broken doors and a gun to my head

3

 

guns and lace

This is a dark piece of poetry. Like the joyful, tender pieces I write, this poem was born of the powerful emotions and unexpected circumstances in which I found myself involuntarily immersed.

I was trapped in a multitude of ways by forces beyond my control. My heart was in a jar; I was bound, gagged and tortured. I gave; but I did not give in. I grieved; but I did not give up.

Thank you for reading, listening and watching, and thus validating my experience.

 

broken doors and a gun to my head

a poem by punkie

 

today like every other warm summer dementia day

i liberate my jailed heart and free it and me

because we love to be out where

life lives but where no one

else cares to take us

besides ourselves

and few can

go now

so

i push the escape button on the white wall

and the door opens half of halfway

because it’s still cracked and

broken like this place is

and no one wants to

hear me or my

core self no

way no

how

i gag on words and spit through bars and

leave abusive sins unspoken for the

sake of sharing this space for a

pair of daily hours even

if love sleeps and so

won’t know i am

here with old

hands in

mine

wicked ugly wounds weep bloody yellow pus

that collects in clear pools then runs

down to feet that can’t anymore

and screams why we must

start from a scratch

and create better

because to fix

this is too

hard

yet see how the boat rocks and pitches as

pl/r/ayers cling to gunwales for fear

they’ll drown in waves of their

own lies and i watch and

wait for the day a gun

is held to my head

cocked, pulled

then shot:

bang!

and if i’m not back again this time

tomorrow carry on with one

foot in front of the other

because it may be the

bitter dead end

of me or not

we’ll all

see

 

 

© Susan Macaulay 2013 – 2015. I invite you to share the links widely, but please do not reprint or reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

 

 

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