with a thicketed smile.

Those one dimensional words that no one can quite truly explain.

                          And I felt 

                                                        a bit uneasy and disheveled,

                                                        standing over his grave,

                                                        And his family 

                                                        and friends cried their eyes out

                                                                wailing in disbelief,                                                    

                                                      at how he could keep his sobriety,

      but manage to take his own life.

[the-hurt-locker187]

It was something

That was conjured

In your mouth

Clenched down between your teeth

That rotting bitterness

That turned everything

Into death, pain and sour defeat

A stranger

With

A

Belly full of hate

For a stranger

That hadn’t even tilted down their glasses, to say

Hello.

A darkness

Like that

Eats voraciously

Starved

Chewing and stirring

Unrest

A conjured carrier of death.

The eyes

Now gray

Diminishing shell

And there is nothing left

To bury.

-jb22

[the-hurt-locker187]

I hadn’t planned on

Staying too long

In this thicketed wet place

This sop soiled dip of earth

Tapping and cracking

Buckling under the weight of all

….the things I’ve managed to

Drag

Behind me

Dreams fall dead from the sky

The clapping echos of

misplaced aspiration.

I hadn’t planned to stay

Too long have I sat

Digging my finger into dry dirt

Puncturing my fingertip of jagged stone

I shut my eyes and see the stillness

The green grass and ripe headstone

My mind hums quietly

Nervously taking quiet steps back, gently away from the dim image

I hadn’t planned on staying,

Long.

But I’m here pushing

That boulder of a stone

Up

And down

That curved dirt hill

Until

My arms let go

And that boulder

Rolls

D

O

W

N

Flattening the surface.

-JB22

[the-hurt-locker187]

What about my heart ? turned 6 today!

[the-hurt-locker187]

as you take the artist apart, make sure to put them back together again.

JB (11/2021)

[the-hurt-locker187]

[the-hurt-locker187]

I find moments in time when i peak

       t    h    r     o    u     g    h

 lightly        fogged                    windows

          and                     i

                                w    a      i      t                                      to see

                  a glimmering flash               **!!!***             o         f 

           r        a      d      i      a     n     c    e

                     a                           c-l-a-p-p-i-n-g together

of light 

                                 and 

shadow

                                                                       that makes t-i-m-e-s-p-e-n-t

a worthy series of moments of

                              t    e    a   r   s                 &         l      a       u        g      h   t  e r

to justify my                  c       u       r        i         o        u      s     i     t      y

but there is no justification for wanting to slip my fingers into the past and lick up the honey that has already spoiled. (JB 11/2021)

[the-hurt-locker187]

so we sat over a cup of cocoa, we jotted down ideas. tapping our pens against the dirty table. looking for an image. waiting to hear the rhythm. tracing our fingers around the canvas. waiting for the color.

JB (Blythe Ayers 2021/10)

[the-hurt-locker187]

The past is where dead things lie. A foggy reflection and an ocean of misplaced feelings. A true thief of time. Many have died looking backwards.

Blythe Ayers2021

[the-hurt-locker187]

Sometimes people drive on the other side, of the road, to learn. How do you describe the other side?

Blythe Ayers2021

[the-hurt-locker187]

the day is dim

deep grey and washed in mist

crisp breezes drift across soft tender water

bulbs fall

crashing into the fresh cut grass

winged creatures nestle 

patches of half curtained sky

rolling sheets of thunder

and

lightenings’ cry.

(jb)

[the-hurt-locker187]

And we sat across from each other chewing cold coffee and stale cigarettes. I pretended not to notice the stain on your shirt and you pretended not to notice my chipped tooth. It wasn’t always like this, you and I. We used to be miserable. But like the humming telephone pole, a comfort ensues, after awhile. After knowing what your going to get.

[the-hurt-locker187]

Life: a. Practice of “white knuckling it” holding on with every single thing inside you, until your knuckles break and you fall away.

[the-hurt-locker187]

A writer props themselves’ up, just like any other artist. Climbing up out of the muck. Peeling off the practical and reasonable and old stories and materials, I’ve seemed to have outgrown. An unfinished story...

[the-hurt-locker187]

Why dont we write 

LOVE

letters to ourselves

READ

our bits of advice and sorrows

CONGRATULATE

our selves on taking our own advice

ADVANCING

toward deeper roots...

how 

BEAUTIFUL

my plumage would be if I believed that I could

GIVE

&

RECIEVE.

[the-hurt-locker187]

The spinning of light in dim lit places. The floating of stars in the thicketed night sky. Elements of dust, dripping down cool gusts of wind. I found you, under handfuls of ink. And laid all other regrets under rose 🥀 beds. Roses without thorns.