Old Rice in an Empty Church

I could not keep my eyes off the most fascinating girl on the dance floor.
She was the queen of the homecoming and the centre of attraction of the ball.
Her crown was glistening in the neon lights, and she was glowing with joy.
The deejay was playing disco music, and the party was going with a swing.
I asked her to dance a slow song with me, and she gladly stretched out her hands.
And I knew from the outset that she was definitely the right person for me.
 
She read my love letter, and she wrote me a few lines in reply to my poem.
We started to date, and we did all the things that gratified our young hearts.
She took me to her home and happily introduced me to her tenderhearted parents.
And I acquainted my mom and dad with the wonderful girl whom I had found.
I was deeply in love with her, so I kissed her lips and told her goodnight.
The following night I held her passionately as we stood in the pale moonlight.
 
I knelt before her with a ring in my hand, and she smilingly accepted my proposal.
She walked down the aisle with me in mid-June as the wedding bells chimed.
We unwrapped the lovely gifts with appreciation and then honeymooned in Spain.
Our love was so exceptional; it could not be more pleasurable than it was.
Now all I have are some pictures of her and the haunting memories of her love.
Hopelessness fills my heart when I think about the beautiful wife that I lost.

Standing alone in my old house, residents carried away by cancer, yet still their presence remains in each coat of paint and flowerbed, all now partly concealed by my much needed indifference. The home is bare, stripped back to its shell, except for the ghosts of old furniture that appear, just for a second, as I enter each room.
 
I’m supposed to feel sad, it's just me and my brother now. We’ll split the money and never speak again but that doesn’t bring sadness. I stare out over aged gardens and contemplate my loss. Many times I have wept with my own forced memories, the self-torture that brings tears for company, but that is not why I want to shout. Losing family is painful, but a severed link to childhood is barren by comparison and I fear one will compound the other; such a loss makes me tremble inside.
I move on, a giant looking into shrunken bedrooms and gloomy hallways; too many tiny details fill my eyes, viewed like shards of glass from a broken vase, which I'm trying to reassemble. Each piece is an image: places I once played games, a soundbite from a past conversation, the odours of wet dog and washing days or doors opened and slammed shut. The glass cuts at my chest making it hard to breathe.
 
I place my hand on the wall to check for a heartbeat. Can it be that traces of lost childhood are captured in the fabric of a room, dwell in wooden handles of old tools or crayon scribblings trapped behind wallpaper? Can it be that if we close our eyes and breathe in the essence of childhood haunts then chemistry alone can unlock memories once key-less and forgotten? And in doing so can you retrieve something so precious it can twist your body, crumple your face and turn sobs into shouts. I’m shouting now as I slide down the wall; I felt it beat before pulling away.
 
Such places can be found in most of our footsteps and if you know how to look they can almost be touched. But my other places do not compare to this home, I could linger here for an eternity, drifting as a child, growing on thought and melancholy, surviving on smiles and laughter unlocked from memories.
 
I cannot linger, the house is sold to the highest bidder. I have offered up my most prized possession, my touch-stone, my portal, for a pocket full of gold. Now when I need to look, how can I return to these places that hold me in their essence, that tell my story? Who now will listen to the beating fabric of my old home?

There's a cold breeze
coming through the back door
causing it to creak on its hinges,
Grandad's gone across the backs
to feed his pigeons.
 
I find him inside the empty loft
closing derelict cages,
gently I place an arm
around the confusion.
Using soft words we stumble outside
towards real moments.
 
The overgrown allotment glistens
through droplets, strung out
across gossamer connections
that tremble in the cold morning light.
We hear the rush of racing pigeons
and watch them disappear overhead
like ghosts into field mist.
 
Grandad stood staring at the sky,
"they're not coming back are they son?"
I put my coat around his shoulders,
'no Grandad they've been gone too long".
We start the slow walk back towards the house,
"someone will have to tell your Nan
she loved those birds"
"She's dead Grandad,
Grandma's dead".

I hate myself
I want him dead
"But you can't kill me" once he said,

"cause if you do
you'll be dead too
and noone is going to cry for you".

Get to know to yourself better
you're about to enter a shelter
Learn your fucking list of traits
change yourself your life awaits.

Traits you should embrace and hold
Traits you should erase as told
Traits you should change a bit
for you in society to fit.

Well, I,
with my conscious with sense
with this confession as a defense
admit how horrible I am
so stupid, irresponsible and dumb.

I have lost fourteen years
I've cried with fake and real tears
I've sold my soul I've given up
And still I sense an inner gap.

What should I do? Must I pray?
I am three hundrent miles away
Away from home away from sin
I don't think that running away means win
cause someday you may go back
so measure then your strength and luck..

How the hell did I get here? I can say..

there are certain rules a kid has to obey..

My indifferent folks, my low self esteem
the fact that I wanted to be a part of a fuckin' team
To face reality my mom drunk galons of white wine
She used to ask me "are you ok?"
I was always saying "I'm fine."

I wish I could say we lived happily ever after
but a 25% alc./vol bottle had been her only daughter.

I didn't care until I saw her whittled coffin
The second funeral in my life,

about the first.. I don't like talking
I'll tell you what, then people labeled me as a widow
blackdressed and pale looking out of my rehab wide window.

I tried to change but I was terrified by me silver
the sickness was just in my head,

but I was burned by a real fever.

I thought I'll be fine but I've been hiding behind of..my finger
If I hah had a revolver backthen,

I would had pulled the trigger.

I started writing words inspired by a guitar
as I was running on a highway,

three dudes, me and their car.

I am so sick of this life
I wish for a different way of living
never to think of fucking dust
or my sight like knife on the ceiling

I have a feeling
I have to find my final destination
It isn't death
It isn't cash
It isn't recognation.