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Literature
PTSD
When I was younger my dad was my hero
my mom said, look up to your father, he's the smart one
he fed me dreams of harvard in small spoonfuls ,
college ideas at the mere age of eight
i swallowed it, caught it like a raindrop
always begging for more, a little more please papa
fifth grade came, and my dad became a harder man
my mama repeated , still look up to him honey,
he knows, he knows
seventh grade brought shouting anger and sadness
my papa gave me the talk, the talk about ptsd
he said it would change him, make him not my papa at times
the monster isn't me he says, just something you can't find under your bed
throughout his screaming and
Literature
Homesick
I am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
blood-orange against
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
Literature
.
with blood in her eyes and
tears in her hands, with
dirt on her knees and
scars on her neck,
she'll hold in-
security near
to her heart
and slow-
ly fall
alseep.
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"Ok, to writing I am doing for now. I hath this needing edge to keep it short and sweet. I wonder, in a good question to all my hatchlings, what does it feel like to hold a pillow? I gave my own thought to this concept. This is what I came up with." 
"
challenged me to write this." © 2014 - 2024 GargoylesBlood
Comments11
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Short but soo sweet! Nice job!