The Day My Mother Died ...

Actually Sixteen

Less than a week after my mother’s death, a friend of mine, Linda, whose father was British and mother, Irish – Catholic – stayed with me and documented the aftermath of death. Just found this while opening doors to the past.


Things That Never Made It Into Print

By Things That Never Made It Into Print

Keep it simple ... Radical ... Writer, Artist, Dancer, Musician, Chicago Betty

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My love she lives so close to me,
Only a universe away.
We both live lives we love yet hate
But don’t have the nerve to say
Goodbye to the past, hello to the now
No way to shed the tears.
So much to live for, think of the kids
Who get over larger fears.
Why can’t we admit we’ve lost,
Then start life anew?
Why is the chance so hard to take,
Why can’t I marry you?
Because we’ve grown accustomed
To the routine of rotten ways:
Each of them so different,
Trapped now so many days.
So many nights “together”
While really so alone.
All who know detest this
It chills them to the bone.
I ask, I beg, I plea now
Take this gentle hand,
Remind me what it feels like
To be an honest man,
To quit living lies as if noble
To finally take a stand.

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