these people

I can’t see them anymore
I don’t want to see them anymore
I have no desire to see them anymore

I never think about
phoning them or
messaging them or
stopping by to say “hi.”

I don’t care about
what’s happening
in their lives or
who they’re dating
or what memories
we had together

yet they insist, they demand
that I visit them
that I sit down with them
that I talk about nothing important
with them

and I can’t say no

because I know how it feels:

during those times,
when I was down and out
and needed someone
to turn to, to talk to
but there was no one around
I felt the terror & the darkness
constricting my cold and lonely heart
as all the vitality and connection was draining
from my ventricles of ire
like blood from a stone

and so much of that
over a lengthy period of time
has made me a lot stronger,
more independent from people
and maybe even borderline aloof
from all human interaction

I no longer need them
I no longer want them around

but I can’t let anyone
feel that same way
that I felt

so long ago.

pitiful.

This is, well, I can't even sugarcoat these things anymore, I've written so many, she had a presence in many circles.

I know Mari had friends on HP, more than just poetry buds, but good friends. She sadly was killed in action two weeks ago on Friday, April 4th, and was laid to rest in the main military cemetery April 7th in Kup"Yansk Vuzlovyy, Kharkivs'Ka Oblast', Ukrayina. Special sympathies to her husband SSgt J. Reihl of the 13th National Guard Brigade.

She'll be very missed by everyone who knew her. She was a true ray of sunshine in everyone's lives, despite so much loss in her young life she never stopped smiling or laughing unless she was posing for a glamour shot. Glory to Ukrayina, and glory to all her fallen heroes. Let their sacrifices for our freedom never be forgotten.

Major Tarasova, Med Svcs Kharkiv

The house still leans where ivy climbs
and moss has claimed the window’s eye,
its breath a fog that does not lie,
forgetting all but softer times.

The floorboards speak in gentle cracks,
of barefoot ghosts in morning light,
a quiet child, a paper kite,
and laughter echoing through cracks.

The garden bends to weeds and rain,
but roses bloom where none remain,
a stubborn kind of joy, not pain,
just proof that beauty does not feign.

And though we pass, we do not fall:
we stitch ourselves into the wall,
in chipped paint, names that time recalls,
still listening, beyond it all.

the
smell
of the
barbecue grill
taunts
my hunger pains
I walk on by
uninvited
with no place
to
go.