All Twisted

My universe is upside down
I put stars in my coffee
and the coffee beans in the sky
I want to fishing in the clouds
and fly in the deepest of the oceans

My world is all twisted
Because I like it that way
I’m a labyrinthine on my own

They say I’m growing insane
that I’m mad;
and they are so right!


The Special Noun ;)

Your name isn’t just a blend of consonants and vowels,
it’s a word that has captivated my world,

Your name isn’t just that defines u,
it’s something that I will cherish with my character for an eternity to come,

Your name isn’t just a four letter syllable,
but it’s the rhythm with which my heart coils,

Your name isn’t just your identity,
it’s as pious as a prayer.

Your name isn’t just your belonging,
it makes my nerves dance every time it escapes my lips!

Your name isn’t just your identity,
it is the special noun attributed to my soul!

Come oh dear Heart, Come back to me!

Some beginnings

Are destined to end

Some relations

You can never comprehend

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!


Beloved he was

Beloved he remains,

But the wounds he gave

Will always keep its stains,

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!


Your wails are a waste

Your words form a symphony

Leave the distaste

See the epiphany

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!


He hath no heart,

The layer ripped

Thou knowest it

It is to fall apart,

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!


I promise

Of no more pains

Shed the anguish

In the flames

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!


Bring back what remains

He’s a Saint version of a face,

This numbness pains

No angel can make

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!


Love is no trade

He’s the best lad

I’ve ever had

Thou mustn’t make me sad

Come oh dear heart, come back to me!

Holocaust Day, my children, & my mind’s eye.

Emily L. Hauser - In My Head

Auschwitz_TrainOccasionally, on Holocaust Day or some other, random day, I will look at my children, and see them on a train.

See them starved. See their clothes in shreds. See them with blank eyes and sores on their faces, their hair matted, all joy, all light, gone.

My mind doesn’t allow me to go far down these paths (a fact for which I am eternally grateful), but it peeks down the path, toward the incomprehensible at the other end, and then I recoil in pain and tears.

If for no other reason that I know that I am not, really, seeing anything.

My mind providing me, unbidden, with an image it imagines to be something like Jewish children at the time of the Holocaust is simply me overlaying a hundred thousand photographs on top of my beautiful children’s faces. It’s nothing like actually seeing it. It’s not being a mother…

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