Stories

Poetry attributed to the best three weeks of my life. This was helped in the recovery process by Matthew Ervin, whom I have to thank so very much, as this is a piece very close to my heart. Please, check out his work on my behalf. It would mean ever so

Stories.
Never ending amounts of incredible stories.

The elevator and the terrorist.
Shot from a building with his own gun.

A noble obsessed with his beauty,
And cursed with his monstrosity.

Lying naked on a dock,
With Nature as their witness.

And of course, who could forget
The democratic asthmatic who’s good at mathematics.

Or the rednecks.
Sitting on their porch with Buds in hand.

What of the tributes?
To the cutters, and the beautiful.

And Grandma’s quilt.
And the spinning apples.

Wonderful tales that should be told more often.

Stories told in seconds, or minutes.
Stories that told life stories.
Stories that didn’t.

What of the stories told by moments?

The talent shows,
And the parties.

The make up,
And the girl’s jeans.

Climbing hills,
And walking up them.
And of course,
Occasionally falling down them.

Snapping pictures.
Discussing handbags.
Discussing razors.
Talking about sex.
Being Naïve.
Learning.

Seconds and minutes.
That make bricks and walls,
That make towering superstructures.

These are the same superstructures
That we call our lives.

The things that even we don’t notice.
That turn us a different way.
That lay the bricks down in a different order.

The moments that define us.
That call us to action.
Or call us to play.
The moments that strengthen us.
And the ones that weaken us.

The ones that we begin.
And the ones that stick with us.
Even when our own story is just ending.