Love's Puppet Show


My solitary justification for loving you was convincing myself I could actually survive in the secret fantasy world we had invented,


whispering dreams of grand escapes between sips of sweet wine and committing to memory the soft outline of your smile as we kissed,


Melting anxieties of the harsh world outside (that very same one waiting patiently on our doorstep) 


Naively ignoring that I was clutching to you with white knuckles and my grip was ever slipping,


Trying desperately to hold tightly to someone I knew I could never fully have; forever swinging perilously over a frothy, churning sea of jealousy


Yet when you held me, the raging storm fell mute; a faulty sense of clarity befell star crossed eyes bearing rose flushed glasses,


and in that frozen frame of time, I truly believed you were the only salve to mend open wounds and repair the damage inflicted by those before you,



No lofty commitments to doubt,
no heavy promises to halt this deadly dance we gladly swayed in time to,


just a pair of damaged humans with deep tears in their stuffing;
pasting patches forged from a strangers comfort over fractured souls in hope of healing,


Trembling fingers weaving taut stitching of raw, pink scars,

pulling together two broken lives and blindly believing it would hold.

G. Bosquez






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She was an atheist. After

her beloved husband died

she began drinking heavily

.... her grief multiplied by

the thought that he no longer

existed at all.  God show

her that he still IS, that he

will love her forever, and that

he is happy.

-saiom shriver-

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Missing You

I miss you dad
More and more each day
I'm trying my best
To get up and stay
To be a part of this world
With all it's ups and downs
To wear a smile more
Than I wear I frown
It's harder than I thought it would be
Living without you
What are you trying to tell me?
I feel confused at night
When I dream of your smile
Knowing that you're gone now
For more than a little while
Why is the question
Because is the only answer
Why does my heart bleed
Because you are not there.


Brandy Noelle Souza


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Grieving is about loss. Most people think of the grief process and right away think about death, and it is so "not" about death, but because we do not understand what death is, and only base our knowledge of death on everything we have been told second hand about it, our grief becomes something we "adjust ourselves to". It becomes for some, a burden they carry, and for others, another phase of growth and acceptance of our inability to "know everything".

Grief of anything other than death is much more tangible to work through. "I lost my house". Ok, so now I must find another place to shelter myself. "I lost my wallet". Ok. So now I have take the necessary steps to retrieve and protect my information best I can. 

"I lost my beloved. He/she was the only person in the entire world who I had ever fully opened my heart to who LISTENED, and took the time and effort to CONNECT to my HEART in a way that no one else could ever, or will ever again be able to do".


Best you can do is accept your human limits maybe. People say "acceptance of death". They only confuse the real issue.

~a four year old child who lost their mother~


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a little bit on grief.

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The Abused


He was born in a rodent-infested hut, amid the broken screams of an abused woman and the furious shouts of a drunken man; those sounds never faded.

He had been there all his life.

He watched the generations pass by; he lived his life in each stage, under the watchful eyes of the same spirits that have always lurked there.



He is unwelcome-he interferes in the dull monotony of their lives

But he doesn’t, really-he never ventures into their existence-

Never shatters their perfect routine,

He merely peeps in from a distance, like a tourist at a zoo.



As the house burned, bright orange and red flames licking the night sky,

A boy of eight watched, a gash running down the side of his head.

That is a scar he will forever have to bear.

Holding that candle to the drapes and then quietly walking out, he wouldn’t regret

He was a murderer.


He walked out of what they called the kids’ dungeon, his gash now a pink scar,

Jagged and crooked, adorning the side of his face.

As other boys threw insults at him, he stole a brown hat with a large brim.



His painfully ordinary hat hides his cold eyes, as they observe and calculate

He is tall, but he slouches; his trusty cane always clenched tight between his white knuckles;

Some people make us instantly warm up to them, some make us shiver uncomfortably.

He is the latter.


He watched with pained eyes as his wife walked away.

The little boy on her shoulder reached back for him, crying too much to be coherent.

The people glared at him cruelly, telling him he was his own father.

He learned to shut his eyes and ears.



He is there, seemingly everywhere at once, as soon as the smiling sun makes his way up the sky;

He watches carefully as the village crawls to life,

The small shacks opening their worn down, unpolished doors, as curious, wary heads peek out at him,

Each of them turning away as he turns in their direction.



He watched in the mirror as his once youthful face grew old, like creases on thin paper;

He looked out of his window. An old lady smiled at him with sympathy.

She was the only one who had done that in a long time.



They talk about him-the women gossip during knitting sessions,

And the men make crude jokes about him as they labour in the fields.

Happy new parents warn their children fearfully, to steer clear of his mysterious figure.

That is why they scuttle away when he watches them-the same way he does everyone else.



He stared at the official document.

The old lady had died.

She left him her life’s savings.



They do not know how he survives-how he makes his living,

How he gets his food and drink,

Or is he some strange entity that does not require any mortal means of survival?

They do not know, yet, or maybe “thus”, he is the story young boys tell around the campfire,

As they shine torchlight in their faces, making sound effects to ensure their friends will wake up screaming in the still, quiet dead of night.



He signed at the bottom of the page;

He hoped someone would find it.

He gave his house and property to his son.



When his spirit fades away like morning stars, in the middle of December, his bed as cold as his eyes once were,

No one knows.

His body rots, as the family of rats, who call his house their home, 

Eagerly feast on the pale carcass.


Things come full circle.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's been years since I've penned a poem, but here it is anyway..

Over the Moon

If you could've been saved, I would've been over the moon.

But you died and you were taken far too soon.

You had to have a hysterectomy and your left leg amputated.

You were in so much pain, it was something that I truly hated.


My brother and I had to end your pain by taking you off the respirator.

If I would've had a choice, I would've rather wrestled with an alligator.

When you died, I came home and licked my wounds.

If you could've been saved, I would've been over the moon.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dedicated to Agnes Johnson (1948-2013) who passed away on March 6, 2013.

365 days of Hell

Things haven't been going well since Mom died one year ago today.

A big part of me died with her when she passed away.

For the last 365 days, I've been going through Hell.

Everybody who knows me, knows that things aren't going well.


One day before Mom's death, there were two things that I decided to give her.

A stuffed Easter bunny and a card and they were buried with her.

Life hasn't been easy because I've been to Hell and back.

I would've rather suffered a severe heart attack.


I've experienced a year's worth of misery and tears.

Life has been pretty bad since March of last year.

I hope that I never have to experience this kind of pain again.

I'll never forget Mom even if I live to be a hundred and ten.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dedicated to Agnes Johnson who died one year ago today at the age of sixty-four.

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In dark dreams
I walk again
those empty
hospital corridors


with their dull lights
and smell of disinfect
and death
in those dreams


I look for you again
my son
passing by
the blanks faces


of others
looking at
their eyes
for glimpses of life


or concern
or such  
as humans
sometimes have


I go by
room after room
pass porters


the occasional trolley
by the various
side wards
passing by


the bright lights
of hospital shops
in the dream
I am hoping


to find you once more
sitting there
on the bed
your back turned


your head lowered
but this time
I am hoping
for a healthier you


my son
not one so ill
so lost
in this dream


sunlight shines
through the window
of the small ward
a bird sings


not that dull curtain
the murmur
of voices
the usual limbo like


air about the place
this time my son
I wish to find you well
looking at me


with your own
familiar smile
not that haunted


and tired eyes
that draw from me
a steam
of deep felt cries.


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This grief
has teeth


my son
it bites through


skin and bone
tearing at heart


and mind
(the deeper


the love
the harder


the pain
I find)


this grief
with its pearly whites


gnaws at me
through dull days


and dark nights
trying to drag me


to dark depths
shaking me


like a dog with bone
bringing me


to deep hurts
and aching moan


this grief
holds hard


bites deep
taking me


to dark dawns
and black dogs


of sunset red
and echoing memories


in numb
and hurting head


this grief has teeth
my son


biting through
bone and skin


tearing me within
but memories remain


strong and clear
and bright


which will
sustain me


through many
a deep dark night.

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