Citnala is my Home (coldengray) wrote in writers_vote,
Citnala is my Home
coldengray
writers_vote

Hey, It's been awhile but i wanted some opinions. I am attempting to write enough poems about this concept that has been going on in my head....



Rating: PG
Genre: poetry


Preston Street: Sara and Sean
By Traveus Lawson

Sara lived in an eggshell fairytale,
And once again her heart had taken a fall
And all those horses on that one man
Couldn’t put her back together again.

He hadn’t called in days.

She told me that she was tired,
She just wanted to go to bed,
I could tell that she was lying,
But I let her rest her head.

He hadn’t called in days.

With a closed door she was shut in,
With memories like ghosts,
Recreating scenes and sounds,
Terrifying and true, a living nightmare.

He hadn’t called in days.

She had wanted to disappear,
Find solace within a tear,
Away from the smell of alcohol swabs,
And the feel of stainless steel.

They said it would be painless.
A simple procedure for a woman of nine weeks,

They said she would be nameless,
But as she pulled the shade on Preston Street
She still felt as if the world could still see, her.

He hadn’t called in days.

“Don’t forget release the tourniquet.”
“A vein won’t collapse if you let it breathe.”
“It’ll be like three tabs of ecstasy,
With a shot of Jimmie Bean,
This stuff is cut real clean.”

Sean committed these words to memory,
As he stood to take his leave,
While stumbling through the bodies
Of forgotten dreams and wasted hope,
He convinced himself it was just to cope.

“She did this in spite of me.”
“She did this because of me.”
“This pain is killing me.”
“I just need a release.”

The images spawned by harbored grief,
Travel with the heroin as it is leaks,
Into his vein,
Taking away the pain, momentarily
He sees the body of only nine weeks.

Rock a bye baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall,
Down will go baby, and once again I fall.

He hadn’t called in days.

She had said the words in a rapid fire procession
It was her body, her choice, she had made a decision
He had felt the relief then but chose not to mention,
Though in the silence, there grew the most tension.

In these moments emotions are such foreign things
As guilt becomes regret but is then mistaken for grief,
He had wanted to say so many things,
She had tried to say so many things.

He was too busy running,
Looking for a remedy,
Too busy running,
Clutching the word, “me”.

He left her on Preston Street.

He hadn’t called in days.

He hasn’t breathed for days.



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