No bed of roses

                                 no bed of roses


my lifes been a whirlwind of drama and bad luck and its taking its toll

i feel like i dont truly belong on this planet and its hurting my soul

all i do is feel the same day in and day out and i want it to stop

one more minute feeling this way i will surely lose it and pop

life isnt what i thought it would be and my arms are my releases

livings way to hard and its way to cruel and is no bed of roses

because my past is filled with tear stained pillows and ghosts locked up

and my future isnt written yet and my present is an empty cup

filled with uncertainties and sadness and in my mind ive died many times

in my dreams the moment i die all noises hush and all i hear are chimes

lifes way to hard and its way too grim and its no bed of roses

yet here i am rolling with the tide and staring at my waiting arms

and the urge to relieve myself becomes all comsuming with great alarm

i cry as i let the pain wash over my arm and smile all while i feel nothing too

its done what needed to be done and shame washes over me but what can i do

so why the sadness when i look down and see the scars there upon my arms

to find sweet release right there in the flesh and find the need to do myself harm

because my life is to damned right down to my soul and its no bed of roses


                              Zoey cup




Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this one at a dark part of my life and when I read it after I wrote it in seemed to put my problems in a different perspective!!!!

                 Zoey cup

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Mary wakes from
her, troubled, uneasy
sleep. She turns and
sees Alice behind her


looking at her. What
are you doing here?
she asks, sitting up,
looking down at the


child. Wanted to be
near you, Alice replies.
You can't come into

my bed, what will


they say if they find
you here? Mary's voice  
rises higher than she

meant. They won’t,


Alice says, no one
knows. They'll miss
you, Mary says, look

for you, and if they come,


what then? The child
sits up, rubs her eyes.
I'll hide, she says. Mary

sighs, lays back on the


bed, looks at the ceiling.
The child lies next to her,
head on her thin shoulder.

You can't do this, Alice.


But I have, the child says.
Your bed's lumpy. If they
find you in here, I’ll lose

my job and God knows


what'll happened then.
There is black spider
creeping along the dull

ceiling, slow movements.


We mustn't tell them,
Alice says. She runs a
small finger along

Mary's arm. You can't


stay here, Mary says,
you must go back to
your own bed before

they find you've gone.


Don't you love me any
more? Alice softly asks,
looking sideways at the

maid beside her. Yes,


of course I do, but this
mustn't happen again.
I'll be gone, then who

will you have to love,


now your mother's ill
and locked up? Alice
frowns and looked at

her hands, small, white,


pink. Mother used to
let me into her bed and
cuddle her. Her pink

fingers join and she


makes. I'm not your
mother, Mary says,
I’m just a maid who

wants keep her job.


Alice looks at her.
You said you'd be my
adopted mother. Mary

looks at her biting a lip.


Yes, I did. She looks
away, at the window
where lights begins

to show. All right,


but you must go back
now, before you're
missed. Can I come

another time? Alice


asks, her bright eyes
gazing. Yes, if I say so,
no creeping into my

bed at night unless


I know, Mary says.
Alice nods her head.
Best get back then,

she says. Be careful.


I will. And if I’m seen,
I’ll say I was sleep
walking, Alice says.

You mustn't lie, Mary


says. Should I tell them
the truth then? Alice asks,
smiling, getting down

from the bed. Be careful,


sleep walk just this once.
The child nods, opens the
door and closes with a

click. Mary gets out of


bed, opens the door, looks
along the dim passage.
The child has now gone.

Silence. Cold morning


air. A hard frost maybe.
What if she's seen? What
then? She shuts the door,

pours cold water from a


white jug into a white bowl.
Morning wash. Hands
into the water and throws

into her face. The coldness


wakes her. Far off a bird
sings. What if she's found
out of bed? What a turn up.

Poor kid. Me another mother


Nearby a church bell rings.

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thrown under the bus

nowadays all she does is whine about her bodily pains,

but when you were left alone, 

she stayed drunk, prowling the bars

days on end, 

oblivious to the emotional wreckage left

on your chest, like a hot iron

melted through the tender heart of a 10 year old,

the open wound to the 


cauterized shut

too soon,

without even leaving any open flesh

for the pain to be released,

seared closed with the shame, pain, and false pride of generations,

sealed in for years like a safety box of magnets,

pulling you towards anything and everything self-destructive

in a desperate search for some morsel of hope,

that the next christmas dinner might be more than 

knocking on the doors of neighbors, being lucky enough to be

asked in to share a holiday meal, 

and an attempt to be noticed for something other than the burden

you were to her deep and fervent longing for 

the escape, into smoke filled rooms,

that reeked with the heavy, putrid smell of week-old frying grease,

cigarettes, and hairspray, that became one of your main

reasons for going to live with your dad--

other than the day she up and left for california,

a 50 dollar bill to substitute her mac and cheese, dribbled with 

one and a half inches of ashes off a pall mall,

only to be less than reluctantly welcomed by him,

and a stepbrother who most always was 

notably more worthy of better dirtbikes, nicer clothes 

and a much more frequent pat on the back 

for a job well done, 

that most often wasn't.


a dollar for him and quarter for you, along with the bottom bunk,

that smelled like pee from all the years he wet the bed,

only ever good enough for sloppy seconds--

and then there was brownie,

poor broken down swayback, with skin infections,

baldspots and degenertive bone disease,

in light of your brother's black stallion stud,

as if the 6 inch scar on the back of your leg wasn't enough 

from your father's drunken rage with a 4 inch hunting knife,

and the glass from the window that left it's souvenir the night he threw you

across the room, all before the age of 14.



i may have shot that horse between the eyes too.





11:37 PM 6/26/2013





Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a poem about a kid.



Lying in Bed

I was lying in bed

I had something stuck in my head

please someone pull it out

please someone pull it out


I was sitting inside the fire

I didn't scream I just let the flames burn higher and higher

I couldn't talk

I couldn't talk


I fell asleep inside a cloud

I slept for a hundred-thousand years

I didn't make a sound

I didn't make a sound


I was lying in bed

I had something stuck in my head

please someone pull it out

please someone pull it out

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Your Shelter As Mine

I'd rent the space above your collarbone;
an affordable rate, a deposit of sorts:
in saying that I love you, dearest,
and that I intend to stay a while yet.
I hope you'd accept me as tenant --
ply me well, let me lay against you,
and force me to prove my good will,
my good grief, my well-wishing;
I will not fail with your shelter as mine.

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Just An Echo

Night brings weight that lays upon
the bed beside me, and despite me
it finds room to stretch and yawn
while I am forced to yield the sheets.

Day brings reason to wake and rise
and to ignore, or dare implore
the burden near to improvise
and share its many unmet needs.

When it speaks in muffled voice
and begs for love, or something of
substance that will come by choice,
I see it's just an echo.

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Come to Terms with the Morning

Somewhere far it wasn't midnight, yet
here tonight, midnight seemed endless.
The open mouth of the window whispered:
a bird, confused and upset, chortling
and beating its head against the trunk of its tree.
An angered, yet impotent wind blew
and rapped the broad string of a flag
against its staff; the silence ruptured by its ringing.
The feline, ever-woken, pads a place to rest
and digs his stubbing claws into the bedding.
His widened-eye attention draws to shadows
cast by our befuddled bird who cries against the dawn.
Caught by light of moon and star, he flutters
and fights to shoo away what's ruffled him,
stirred him and in turn, forced me to come to terms
with the earliest morning I've seen in days.

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Resolved to Love

Her eyes opened to the dark of the coming dawn.
Silence, like the canopy above her head, hung in the air, if only to be disturbed by the rustling wind.
She blinks again, unsure of what her eyes are showing.
He was there, laying beside her in bed, his face soft from slumber.
Beside her was where she found him.

He could feel her eyes, like the morning sun, enveloping him in their warmth.
He didn't dare stir at fear he would startle her and force her to hide behind a blush.
He knew she was questioning his presence.
Then slowly, he felt her wrap herself in the sheet and remove herself from the bed.
Never again would he let her leave him.

She clung to the sheet as her feet slipped across the cold floor.
She gazed through the open window at the commencing morning.
She couldn't bring herself to find her clothing that was thrown about the room.
In that moment she was resolved to stay.
She was resolved to let herself love him.

He watched her as the sun slowly rose to illuminate the paleness of her skin.
He let his feet touch the floor and carry him to her.
His arms moved to tighten the sheet around her, and yet, secure her to him.
She was too much to take in all at once, he loved all of her equally.
So he closed the curtain again.

Together they let the morning pass to night once more.
And in their slumber they held onto each other for dear life.
Never again would they let go.
Never to be apart.
Together to greet the oncoming dawn.

Resolved to always love.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is quite a poem, but it's not a short story either. I thought there might be an audience for it here.

Bed Time

Unfocused eyes, a fading mind.
Eyes wide open frozen in time.
A pounding in my chest I fear to close my eyes and rest.
Marked for life and marked for death.
I can’t breathe, oh yea I’m holding my breath.
And morning comes once again, is this a battle without end?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hi all i'm new, not sure if i even qualify to post.

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