Writing

Writing is
finally
finding
someone
you can trust
and
telling them a secret
that you’ve just got to get off your chest
because you need
them to know
who you really are
because
you can’t keep pretending
anymore.

Writing is
screaming shackled
feelings
at the night sky.
Feelings that are destroying
you
on the inside
making you
crazy
with fear.

It’s telling
your father
to go fuck himself.

It’s exploding
with furious fists flying
on that bully
when he lays a hand on you.

It’s telling
your asshole boss
that you quit
right in the middle
of the morning rush.

Writing is
looking and finding
tiny pieces
from a monstrosity of a puzzle.

Writing is
going into the bathroom
locking the door
crying
for twenty minutes
because all those memories
that you keep trying to forget
keep showing up
at your front door
like an uninvited friend
who really isn’t your friend
but he thinks he is
and afterwards
you wipe your
nose
take a deep breath
and say –
That wasn’t so bad
That was a long time ago.

- Brad Bisio

(featured in the poetry forum 07.24.10)

Limes

Walking past citrus
produce at the
farmer’s market
Nancy stopped,
sniffed a lime.

“Limes remind me
of corner-
store gin,” I said, “and
that night in the
parking lot at
the Gas for Less
next to the mall
when I pissed
on a white hood(ed)
Toyota Camry.

Woke up
12 hours later
in the ravine
off 65th
with my trousers
ripped
from the crotch
to the knee,
a crusty gash
under my chin.

That was the last
time I drank.”
It ranks as one
of my top 5 regrettables.
When Nancy
didn’t return my calls,
sharing it with her
made the list.
I should’ve waited
for the 2nd date.

- Brad Bisio

(added 08.18.09)