Pain is a Dumb Word


It’s a dumb word.
It’s not a real word. 

It’s not an actual word
that can describe
how the holes in the heart
have a thin layer of blood
that is crusty already.

And every time you breathe,
the crust cracks and pours down
the front, back, and sides of your body
in between your ribs,
pools around your ankles.

And when you see the pool of blood
and slosh through it,
and you hear the sounds
and you tell people about it,
they say “What? Where? When?”

And then you go back
to your silent cave,
because you become convinced,
that again,
you have gone crazy.

Oh, Bring It On

The appeal of blissful escape cries out loud,
Comforting darkness thickly surrounds,
Like a velvety soft hug, squeezing firm,
My place in space, thoroughly confirmed.

They think it is a method to survive the day,
We know it is a death grip, taking us away,
Yearning to fall into the happy abyss,
To the unknown irresponsible place of bliss.

But that place is for the losers who can’t get a grip,
Any ounce of pressure easily makes them slip,
They kick and scream and make their fall known,
Their drama shows us that they have never truly grown.

We don’t need to stare at them to see who they are,
Their actions speaks so loud, so ugly, so bizarre.
Who are they to plead and beg, to say their life stinks,
When they are the ones who mess up everything.

They are sloppy and careless, heartless without shame,
Ruthless and soulless, they play the people’s game.
Name-calling, blame-ladling, purging their emotions,
Taking a dump on others, their formula, their magic potion.

Playing the administration role, forgetting who they are,
They rose to the top, now they will just fall hard,
And you and I don’t need to make that happen,
Their words and behaviors will trigger that action.

There is a way to this world, call it karma if you must,
somehow it makes all of this evolve and go bust,
And we, hiding in our comfort place,
Get to save face,
With grace.

Artwork: Shrivak

Artwork: Shrivak


Validation Celebration

They hug you and pat you on the back,
they tell you, “everything will be okay”,
but they don’t base that on a fact,
it’s just the thing they need to say.

Those uttered predictions do not console,
as they float on the wind with no cloud.
They need substance binding it to hold,
so that soft empathic words become loud.

Validation will become tangible,
when every dog has his day,
and your morning becomes lovable,
and you can finally sing, “Hurray!”.

When you hear the puzzle piece click into place,
and the truth rises to the top,
you erupt with a smile on your face,
knowing that your worried thoughts will stop.

You are out of the murky algae-doomed ocean.
and you now see the moon turn blue,
you allow yourself the range of emotion,
that defies how others know you.

You persevered because you cared,
you felt worthy of personal elevation.
You pushed along, while others feared,
it is validation worthy of celebration.

Of Course I Remember You

Of course I remember you,
how could you ever say that?
How could I ever forget?
Of course I remember you!

You dominate my daytime thoughts,
and re-emerge in the nightdreams shorts,
closing my eyes only gives me more light
my tears only add more colors so bright.

You are always in front of my face,
your smell is the only thing I can taste,
you don’t just smell like any other girl,
this is you, your scentprint to the world.

Your fluffy golden hair, I remember it all
in wavy cascades, how it falls
over your shoulders, down your back
full of life, that glistening stack.

All the times you changed your shampoo,
your scent is still a combination of you
nothing ever changes if you try a new style
you are always mine, throughout all of time.

Your fingers I would recognize even in the dark,
your unique shape is obvious, so stark.
I know your fingernails, and your moves of grace,
that little brown spot in the corner of your face.

I know the way your eyes sometimes squint,
when you have something you want to hint,
the corners of your mouth scrunch and twirl,
into a little rosebud, waiting to unfurl.

Your mischievous little mind always taking a trip,
never waiting for someone to let you slip.
You stand strong because I taught you well,
you use all of your genetic protective shell.

How can I forget you, my beautiful child,
you know you are just like me, child of mine,
your birthday is another marker in time for you and me.
when I stand tall alongside you, wherever you may be.


Sleep is a blessed treasure,
a gift of priceless pleasure,
but horrific when interrupted,
with dreams that are haunted.

It has immeasurable importance,
worth every ounce of pursuance.
Sleep recalibrates my engine
rewires my brainy region.

It clears up my thoughts
without thinking it, nought,
Sleep finds me the solution,
and clears up any confusion.

Yet it remains to be out of reach,
beyond a simple prayer’s beseech,
my sleep cannot be chemically induced,
behold, another insomniac on the loose!

Home is where the Mother is

Home is where the mother is,
with her makeup and her gowns,
and her moods and her frowns.

Home is where the mother cooks,
your favorite comfort food,
and takes care of the family brood.

Home is where the mother sings,
her native morning song,
and reminds you to hurry along.

Home is where the mother makes
The only soup you would eat,
Even in the summer heat.

Home is where your mother rests,
her peace gives you comfort too,
Your Mother is there for you.

If you have to travel far,
Or just think it in your head,
You wouldn’t have it any other way instead.

A Lonely Paradox

She marks off yet another day,
on her calender packed full.
Tasks to attend to along the way,
and yet, it all seems so dull.

She returns back home,
and prepares herself a meal.
Not planning on boredom
but becomes unable to feel.

She washes, and changes her clothes,
then gets ready for the night.
Comfortable in her own home,
but unable to escape the fright.

Tossing and turning in her bed,
the night stretching so long.
Trying to find peace, to get ahead,
engages herself in a rhythmic song

Crying and laughing, both collide,
nobody to show, but nobody to conceal from.
privacy is stifling her very own hide
she fears what she is going to become.

She feels like she is full of herself,
But empty as a desert’s expanse.
pushing that thought to the back of the shelf,
unable to boldly take that stance.

She knows she hates the hypocrisy,
and wonders if she is all alone.
because nobody has had the audacity,
to join her efforts, to condone.

They are okay just bobbing along,
floating above the waves.
Preferring just to belong,
in what they think, is their enclave.

And throughout her waking hours,
she wonders if there is another soul,
in this disposition of ours
to join her very own.

It’s Not Every Day

It’s not every day,
that you know you have the power
to succumb to the pressure
like a dying flower.

It’s not every day,
that you can step away from it all
and wonder how far down you can fall
as you bang your head in the nearest wall.

It’s not every day,
that you have anything left to say
or one more reason to pray,
or wish to stay.

But it is today,
that you are still alive and well
survived the night, in decent health
and that is a tribute to your enormous strength.

Because today is your day,
where the sun shines over your acre,
and you are like the force of nature,
with your personality’s sparkling splendor.

Today is the day,
that you bare the truth,
without saying adieu,
you know that you are still you.

Memories of a Mother

Memories of a Mother
Written on November 4, 2011 – For My Children. 

A Mother’s love survives the storm,
oceans that spilled over,
situations outside the norm,
tornados that still hover.

A Mother is the pulse in her child
coursing through their veins
like a deer in the wild
let loose of its reins.

A Mother’s love is timeless
does not need to be recalled,
eternal without reminders,
the capacity to survive it all.

A Mother’s love is the undercurrent,
of restrictions threatening to hinder it,
taking no beating, despite the torrents,
nothing diminishes it.

A Mother’s love is greater than hate,
survives child-rippers and baby snatchers,
forces of evil, on the Great Mother Debate,
Who dissect a Mother and her matters.

A Mother’s love is nature and nurture,
She is life’s soothing balm,
No human can be complete without her,
She is timeless, she is Mom.

Please do not re-print without permission.


Published by Dr. Tony Attwood December, 2011


Words. They are stuck.
It’s stuck in my throat.
No place to go.

Easing it out with very little tools
Sharp objects obstructing its path
Worrying its way through. There.

Some words still left behind
Deeper down in the pit
In the stomach, hastening to escape.

Unsure how to let go
How to form itself into a phrase
Is it too sharp, is it too loose?

Will it hurt others
As much as it hurts me?
Should I bury it for eternity?

It tumbles around and spins inside
The ruckus is overpowering
Jumbled. Bumping into the walls.

Loud noises of chaos from within
Unable to stifle, patience wearing thin.
How to transition from this phase?

What will these thoughts reflect
To those who land with it
And what will they perceive it to be?

Once it is out, it is free
Free of me but free for them too
And never can you know, what they will do.

For ‘tis the soul
That weaves your essence into cloth
Sparkling in the sun with its glint

Taking with you a story of your past
To wear on your sleeves for all to see
True intentions, merely a hint.

Inhibitions exploding like a raging sea
Cloudless skies not marring your thoughts
Your words are free to soar.