Kitten's Litter

Thanks ramble!

 

I used to apologize
for all my shine as sin,
all the twists and turns,
my stranger ways,
just getting by
unnoticed
by you,
head low, hands in pockets,
kicking up gravel,
eyes glued
to the ground,
but now I must
skip across state lines,
throw stones across the pond,
toss a couple words
back,
now I must
separate myself enough,
untangle my shadows
from all these black holes
that try to swallow up
my light,
what I used to want,
what I thought
would get me inside,
insider telescope lens,
but I’ve learned
that all your circles
are my chains,

no thanks,
I just don’t want to blend in,
synchronize my breath with yours,
I don’t want to pass
for a regular in line,
another face in the mob,
deep in the fat of numbers,
selling my heart out
to follow followers,
hoping I’d learn the defined
roles, rules, and ropes,
as if that’s what I want.

but I’ve grown defiant,
expansive,
can barely catch up,
accelerated,
and how can I contain
all the solar flares
of my mind,
they burst and burn,

and if it’s just too much,
turn your hazards on,
but, I won’t apologize
if I leave you
breathless and
blind.

 

Incredible...one of my faves for sure.^

Such a raw and ruthless person in that poem...makes me wonder.

 

it’s all familiar.

similar film scenes and credits
rolling by,
and I know this role by heart.

catcher in the rye,
catching crocodile tears,
putting up safety nets
for others,
but who will keep me
from testing the depths
of this bottle,
what’s stopping me
from laying my head
on the chopping block,

and I push back
harder
when there is more resistance,
but there are times
when I am tempted
to rip my skin off
to see what’s really
underneath it.

I’ve revised these scripts,
many times,
scratched off lines,
over time
I’ve learned that
this rough draft is
my life’s only version.

 

Almost 8 years strong
keep up the nice work

 

You always amaze me kitten. You make me feel dumb with words in the best way it can be felt.

I don't find your draught rough in the slightest.

 

Sometimes I think I should have been born
a revolutionary.

I am enamored with the barebones,
the way our years unroll like scrolls,
with hieroglyphs and hidden traps,
I am enamored with the fight,
the daily hiccups or the transcontinental toil,
soil in my pores makes me feel alive,
so I stay low, close to the ground
where I can see my victories
like rings on trees, expanding.
But I can only grow in crisis,
under the fire I can re-arrange
my thoughts,
can lick my wounds,
exchange my body parts,
new eyes, old color,
new lungs,
steel in my spine.
I can’t be satisfied, and hope I never will
be at the point of satiation,
the hunger drive, it overrides all fear,
and with each step, each time I hit the dirt,
sink in the quicksand,
I wave away concern,
because I know that if need be,
I still got my bootstraps here.

 

You're born! It is enough! lol

I love this...

 

It’s so easy to be awake at 4 in the morning,
when the gut growls and the thuds from the ghouls
keep me staring back at the time,
it’s so easy to be blank right now, my mind can breathe with any color.
This takes me back to being a night owl,
on the prowl,
on the lookout from a watchtower
for mischief and misadventure and misdirection,
flashlights at cemeteries, train tracks in the rain
vodka turning the soul inside out just to find it
turned into a spittoon.
I think inventing new ways of hurting, new pressure points,
was almost romantic,
back then.

not anymore.

and I’m still grateful I got off easy,
grateful for the calm I’ve nurtured,
within,
it’s like a garden,
since then, I made the choice to weed out,
everything that stands in the way,
everything that left me spinning my wheels,
short circuited habits and burned down the walls.
Now every moment is a choice I hold dear,
I think that’s how I know I’ve “grown up,”
it’s not about the bills, the jobs, the books that I read,
the words that I say or the kind of beer I drink,
it’s certainly not about symbols or
the notches on the bedpost of time,
but for me it’s all about the kind of world
I rebuilt and carry inside,
and how I can transform my darkness into light.

there is no more bullshit, fear, or pity,
only the calm after the storm, only openness to hear,
to translate the signs from the universe, to trust my voice
and wrap up loose ends by braiding all my acts into different paths,

I pay attention to every sunrise, it teaches me to let go
of what was never mine from the beginning.

 

beautiful. good to see u again kitten, hope you're well

 

the more I know, the less I know,
the more I see, the more I sink,

this is a box I’ve drawn
where I can lasso scattered words,
collect the sweat of daily grit.

I want to crawl into a quiet place,
that place between the walls
or stand beneath the shower head
under the waterfall of thoughts,
where I can be
completely naked and alone
and scrub off soot, thin film of stories from my skin.

I can’t say what’s wrong and can’t say what’s right,
I’ve buried secrets in the soil,
and yet,
there are residuals that need containment,
and knots that need to be untied,
there’s something sacred in this craft,
whichever craft is yours, there’s art.

but I’ve got mine,

I’m walking barefoot on broken glass,
navigating darkness
inside a strangers’ home,
where I may be a welcomed guest,
or treated as a foreigner,
where I could rattle chains
and scare the ghosts in corridors,
chill to the bone,
still, I may lay low and simply plant the seeds
in crevices and hollow spaces
of the dungeons,
wait until spring,
until the clock strikes the right note,
and brick by brick,
the walls will tumble,
and if we're lucky,
I might find blossoms
in this rubble.

 

what does any of that have to do with cat litter??? or is it all the same?

 

nice ending, i like that bit

 

This part in particular:

where I may be a welcomed guest,
or treated as a foreigner,
where I could rattle chains
and scare the ghosts in corridors,

is really good.

I wish I could offer critism, but your work just seems really well thought out.

Oh there is this I suppose:

in crevices and hallow spaces
of the dungeons,

Should that be "hollow" or "hallowed"? I might just be looking at it wrong.

 

Thanks, I corrected it.

 

You are most welcome miss X.

 

Whatcha got in your shopping cart?

You can take whatever you want out of life
but there is always a price tag
and a cash register at the end.
And I don't like taking what can't belong to me,
your dish of decisions and consequences is yours,
and I will not take on and carry the load,
because all I can offer is support
or perhaps, a different recipe.
I've got my own basket of who knows what,
so I'm drawing a line between us,
temporary customers,
putting a divider on the belt
to keep my sanity
or at least separate my battiness
from yours.

And although I'm sorry you've got some rotten fruit in there,
and I might even say something about it,
chances are
my words will not change a damn thing.
But if we have the luxury to choose
what we're going to eat each night
and get to pick out the ingredients,
then I've got to let you carry on
with your cart
full of
expired goods.

 

"chances are my words will not change a damn thing." very wisely put...go on and let him pay for rotten fruit, leaves the fresh stuff for you

 

you know how you have to
be a little sad,
sometimes,
be by yourself,
sometimes,
lay in a foxhole
awhile.

most days i’m buoyant,
floating on a raft among the clouds,
sunny thoughts,
windy head,
bopping to
the jazz
in this soul,
with a bounce
in each step,
slaying dragons
to keep myself warm,
i click, click
the switchblade tongue
and undercut
the dominance of
naysayers’ vibes.

most days i let them be
as long as they don’t
build windmills
in my way
or throw sticks
in my wheels.

but it takes more energy
to paint
with colors
than letting
all the greys run wild,
until days are
just a streak of dirt,
it takes more
than disagreeing
with the clockwork
of the grind
when so much in life
is meant to
put the fires out,
knock the wind out.

but despite it all,
if the fire needs
more oxygen,
and the canvas needs
more oil,
then i will be both.

 

Can we sit in silence
for a while,
but not in the kind that hurts,
where you feel like there is
an anti missile defense in place
and every word will explode on contact
before ever reaching the target
audience.

Can we look out at the skyline
for a while,
and know that whatever the unknown,
and despite the change in the scenery,
the sun will always call the horizon
home.

Can we be forgetful,
not of birthdays, housekeys, or promises,
but of the stories we’ve told ourselves
countless times,
while the details have faded,
the lessons
slowly solidified
into amber and fossils,
that are floating like dust specks
at the back of our
eyes.