urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:hey_julietsilken pages from my obituaryOpheliaOphelia2008-02-02T04:07:57Zurn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:hey_juliet:408602.01.082008-02-02T04:07:57Z2008-02-02T04:07:57ZI deny myself that which cannot sustain them any longer. What was once necessary to them but is now no longer required. That which they have become for various lesser creatures of this earth. The ones that now ingest the nothing made of their something, which was my everything.<br /><br />I watch all the others and I think to myself. Normally I'm not as good as you are, but in this moment, I am better. And I sit there comforted by this fact, and scribbling these mostly useless poems. Sometimes the skeletal formations of verse. Sometimes the embellishments of prose.<br /><br />The book into which these are written is green, spiral bound, and too tightly so, it should be noted. It is marked up on the front, tiny indentations from the lack of care exhibited by all the rabid Wal-Mart customers scrounging around the bin to find some other, somehow one step superior book, one of the blues or the pinks or even the browns. I rescued this one via capitalist consumerism, and it now serves my purposes.<br /><br />There is a book of the Bible called Lamentations. I am not so much a prophet as a connoissieur of these, and this, I suppose, is mine. It contains lines on many subjects, many (if not all) of which do not exist anymore. Most are for a dead girl who is no relation of mine, whether through blood or correspondance or general exposure. And my while my sorrow for her is suffocating, while it is excruciating at times, while I feel it like a thousand pounds of lead piled high on my chest, it is undeserved, unwanted, inappropriate. <br /><br />Some concern a woman I knew little better, the mother of my probable brother, who put a bullet in her head and is content that it remains there fifteen years later. Her life was imperfect, comprised of an abusive father, absent mother, a (later meth-addicted) sister for whom she was responsible at an entirely too young age, the indifferent cruelties of my father, the responsibility for my brother. Is it any wonder that the drive and the volition and the intent and the suffering were enough to lodge the steel into her brain enough to kill her. Was it not merciful.<br /><br />And there is my son. This child I folded back into the earth. This child who, if there is a God, I hope is being blessed piece by piece back into the earth. Nameless. Lifeless. Dreamless. Endless. And then there is my son.<br /><br />I am not a happy person. I am not a happy person.urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:hey_juliet:56712.15.072007-12-16T04:48:56Z2008-01-25T02:11:37ZIs it so easy for you to abandon me. As some aspect of nature hurled out into our urban sprawl for us to pick up, survey, discard when you tire of this strange emissary from a strange world. Out of that same compulsion that drives us to step upon autumn's crunchiest leaves just to hear their demise, sharp beneath our feet. Such a satisfaction derived from the act.<br /><br />When the car breaks down you get out and walk on. All the other cars whirring past. And you are forgotten amidst the endless procession of gas stations, roadside peddlers, setting sun at your back, moon rising silver and pale over the lonely road and lonelier you.