Everything looked rosy, I was tickled
pink, laughing with my charming hosts
yet before I could blink, you called
me to the wilderness, you checked
my boldest boasts, insisting that I factor
in these ancient bleeding ghosts.
I’ll stand here while you shout
and scream your anger to the skies.
I’ll feel your pain and I’ll rejoice
you’re not like other guys. You ask
me to claim a guilt for triggering
your pain, and once I would have done so,
but look, that is insane. Next door
a child is loud at play, pow, pow, pow
pow, pow! Then Mommy, look–she’s indistinct
–there are three children now, young, filling
the morning calm and my small unread book.
We want a map, a model, blind to all
that is around, insisting that our pain
right now engulf our heart and take our mind.
Summoning the mother, we try to break her ice
with furious mad tantrums, we refuse to be nice.
Inspired by: Factor, Pink, Wilderness, Charming and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “rhymes with rosy” — the rules for the SoCS is it must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. (And frankly, y’all, that no-editing thing is hard.)