for maya.

Maya Angelou

 

We all have pain.

 

Some more than others.

 

Some people feed

its scraps

to the hungry dogs.

 

Some people take

it to the bank,

stowing it away

in a dusty

safe deposit box,

fading to nothing

upon its key holder’s

fade to nothing.

 

Others fling it

in the face of the

world at large,

an unfortunate fate

for innocents

crossing the paths

of emotional maniacs.

 

Some people

own

their pain.

 

They take it

into their arms

and cradle it

like a newborn,

 

losing sleep

and time

just the same,

 

feeding it from

their well of

inner strength,

nurturing

until it

matures enough

to reason with.

 

Matures enough

to comprehend

how cruel the

world can be.

 

Matures enough to

make peace with.

 

Matures enough

to let go of

like a parent

waving goodbye

over a parade

of packed boxes

and painfully

joyful embraces.

 

Some people

fabricate their pain

knowingly and willingly,

masquerading as

the victim

in a cruel and

unfair world.

 

For others,

the world defines

cruel and unfair,

 

and some,

they let it break them.

 

Others wear the pain

like a pulsating

badge of

bloody honor,

feeding from its

richly caloric

bittersweet powerhouse,

owning it,

embracing it,

overcoming it but

never forgetting

the poisonous needles

prodding them

toward success.

 

We are brothers

and sisters,

mothers and fathers,

lovers and givers,

us all,

and the pain

doesn’t define us.

 

We define

the pain.

 

We define

the suffering.

 

We fuck up

and falter.

 

We squander

and abuse,

 

We withdraw

and explode,

 

We love and learn

while defining

our pain,

 

and it drives

us farther than

the finest

fossil fuel

 

when you

give it

the homage

it deserves.

 

 

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“Cotton rows crisscross the world

  And dead-tired nights of yearning

Thunderbolts on leather strops

 And all my body burning

Sugar cane reach up to God

And every baby crying

Shame the blanket of my night

   And all my days are dying”

– The Memory, Maya Angelou

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

Charlie.

Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski

 

Four years into the ground

and you were nothing but

dust and bone

yet your words went down

as smoothly as

yesterday’s beer on the nightstand,

 

which for most

isn’t smoothly at all

but for a young woman

intent on drinking dry

every drop of pain

in the world around her

your metallic swill

was worth every cigarette butt

swallowed from the bottom

of that can.

 

Perhaps you tuned in

from beyond

as ghosts spoke

of your death

and your youth,

from your bedroom

and your whiskey,

of your horses

and your whores,

filling the air with

phantom thumping keys

and wafting smoke,

feeling entirely like home.

 

Like dulled mountains.

Like the steel guitar.

Like a dirty warm embrace

you spoke to me,

and suddenly I knew

that while in the

posthumous company

of a drunken misogynist,

smoking mad

fucking filthy

old soul,

 

I was somehow less alone.

 

“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.” – Bukowski

 

bukowski026

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014