grief

Room 121

Experiences, Poetry, Thoughts

Room 121 – a Tribute to the Mule

Narrative Poem by @kimberlyanneinc

Welcome. Before you begin reading this narrative poem, I want to say thank you for being here. Room 121 is a place that you have been to before. It is a place that we have all been to before, in some way or another. It is up to you to determine what Room 121 is about. Room 121 is a diverse room filled with every kind of energy and emotion that is possible for human beings to demonstrate and feel. Room 121 is full of mysteries that are not meant to be solved. Room 121 is what you want it to be. 

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Room 121 – a Tribute to the Mule

What’s going to happen in Room 121? 
I swore to myself the last time we were there that I’d never set foot in a courthouse again. 
You know it was not supposed to happen this way. 
Like an out of body experience I see the stupid happy plastered look on my face. 
Walking with you like I should be so proud when in fact I should have 
hid my face. 
Then maybe now I wouldn’t be so embarrassed 
and ashamed of being associated with your name. 
Almost reaching Room 121 I’ve practically crumbled and just might 
disintegrate. 
 
What will happen in Room 121? 
In Room 121 I’ll become brand new and it’s going to be like I never even knew you. 
Remember that moment in Cinderella? There’s a fairy godmother who completes the impossible. 
She made it all possible for a transformation to take place. Can you see the wand now waving? 
Waving around now right in front of her face? A transformation I’ll go 
through even though I think really, it’s you who needs one too and 
you probably need it much more than me since you have issues with your eyes, 
your ears, and all things. You need glasses so you can see. A hearing aid so you can listen. 
 
What is going to take place in Room 121? 
If only a real fairy godmother exists, then she could help me help you! 
With this issue of vision. 
Helping you would be much too kind considering there is no hope for you anyway. In Room 121
I will release all of the pain 
and the guilt 
and the misery 
and the shame - 
along with all of your lies and your undiagnosed illnesses 
and that fake bit of chivalry that brays out of you like a True ass.
 
In Room 121 I will walk in alone and I won’t mind at all because I’ll be one step closer to 
escaping any thought of you 
for the rest of my life. 

Sometimes I wonder if the world only knew 
how weak and infantile you truly are 
if it would 
HELP. 
 
Do you think it will be beautiful in Room 121? 
Then they’d be able to escape you too; but like me they wouldn’t have to run 
because you’d already be gone. 
Faster and faster just like a marathon 
of foolishness and mental fragility due to your frail existence. 
In Room 121 donning silver attire, I will walk in with pride and 
explain my mistakes of how I fell for your 
schemes, 
your strategies 
and your lies 
and how 
NOW
they have made me only so much more indestructible - 
Rugged and impenetrable either through the heart or unmentionables, thank you. Thank. You. 
My armor is heavy, and my battle scars are unseen. Only those who wear this armor too will 
understand what that means. 
With my head held high and curious eyes glaring at the gleam 
that my iron shield, metal plate, and inlaid sword bring - 
everyone will know that you are not a real King. 

Just another imitation descended from swindlers and shams, who could only hope and dream to move on to better things 
instead of constantly being masters of the masquerade. I’m sorry you were built that way.

The crudeness of my words, is veracious as your credentials
of being extremely detrimental. 

The fact that you are a mule, and one that is destructive is comical to say the least.  
Being a tool is exactly the purpose of such an animal. Stubborn and a certified beast 
of burden - 
of this I’m certain. 

As I lift the helmet off of my head, and start to remove my sheathing, the verdict is reached and now I am breathing. A sigh of relief blasted out of my chest knowing that I was heard and that your cowardice 
made it all so easy.

Sailing out now of Room 121 
I go away and in search of anything that isn’t you 
for eternity now. 
Sailing out now of Room 121, 
off and away there I go, here I go, to anything or anyone that isn’t you 
forever now. 

Sailing out now with my armor, weapons, and my ship, hands on my waist with the hips you will miss - 
farther than ever so you can never taste my lips 
again.

Assailant should have been your title once long ago, but you can’t be called that anymore. 
You’ve lost this battle and I’ve won the war. Now thanks to Room 121 I am perpetually 
unassailable. And when the truth hits the ears of all who will listen, this is how the tale will go.

Thank you for reading. If you’re a rebel writer, let me know what literary devices you can spot in this poem. I’d love to hear from you. ❤ ‘Til then, happy writing!

Nixie

Experiences, Poetry, Thoughts

Do you remember the first time you brought your newborn home from the hospital? Your first baby. Do you remember counting every breath? Feeling their chest? Putting your ear next to their tiny little lips that would one day ask, “WHY?”

I’ve recalled that feeling and lived it again. But this time with no bassinet, no crib, no play pen. Instead I’m laying on the bathroom floor, worried sick. Counting breaths per second as the clock ticks. As I think of my foolish ways, and the dismay that was brought on by today, I ponder it all as I stare at my new stray. With all that I can and all I’ve got, an offering should take place.

She’s eating and breathing and drinking which is a relief. Considering her condition, as told by the vet it’s somewhat of a rendition of – well, I don’t even need to tell. You already know. She’s mostly silver, grayish, kinda blue. She has a tiny white patch on her chest too. Her eyes are the darkest green, but somehow resemble emeralds or jade that have been spun into a galaxy that lives in her gaze.

Mystic as she is no matter what is wrong, I’ll treat her like my own and sing her all the songs. The ones I always chant to the other two I have, like a ritual I plant and water what I can.

Filled her water several times, because she kept drinking and drinking. Water is a gift of life, primordial and consistently. Thinking and thinking, I call her Nixie. Tiny little sprite, washing everything down. I watch her, observing as she circles around. 9 times like the waters of Styx. If she has 9 lives, then I hope they let me have – at least one.

I hope she doesn’t go yet, because we’ve only just begun. But if she has to take her journey, she won’t do it alone. Precious little Nixie Styx, this can be your new home. ✨

Dear Death

Poetry 
I'm becoming sick of the pictures of dead friends on my walls. 
They hang and stare at me; now they are just memories. 

I am immune to Death at this point. 
But a break would be nice. 

Dear Death, 
If you are reading this - 
Please slow down.
Take it easy for a minute. 

Can't you go somewhere else? 
Why do you have to come this way? 
Do you even think about what you're doing? 

I wonder if you have a list. 
Or if it's totally random. 

Do you have a quota to meet? 
Is that why you keep doing this? 

Dear Death, 
Please just go away. 

I know you well and I wish I didn't. 
I wish I’d never even known of your existence. 
You are not welcome here, but yet you still show your face! 

Bold. You are bold, Death.  
You have more audacity than all of us combined, on our worst days. 

You just have to show up, when none of us are ready. 
It must be your favorite thing to do. 

Do you have a team? Is it just you, alone? 

I wonder if there is a warehouse. Or a factory. Do you have weekly meetings to decide who is next? Is there only one of you, Death? 

Tell me, Death; Do you enjoy your job? 
Or are you actually like the rest of us? We, who do work because we need to, and barely get to enjoy any time off?

That's how the system works. Is it the same for you?  
I can imagine, with how frequently you visit us, you rarely get a break. 

Is it true? Does any of this happen by mistake? Do you get to decide when, where, or how? 

Tell me how it works so I can better understand why you feel the need to take the hand of everyone I love and guide them down that road!

The one we are "supposed" to cross only when we are old. 
It never works that way, though. Does it? Hardly ever!
You are as impatient as the changing of the weather. 

Do you have any remorse at all? I really wonder. 
Do you laugh behind the shadows as you steal from us and rob us blind? You are vicious. 

There can be nothing good about what you are doing. 

Have you ever been a victim of yourself? 
Have you ever lost anyone or anything you cared about? 

I wonder. 

Maybe if you did, you could understand. 

Someday, Death, I will face you. And when I do I will have my questions ready. I can only hope you will be prepared to explain. 
There must be a reason for us to experience such grief and pain. 

I'm not in a rush, so you can take your time. 
You can head back the other way, far, far from this place. 

Just leave. Be gone. It is the least you can do! 
And this time, on your way out - don’t take anyone else with you.

I Didn’t Need Art

Poetry 
I didn't need art. 

I watched you draw for hours. 

Sketch. 

Pause. 

Eat. 

Play a beat. 

Under the sheets. 

Smoke and sleep. 

Wake up and repeat. 

I didn't need art. 

I had you. 

You were the art. 

Cliché af. 

The beat of my heart. 

You were the dance. 

You were the rhythm. 

You were the sound 

Of the pencil on a pad. 

You were the one. 

That I always had. 

You said I was the Muse. 

You left me here alone and 

Now you are my Muse. 

Even in death. 

I'm just a lady now who 

Sings the blues. 

Once you left, 

I just couldn't cope. 

I see you all the time and 

Ask you why you had to go. 

You are annoyed with me 

Because I keep asking you to leave

And come back. 

Even when you tell me you can't. 

I didn't need art. 

You were the one. 

The one I was fixated on for so long. 

The one who I 

Didn't know what I had 

Until you were physically gone. 

I knew what I had. 

I take that back. 

I'm never understanding why 

We had to be on such separate paths. 

But it's okay. 

It is clearly fate.

I know you are waiting for me. 

My inspiration, 

I miss you. 

You're sitting near the window sill,

Looking out as you sketch what's out 

Below. 

I didn't need art, I needed you. 

Now that you're not here 

I fear 

I may O.D. 

Severely 

On the intake of my doses 

Of Humanities. 

But it's as close as 

I can get to you.

But it doesn't give me the same fill. 

Now I need art.  

Until we meet again. 

Pen in hand. 

Prophets and poets. 

Cooking up the most

Lyrical recipes, never bland. 

Never going to stop. 

It's us and you know it.