I remember you most on a black bench, fingers on the keys, trying to play as passionately as you wanted to be, as you were, for you held your wild heart uncertainly. You knew not how to hold it properly. But all I could hear was you banging too hard on the keys. Trying to … Continue reading Black Bench
I don't have time to meet the end, I'm picking at my scalp and wondering-- no, knowing, you'll never try to change it. They call it pride. You call it personality. And I try at scabs and puss and stuff to distract me from never seeing you, because your demons had always danced and sung … Continue reading Dandruff and Mothers
How is it a gift to be delicate and pleasing when the winds and storms of thine ungentle cares crush me, demanding, yet hating the coarse strength of bark and root? But should I fall, and indeed I may, I know I'll sprout to bloom again in thine sun; delicate, even if you blow me … Continue reading Flower Girl
He speaks that betrayer's truth, dear, that secret that makes me ashamed. Such a simple thing, on short lived event, yet why does it matter so much to me? The betrayer's truth, oh how it stings, I know it full well in all its depths. Yet the final blow is when I realize that he … Continue reading Betrayer’s Truth
Sometimes I look back on this ex of mine who turned out to be a sociopath. I write more about him in my short-blurg of the passion confused boy. But on the sociopath stuff--for reals. Did the researched. He told me himself after such and such tests. Yep...but...I guess I'm still trying to make sense … Continue reading His Black Bench
Author T.S. Lowe 