Broken Windows and two other poems by Tammy Herrin

Broken Windows

I can’t bear the pain buried
deep inside my shattered
soul. bits of razor glass lodged inside,
scar tissue growing over
memories etched in skin
that ease the truth when mixed with
liquid fire
until the flames grow so large
they devour, everything, and everyone
sitting in scattered ashes,
I reach for another, so I can’t see
the embers still glowing in the dust.
I live in the cinders
leaving bodies behind, drink another.
walk through the ruins, the shards,
whiskey numb
digging deeper, killing slowly.

Champagne bubbles

choking from beneath
Acid rain falls from above
Burning through, ignite
My mind surrounds with flame
Drowning inside out
Holds me down
Saturnalia melody plays
Through little white pills
In and out up and down
Small taste of liquor on the tip
Of my tongue, I can’t
Quite catch through this
Acid rain dance falling
In tune with a
Madness driven mind

Wicker Basket

in the beige wicker basket
he keeps by his bedside
he reads when the days are done ,
a pile of letters typed out
keystroke by keystroke
years of discarded ink ribbons,
of regrets, and tears
laid out in Old Courier Type
yellowing paper
silently recording
nights long and lonely
folded carefully and dearly,
professions of love
and demons
in one man’s head that he
transfers to hers
there are a hundred million reasons,
laid out
in that basket
why she should come home.
decades of pills, drugs, booze between the lines
all neatly stacked and
covered under a picturesque
wicker basket lid
in country style cabinet
exclamation points exploding
with separation
to explain away
the brutal strikes.
exaggerated tales twist, blending
to one man’s view,
arrogance inked onto
the creamy white sheet projected
to the brown woman reading
the words
perpetuating, half truths,
leading to shouting until dawn into empty skies
echoing into nothing
until the dawn shines through
the dust filled shades
and he sits again writing, trying to reshape
and change the future with useless professions
at the end, a handwritten signature,

“I promise, never again.”
her blue and black eyes struggle to read,
she sees the baby in the
wicker basket,
she sends these words back.
Return Mail.

Tammy J. Herrin writes poetry out of Texas. Her poems have appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review.
Tammy J. Herrin writes poetry out of Texas. Her poems have appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review.

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