It is hard to believe in a dead man,
a ghost,
a life,
a life of a ghost man….
a life that hands my limp direction
over to those that can control it.
They must have told him,
the people,
that his core was rotting,
that his brain was infested and crumbling?
That his daughter was sick with
raw nerves and would never get better?
If the bombs in Vietnam hadn’t sawed his
spirit away,
if his own father
hadn’t dangled lily liver from
the ceiling,
maybe he would have heard
the people,
the ghosts,
the whispers of his daughter’s twisted,
raw nerves grasping
for contact
and saved me from rotting with the same
crumbling infestation.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
*hugs*
🙂
Wow I absolutely love this
Thanks Courtney
Awful lingering feelings
>
that linger and linger
Yea the linger
Dark. I read a poem about an inherited drinking problem. Maybe not what you meant maybe depression either way the reading was very good.
You hear what you hear…what rings true to you. I love poetry for that.
It is a sad fact that the crumbling nerves and infestations slip down enjoying in their own way the destruction of each new generation! Great poem. x
I agree.
Certainly inspiring with good imagery
Thanks!
Ah sweet Jesus, Ah sweet Maggie Mae, if I could only write a golden bough that wafted alabaster incense to heal your heart! I would. But I think youu are doing that. Keep writing them.
raw and potent! so well written! Thanks for sharing…can feel the pain! Hopefully, sharing it helps….
ohhh…ohhhh. no words. you cut me wide, and ima just bleed for awhile. it’s the very least i could do. in bloody heart, charissa
it helps to, I think!