Ragged Claws' Drunken Edge (not so happy)

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by Alais, Apr 2, 2009.

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  1. Alais

    Alais Well-Known Member

    Reaching into darkness deep inside,
    pulled hard on all the corners I could find.
    Neat and orderly, becoming all were they,
    with only pockets of others disarray.

    I worked at them with diligence;
    I tucked in here and fluffed out there.
    I smoothed a wrinkle, brushed off dust,
    but it never was quite enough.

    And soon I found more hours spent
    in cleaning up the disarray,
    with much more care upon detail
    than any time before I've dared.

    Where once the others in the home
    would smile upon my newfound zeal,
    their grins have faltered to despair
    in fear of assiduity.

    They find all things must go just so
    plastic wrapped, evened out, segregated.
    Seen inside my mind, a balance kept;
    this is how my life must go.

    * * * * *

    Ragged nails clawing through the front door,
    heavy, cruel steps bringing heartache and gall,
    refusing to organize, clear away, dust,
    ashes fell smothering what's needed most.
    And for days in fog I keep my haggard head down.
    I struggle in pain for my breath – just to walk;
    and I stuff my aching grief in to tightly closed bags
    until I can resume my regular role.

    In wicker basket hairbrushes go in bristles up,
    the toothpaste points left, the rattail points down.
    The towels are spread open intending to dry
    but limited always in number to five.

    Season themed candles number two per each shelf;
    each component's volume must be even and set.
    Calendars are updated Sunday mornings before noon,
    The thrice checked e-mail's a compulsory rite.

    But there are pockets of clutter and jumbled up stuff
    where forbidden, restricted am I.
    Profusely sprawling and creeping like mold
    and no fluffing or tucking's allowed.

    On the edge I wobble like a frightened drunk
    I think due to the access that I've been denied
    to all the useless, and messed up and repetitious things
    my laboring hands and mind cannot find.

    Forcibly I turn my concentration now
    to that which can still lie within my grasp
    and perfection, yet unattained, I strive to reach
    though the definition of which doesn't last.

    * * * * *

    Then, again, ragged claws through my front door.
    Heavy steps, heartache and gall.
    Death's mess and dust and ash.
    No way to clean or to clear all the trash.
    And for days again my head is down
    and the struggle comes once more to breathe
    and into the bags all my grief has been stuffed
    but overflowing bags just don't want to zip up.

    I look in and out, wildly round,
    at all the things, cleaning up, I've tried to do.
    All my posturing, playing, pretending;
    my life's control is the one thing I've not.

    Life itself is cold and it's soulless,
    not knowing love nor compassion's regret.
    Lacking guiding restraints of these simple warmths
    ensure life's only control can be chaos.
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