Bad Blood

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.)

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Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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