Thresheld

Short Story

I sat down to write a poem,
ended up with a short story
erotic and gory,
but I don't want to share it,
because it scares me.
I wanted to write something clever,
like a love poem full of smilies that would hold my attention, like the commercials on T.V. that diagnose depression. Then I realized I was out of sex puns, used all I had on the last one, so I'm just gonna come again later when I've got enough juice to write something greater.

But I scrapped the whole thing,
so I could write something dramatic.
After all what could be more tragic
than my father's fall, it was impossible for him to live through all that madness, and the same could be said of me while I stood over his mattress. I tried to move past it, and I did, but the same can't be said of my sister, I wanted her to let me in, but she turned to heroin instead, and now I'm alone and the dead outnumber the living if you're talking about my immediate family. I wanted to write that part better, but I've already wrote them so many times I know I'll never find closure nit-picking over every letter of every word, my voice has been heard and I need something new

I want to write over the scars, but I've done that too. I've shared them so many times I forget they're there. my history tattooed on my body like a cry for help, well I got it through writing, but to do so again doesn't sound so inviting, because I've got too much potential to dwell in the past.

No I rather write ripples on the pond
in a head that's been lost in the fog
of the rain that hasn't let up,
so the trees are shedding there leaves turning the ground into a graveyard in the heart that the seed was planted,

Or rainbows to push out the storm in the soul that fears harm from the light that has been far too distant to touch with fingertips so hesitant to change, that soul that is yearning for chest bursting compassion in the face of doubt.

I want to write the vine growing on the fence post in a ghost town host to only a few thoughts that bought the grounds so they could proliferate into misguided theories of fate and religion in a region abandoned by God and men, yet still somehow a prison when  your mind is spiraling.

I want to write the cracks in the mud in a swamp turned dessert where no one survives but the peasant symbolic of pleasant memories embodied by those left too soon who lives on vicariously through the empty shell of a man who put himself there just to have company.

I want to write the feeling of picking the petals off a daisy on a lazy afternoon on a cobblestone bridge above a creek, she loves me, she loves me not, and finally the last petal is she loves me, and how can she not is all you can think as you tip your hat to a random horse and buggie.

I want to write fireworks as secrets not meant to be seen but heard like whispers behind a locked door full of porcelain and precious commodities where any noise would be an intrusion.

I want to write about social issues that effect me, but more importantly those that effect people less fortunate than me, but unfortunately I don't have a voice in a struggle, or much hope I'll get through my own. I knew I couldn't write this poem, so I'll probably just stick with my erotic and gory short story.