Broke

I spend my words on sorrow
immeasurably so – unbalanced
in wasting all I have on
paintings of an unknown end.
And I wonder – wander through
a moment of pastels in floral,
warmed by her glow – The Sun—
embedded into mornings unseen by me
yet felt in dreams I’ve yet to dream.

Is this me? A place where
I am bent – splintered at the sides
& open wholly for all to watch me reaching –  
the dusk pulling at my pockets for
the rest of my voice, unwritten.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Rain Maker

you crush shadows
in the palms of your hands
overflowing from your fingers
reborn from your touch-
an endless spring
clear, wild & innocent
like fresh rain puddles
in the face of our quiet sun.

when you swallow me in your arms
just as tightly –
i wonder where the darkness goes.

©️Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

i know you know –

i know you know –
the inability to understand
peace when the sun yanks
you from the cheap IKEA
coffin you built by hand –
alive but struggling to
breathe from last nights
dealings with death.
you were so sure
she’d find you un-moving
under the duvet –
heart stopped-
lungs restless-
pants full of shit.
but here you are
almost wishing it was real –
swallowing slow dissolving
sorrows – bitter. life saving.
i know you –
you’re getting tired.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

The Diseased Ones

they spin like dizzy children on a school day
but without the reassuring chime
that ushers them into four solid, safe walls.
instead, tired, little things,
keep spinning
         spinning
              spinning...

until they wake up out of bounds, beyond
the Gate and behind the waist high
brick planters filled with the colors
of a burnt-brown rainbow.

I am there too.

reaching for their sweaty hands and
picking at their pockets for the chalky
white tablets that help to medicate our
              flow of Time.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Get Over It

Just breathe.

How can I? My own oxygen
is grated shrapnel over
temples amassed
across my veins

like someone who never says
when for the parmesan cheese
except your lungs are minced spaghetti –

I can make this funny
while simultaneously
wishing I could yank open
every door to the legion of
deaths discovered on WebMD.
They harden inside my belly
like a kingdom built to house
only doomsdays –
the priests in those
tiny temples say their pity
prayers and wait to be
set on fire.

You’re ok. 

Did you know that’s
slang for ‘orl correct’?
Everything about this city
was made to crumble.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018