Life at the Bottom of the Sea

Mr. Toad, come to life, whisper
something dear; there’s a devil
on
the headboard, he

sways and strokes

his beard.

Digital abstract made by layering digital photographs made in virtual reality
There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea

On a lump of the branch through the
bog of a brain in hole at the bottom

of the sea

Mr.Toad is lost

to

lost treasure.

The devil sez, “Do you recognize the World,
Mr. Toad?”

“No,” says Mr. Toad.

The devil sez, “Then you ain’t going nowhere.”

We sing the blues and get a bowl of oatmeal.

Life at the bottom of the sea means three hots
and a laxative.

Every so often a guard swims down to tease
us with air.

“Hey fag,” says the guard. “How’d you
like this bubbling up yer butt?”

We smile and speak of rock stars
and world politics.

Our lips shimmer with fear.

Rob Goldstein © 2017   

 

By the frequency

from TheFeatheredSleep

TheFeatheredSleep

canstock1995090You can discover when you are hurting

by the frequency of things causing anger

to rage like a hot tea-pot

given no respite

you can know when you are in pain

by the diminishment of senses

stillness in one place

as hours tick over head

submerging you in silent trespass

in a life that feels suddenly

void and laid bare

you can ask of yourself one last time

to stand up and listen to the barking dog outside

howl his discontent in a way you may never dare

the buzzing in your head a tickle

mindful it’s not over yet

there is a life waiting, maybe not

as full as some would have it

for there are those who go alone

and those who need a hot air balloon

we are all capable of flight

even if long hidden are our smiles

time

that trespasser of calm

wills us on

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Open letter to those who choose to do nothing in the face of abuse.

I didn’t get to write my story of my childhood. Pedophiles wrote it. Other victims of all ages who are used, abused, sold, held hostage, had their stories stolen. The life they were meant to be living, they are not. They are now, we are now, trying to mend, mostly on our own, because society does not want to hear our stories. Society doesn’t want to know about rape in the military. Society doesn’t want to change laws or persecute/prosecute the criminals of these horrific crimes. Society doesn’t want to know about the mutilations that still happen to little girls. Society is made up of millions of little YOUS. Millions that are sitting back with your glass of wine, watching your flat screen tv, and doing NOTHING. You get the luxury of choosing to do nothing.

NOT MY SECRET...overcoming the shame of sexual abuse

A letter to all who choose to do nothing in the face of abuse,

I didn’t get to choose my story. Someone else wrote it for me. They came in, to each chapter of my book, and rewrote it. I didn’t get to choose.

My destiny was interrupted. My course was sabotaged. The lines in my purpose and will on each page and each moment of my life were crossed through. They were blacked out with a marker. My story was indefinitely interrupted and I had no choice.

I did not get a choice. Someone stole my story! They tore out pages I will never get back! I will never get back some of the things I have lost in my book of life. I will, for the rest of my life, try to smooth out the pages.

I was sacrificed. My childhood, my teenage years, were sacrificed for the…

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