Survivor.

Pink orchids stand guard by the window
on this sombre Sunday morning,
silently expressing their sympathy,
like sorrow's sullen soldiers.

Today, this day, no visits were paid,
for all she craved was solitude.
Long gone are the fleeting moments;
time so rarely used.

Sighs filled every corner
of this solitary room,
staining the wallpaper yellow;
clouding the air with gloom.

Remnants of stickers marked with names
remain affixed to the heavy door;
reminders of her sisters,
who had suffered through this before.

Initially, her diagnosis
stole her femininity,
until she persevered, survived,
and resilience reclaimed her dignity.

One's body is not the sole testament
to their womanhood,
their experiences scream louder than
superficial features ever could.

Meditation.

Buddha's students followed closely,
careful not to miss a single word;
they listened ever so intently,
as he regaled them with the sermon of the bird.

"My children," he said, "you mustn't forget 
what happens when one falls in love with the nightingale's song,
they clip their wings, surrounding them in flightless sorrow 
then foolishly question what is wrong."

"Everything is impermanent, 
as you should already know, 
thus, we must admire the beauty 
of our surroundings with joy and gratitude.

Yet, take heed, and do not seek 
to possess that which you do not already own,
for you may permanently alter its state
or even worse, affect its mood."

Estranged.

Everything is changing, coming to an end,
yesterday we were lovers, today we’re hardly friends.

From familiar to strangers, in less than a night,
don’t say you love me anymore, it doesn’t feel right.

Falling to pieces, like shrapnel from the sky,
I have used up all my resources, my tears have run dry.
Take all that you can and go, just leave my side,
as long as you always know, love is stronger than pride.

I am not so weak that I won’t survive,
this is not the first time I’ve had to stay alive,
no, it’s not the first day of my life,
I have felt the worst pain, love’s a knife

Throwing out the pictures I still have of you,
setting fire to the letters that only make me blue,

letting go seems like the only reasonable thing to do,

I cannot keep pretending that I haven’t got a clue.

Liquor.

Bourbon waves, tequila skies,
champagne clouds, and whiskey highs.
formed the landscapes of my youth;
even drowned some sorrows with vermouth.

Grottoes of gin, and scotch on the beach,
led to shores of schnapps, their flavour: peach.
Sobriety seemed boring, and lacking appeal,
although so many memories now seem surreal.

Red wine roses, Cabernet trees,
Merlot mountains with a Riesling breeze,
convinced the cure to my endless pain,
lay at the bottom of each bottle, in vain.

Fields of lager, rivers of pale ale,
streets of rye and ginger-ale,
often had me stumbling, slurring my words,
still, I returned to this wasted water world. 

Rum rain-forests, and cider shrines,
sake blossoms with liqueurs so fine,
I should never have chased these alcohol dreams,
that destroyed my liver, and my self-esteem.