Where I Came From

Art by Annie Owens

I thought, that an old drained shed, would never

Break me down, but here before me,

Protruding out from the unkempt valley,

A collection of wood and nails, held loosely together,

Where I, used to bury my head, to hide from the monster,

Part of me, still hides, too afraid to face it as it slumbers,

Drifting past me, as I stare at my reflection in the murk,

Locking sight with me, as she transpires onto the shed

To be face to face with who I’ve lost,

Drowned in the crumbling quake of devastation,

It all starts to flood me, a crushing stampede of memories,

I watch myself being hollowed out, a pumpkin on Halloween

Excavated of all it’s guts, gobbled up by the monster,

His meaty paw, swung to and fro, striking the porcelain

That he kept, in it’s place, on that high, cold shelf,

His breath drifted, and filled the dry shed,

That stench, was still there, trapped in the dead grsss

And trees surrounding the forgotten place,

Forgotten, until I returned to find her waiting,

Crying for this moment, to be picked up and carried

To the distance, where she can be reunited, with herself,

Me, in my incompleteness, which I’ve grown accostmed,

Never would have happened, if the monster still took breath,

Yet, I still smell him,

Feel him, on the back of my neck,

He’s engrained, into every twig clinging on to it’s branch,

That day, that I left all this to rot in my mind

Has held up, to haunt me and entrap what I left hanging,

I left my weakness to fend for itself, which crawled

Into the deep darkness, to age into it’s own monster,

For I can never escape the punishment

Of never being able, to rescue myself.

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Ode Before Dying

Death before you, and you’ve lost

The concept of how to act,

A slab of marble, chiseled into absence,

Stif, barely able to move those frail lungs,

Gasping, for something stranded

An inch away,

Losing color, in the uninspired slop

Upon your bored plate,

A tick, forgetting to tock and so forth,

Or can you not hear it’s song,

Falsely clapping, as the curtain drapes

Over you, over a hollow echo,

Death, therefore I swallow, and choke.

Her Little Eyes

She sits, and spies out her window, into the lives of strangers,

Absorbing their day, their routine, becomes her obsession,

Enhaling all that she sees, and files it away, deep, in her mind,

She rummages through, picking apart all the lives

That are absorbed by her little eyes,

Their dark intimacy, hers to rewind and play

To her desires, outlining all these private events

As they unfold before her, never blinking, or flinching away,

Fully vested, as her neighbors proceed, with their reserves,

Unsuspecting of her eyes, as she blends, into the shadow,

Her only ally, the only thing, aware of her isolated existence,

Cloaking her, in it’s safe embrace, as she pushes

Further into it’s depths, losing herself to the shadow,

Nothing is left behind the curtain, as her eyes pierce through,

Studying, a couple separated by a wall, but in the same domain,

No longer their moments, as her eyes invaded

The space between them, which feels so cold, held

In her vision, surveying their constricted movements,

A man and a woman, sharing a story with her little eyes

Without even realizing, how their secrets, are displayed,

The man, sunken into the couch, while the woman slaves,

Leering at the man, her shrill voice piercing his serenity,

Minute after minute, she breaks the silence, and his fist gets tighter,

Gripping onto his anger as best he can, following the drips

Of sanity, that echo out, while those little eyes sparkle,

Gleefully watching the cracks spine up the narrow alley

Of their reality, they rushed into their unstable fusion,

Those eyes watching the man struggle, his temper climbing,

His own eyes begin to stammer, not realizing the knife,

His rage blinded him, he ignored her to the point her own rage

Took control, showed her where her serenity lives,

Took the blade she used for all those frustrated meals,

Ended them, by ending him,

Never have those little eyes, stared so immensely,

Haunted, by her own spying, she’s kept frozen,

Unsure if she should act, afraid for her hobby,

To the world, this all would be an aberration,

Not in her eyes, she never hurt anyone living in others,

But how much, can she trust the shadow, keeping her hidden,

Stuck in the moment, that shattered the harmless,

She draws the shades, pulls the shadow closer,

And finds herself empty, next to the woman still holding the knife,

Her little eyes grows weak, taking with her, all the stories

She’s stolen, while losing her own shadow to her own greed.