writing live

Willow Rain said:

Today I tell my friend for the first time,
Do it.
Don't wait.
Whatever you have to do,
don't waffle this time.

Six years she's been talking about separation,
divorce,
the steps.
She steps toward it,
and shys away.
She lives in fury.

Do it.
This time.
Don't step back in fear.

I am not a person who recomends
easy and early endings.
Marriage and commitment
are promises I have never taken lightly.

She lives in anger.
She breaths it.
She hit him.

He choses to be as a child
clings to his parents
lies to her.
Changes jobs with the seasons,
and offers no consistancy of soul.
In the ten years they have shared a bed
they have never consumated their marriage.

Leave.
I want to scream run.

She is loyal like a dog
and good hearted
but this has been too much for her.
She turns and coils
and has grown bitter and harsh
She bites at him
and flays open his back
with the razor of her tounge.

Go.

This time.
Her parents are coming
to talk to his.
They are both fourty
this is madness
but he won't talk to her about the ending.
The parents can perhaps make him move out.

She wants to threaten
to force his parents to make him grow up
take medication to make him able to focus
a bottle that might magic him into a man.

the plan is doomed.
he will not change.
this is who he is.

What she is becomeing tears my heart
this beautiful passionate woman
simmering into her hostility
until she is a bitter
woman
hard as bone.

I tell her
we can move you out in a day
four or five of us,
it can be done.

she says my mother
told me if he's not working I might have to pay allimony
I won't
I've paid too much

It is an excuse
Part of her loves him
It is not the part
that lifts her hand

leave.
For the first time
as your friend
I say it
with the whole of my heart
end this
before you become something
and someone
worth hating.

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ruminator said:

Early in my life,...well,...more like 30 years ago...I was an idealistic dreamer and hopeless romantic. I held on to most of that but I've become more realistic about the cycles of life and some prices that are unavoidable to enjoy times of happiness. It also forces me to decide which battles in life are wrth fighting and to what extent of loss.

Life is way too short to allow inconsiderate casualties.

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Tathagata said:

she painted the walls blue
i understood when she did the kitchen
the place where
he threw spaghetti that time
and she left it there
till he cleaned up

but the living room is blue
and the furniture is new and
rearanged
probablt feng shui
she used to laugh at me
when i talked about that stuff

the blue wall never heard the shouts
and crying
the blue wall doesnt remember
like i do
the blue wall makes it seem
like just another old womans house
neat and always waiting
a house that peeks out of itself
to see if anyone
is coming up the walk

the blue wall makes me see her as
small and gray
it doesnt feel like my house any more
i tell her
i dont like the color

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Angeline said:

I wanted to write a poem
explaining that I understand
that no paint can cover
a peeling life, you can sand
and prime until your fingers
bleed brighter than any gloss
and you'll still see the dent
where you smashed the keys
that night frustration shook
you to one mad act. That dent
will grimace from under any
spackle, even when you brush
it with sky. I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent. I wrote that poem already
but I was invisible, lost in the laundry basket,
trying to pretend that blue meant peace.

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