Vanishing Act

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Vanishing Act

She could never keep her feet on the ground
she preferred her head above the clouds
daydreams taking her far away
leaving the cruel world behind
to others, just an empty shell
but on the inside…

She could never understand her fate
born free only to become enslaved
told when and how to feel
how to act and what to do and say
a second class citizen with a womb
expected to be a selfless caretaker of others
as if one job that pays less than a man isn’t enough.

She could never find peace in vacations
everywhere she went was the same
people controlling and questioning
lines of strangers greedy and pushing
draining her money and energy
not that any amount could unshackle her.

She could never breakout of her prison
returning to a home that wasn’t hers
“things” that belonged more than she did
a life she couldn’t bear for another instant
the heavy weight of it took her breath away
her heart crushed like so much stardust.

She could never commit suicide
despite her unhappiness with it all
so enthralled by the heavens that night
she made a decision to travel once more
plucking the evening star to wear in her hair
she decorated her robe with the milky way
wearing the rings of Saturn as her crown
a sliver of moon topped her scepter
finally, all the universe was hers alone.

Daydreams taking her far away
never, never to return.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2015/2017

An old poem reworked with my animation from Magpie Tales and shared with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads. This is about women and some of the thoughts we may share about being born a woman in a man’s world. Some of us may dream of vanishing but we all know that there’s more to life. Going crazy (or suicide) is not the answer but I feel for the women who can’t deal and hope they find the help they need.

The Harvest

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The Harvest

A lone figure was watching the scene unfold
as a young deer crossed the busy highway
it was a beautiful morning.

The truck swerved and disintegrated
sending shrapnel everywhere
sparks flew from scraping metal
the driver was killed instantly.

His truck slammed into a woman’s car
she barely saw it happen-too fast to react
her windshield breaking glass flying
it was the last thing she saw as she died.

Sticky warm blood leaks, drips, and pools
the smell of gasoline was strong
cooling metal making ticking sounds
dead muscles twitching.

The car was unrecognizable
tangled with the truck
the deer mutilated and decapitated
airbags were deployed but did no good
it seemed like forever sirens in the distance
the ambulance was first but the corner was called
firemen and police were busy trying to pick up the pieces.

Death was chuckling as he watched the spirits rise from the wreck
he swings his sickle wide
gathering up the dead his job done.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written for Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads giving an example of incongruity.

Loss

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Loss

Stark raving emptiness streams
into the screaming void
I used to recognize,

as me.

My heart’s locked up tight
while loss floods me
under a raging river of uncertainty.

I choke on mouthfuls of regret
gasping for air
while floundering in the inky darkness
my mind squirming like a toad.

Those left behind
prime a minefield of hate and lies
each one taking another limb
my memories are bleeding out.

I can find no closure
leaving me,

lost.

This is about the loss of a parent and what can happen with the siblings/others left behind and how it affects them. The artwork is mine.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written with dVerse~Poets Pub.

Too Wrong

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Too Wrong

They wanted something different
a pet that could talk to them
so into the lab the scientist went,
just what the hell did he invent?

They say 2 wrongs don’t make a right
combine them right and you just might
but when the babies came that night
they were not a beauteous sight.

The idea was dogs and humans cloned
the babies were ugly, clean to the bone
when one spoke up in a baritone,
“Which one of you will take me home?”

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

I recycled “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.” Dorthy Parker and “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Written with Saturday’s Image Write and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Wonder Woman

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Wonder Woman

She can wash the clothes and hang ’em on the line
she can dress the children and make ’em shine
she feeds the pets and cares for you
yet he’s the one who wears the shoes.

She can look real pretty-she cleans up nice
you never have to ask her twice
her cooking wins at the country fair
yet he’s the one who drives her there.

She’s a real wonder woman she does it all
she does it all at his beck and call
empty inside, it pains me to say
this wonder woman has lost her way.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

This picture reminds me of that song, “He brings home the bacon, she fries it up in a pan”, and then something about her man. A real balancing act, keep it up or fall!

My mother’s marriage (the 50’s) and her friends had husbands like this, talented women who gave it all up for marriage and kids. Even today women do it, I did this somewhat myself (the giving up of my career without the kids) and still have a little regret about it now. Today I am older, single and wiser; I like it that way.

Written with Saturdays Image Write and Poets United.

The Poet’s Dilemma

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The Poet’s Dilemma

Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.

His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…

The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.

He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
feeling lost.

He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.

He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
destroying him!

He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

Shared with Poets United.

The Old House

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The Old House

The old house was old
older than it could remember
the souls who built it
long gone
children’s toys scattered about
everything there as they had left it.

Now the roof was half caved in
the smell of mildew and defeat
permeated the grounds
as the rain soaked wood
expanded painfully.

The old house dearly missed them
groaning and creaking-
it was almost over
the house thought.

Just then…
footsteps on the porch
as a fawn and its mother came inside
birds made nests in exposed rafters
as small animals followed
finding shelter.

The old house had found a new purpose
and happily settled for it

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Change doesn’t always happen when we expect it or is how we expect it to be but don’t be afraid because change brings new things into our lives.

Written with Poets United.