The Mind of Rueberry

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” If while I was here I tarried among the wild lilies, take no pause over it. For it was only because I found myself overwhelmed by their fragrance, being it was the first time for me." (rueberry)

"Spoken"

"You know this.
I have always loved you,
and though the world, and
times, and everything we know
and are, right now, change
I will still with every breath,
and all that I am love you.
How could it ever be any other
way?
Before you I was only a shadow
hiding in a world filled with light.
Before you I was scars, and hurt,
and tears, and I was lonely,
so terribly alone.
Before you, I wasn’t me.
So if you go I go, and if you die
I die, and if you believe in me,
I believe it, too.
You know this.
There is no me, without you.”

by:rueberry

"Sometimes"

I remember those words
you said -
all alone at night while you
danced in my head.
I remember every…hateful point,
and I’m sorry that I let you down,
for all the things in us that didn’t
work out.
I’m sorry for being okay.
Life just works out…sometimes
that way.
I hear you’ve found someone else.
Tell me.
Do you compare the two of us?
He could never be quite like me,
and take you to that place where
we used to be.
I’m sorry that I let you down.
I’m sorry that you’ve got what you wanted.
I’m sorry for being okay, but sometimes
life just…works out that way.
( sometimes )

"…and so the story goes"

"Wish I could say my story, my smiles, cries, heartache and joy, in this dream we call life was different. Perhaps, a little strange, even. Something outside of normal, but it’s not. 
I’m just that guy…”that guy.” Like  you, I’m just passing through, winging it as I go along, because of the rules;  “The Rules” that seem to always change, and that never make a damn lick of sense.
I hide behind shades so no one sees me on the inside, struggling. all confused, a little overwhelmed by the world. Most times, I’ll wear my favorite Fedora. Hell, I don’t know why. I just do. And…I pretend.
It’s all make-believe, anyways. Real went out of fashion or just went out long ago. Either way, I wouldn’t make any plans. It might be a while.
And, most days, I’m okay, doing fine, but there are times. Times the last thing I am is “just fine.” But big boys don’t cry, right? At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. The truth is we do, in our guy kinda ways, either inside a bottle, or a fight, or behind dark colored shades underneath our own special brand of hat. But, you already knew that, just like you already know how this story ends: “Incomplete,” and making no sense at all, and you get that, too. We all do. Being “incomplete,” and the horror that comes when hiding from a world that doesn’t get us, doesn’t give a damn, and can be as strange as something resembling ourselves might be; something too good to be true. A lie told us that could never last. And, so, I’ve become like everyone else: bound to sooner or later, just, go back into hiding.”

by: rueberry

"…and so the story goes"

"Wish I could say my story, my smiles, cries, heartache and joy, in this dream we call life was different. Perhaps, a little strange, even. Something outside of normal, but it’s not.
I’m just that guy…”that guy.” Like you, I’m just passing through, winging it as I go along, because of the rules; “The Rules” that seem to always change, and that never make a damn lick of sense.
I hide behind shades so no one sees me on the inside, struggling. all confused, a little overwhelmed by the world. Most times, I’ll wear my favorite Fedora. Hell, I don’t know why. I just do. And…I pretend.
It’s all make-believe, anyways. Real went out of fashion or just went out long ago. Either way, I wouldn’t make any plans. It might be a while.
And, most days, I’m okay, doing fine, but there are times. Times the last thing I am is “just fine.” But big boys don’t cry, right? At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. The truth is we do, in our guy kinda ways, either inside a bottle, or a fight, or behind dark colored shades underneath our own special brand of hat. But, you already knew that, just like you already know how this story ends: “Incomplete,” and making no sense at all, and you get that, too. We all do. Being “incomplete,” and the horror that comes when hiding from a world that doesn’t get us, doesn’t give a damn, and can be as strange as something resembling ourselves might be; something too good to be true. A lie told us that could never last. And, so, I’ve become like everyone else: bound to sooner or later, just, go back into hiding.”

by: rueberry

The Killing Of Carl

"I only wait now.
I’ve held my breath for so long
I wonder if I even remember
what it means…to breathe, to
feel like someone who’s more
than half alive.
A whole person; someone who
knows what a heartbeat still sounds like.
I wonder if you’ve ever truly realized how deeply
your leaving devastated me.
How it literally killed everything I ever was,
everything I ever could’ve been, should’ve been.
How I’ll never again - even be.
I’ve tried to hate you far too many times
to know I simply can’t.
I find it easier just to hate myself, to blame
myself, to die each day a little more at a time.
We talk now;
I know.
And if I ever came close to actually hating you,
it’s been during these times.
Hearing your voice on the phone.
Hearing that smile of your’s when we laugh
over something silly that means absolutely nothing,
yet, is still the whole world to me.
All I do is wait now - on our hello’s,
on them becoming, once again, just
another painful…goodbye.
It’s all I know to do, and I couldn’t care less
as to why.
And, so, I wait, so afraid that one day I remember
how to breathe, again.
I’m not sure I could live like that.
Because, if truth be told, deep down, way down, I don’t want to.”

(rueberry)

Loser

You put your hand to my cheek,
and then you look at me
We just don’t seem complete
I watch as you walk away, as I try to express every word I can’t or will never say. I bow down my head watching
you - pity me

by: rueberry

"…poet’s pen"

I leave with you a pen. Do take care 
that you treat it well.
For within its wells reside the vein of
imagination’s thrust.
Take not opportunity to scribble empty
and hollowed lines.
Yet, better still, write in truest measures, 
fully and bold, as would a scribe or
philosopher or a madman, to thine
heart’s delight.
I leave with you a pen that you treat
it well.
T’is a gift given you.
Not by I nor any man.
T’is a gift thyself to give, to giveth thou unto thineself,
hallowed words written true

by:rueberry

"I hear the songbird weeping"

*a collaboration by: mydarlingwhispers & the-mind-of-rueberry First Kisses - (letters one of four)


6, Mar. 1862

Dearest Issy,

…and yet there are times, my heart, I can barely rise to the new day.
I do miss you so, wife.
This war may have imposed itself upon us all, and with it caused much
horror in the name of a greater good, yet, I can not help but wonder, as I lay here beneath familiar stars in this foreign place so far from you, if my greatest battle is yet to come.
There are times, moments, my soul begins to fear I may not come home, and I am stricken with great trepidation.
My love, I so desperately long for the day I shall hold you again. Rarely, do I think of anything other. I am lost in this most cruel an absence.
Today, I killed a man. Though there have been many others, this man seems inclined to haunt me. I see his riddled corpse wherever I chance to gaze longer than a moment. I have begun to fear that perhaps God has cursed me for my part in these
horrific murdering’s of our fellow countrymen. Do pray for me. Should I die here, surely, it will not be long, thereafter, I take my rightful place in hell’s eternal fire to atone for what I have done, and will do again. I do not believe that any of us in this dastardly campaign shall find absolution for our sins, however.
No just God could see fit to forgive the things we have been compelled to commit in the name of right, nor sanction our justifications. These heinous multitudes of unspeakable acts have become far too many. Not I nor any other shall leave this war, standing or dead, unaccountable. I shall carry on and do my best to continue breathing the foul stench that has become my lot. I shall continue to tell my soul that I am a good man, and that this mayhem I do I do for a higher call. I must. As long as you are out there in the world I am able to convince myself of such self deception.
I miss you dearest love. My heart beats only for you, and I dream of that glorious day this purgatory I call home shall cease to be, and I find myself again in your arms.
Still, I wonder, what manner of man will I be when I return to your loving embrace?
Eternally your’s,
Henry


18, June 1862

Dearest Henry,

Ah, but there are haunts in my dreams, where a faceless man stands before me with grey skies in vivid dim, the mourning shine echoing in my heart where it be…wandering lost and alone with my own fear, over and over. Wicked winds catch my breath, as a sudden stir and heeded warning, amongst all the faceless soldiers that march upon the earth in front of me, and nye a face in the crowd I recognize. God, if there be a God, has taken you away from my heart. How much longer can I maintain my strength and look up at these stars with you no where in sight? The voice of death is all around us, and I find my tears dripping from my eyes at the mere thought of never again touching your skin to mine. Dim are these words, I know, blossoming into frigid phantoms. I am sorry. I shall reserve these moments for golden words from me here, not some dreadful doom of dreams I see in the night. I do apologize. I have a bit of good news. Every night Mrs. Woodbrush plays the piano and sings beautiful melodies, like an angel’s breath, pure and lovely, and for awhile it takes my mind away from doubt upon the dusky loom… I sometimes wish I could sing like that, if It not for the midnight allure capturing my eyes by the glow of her moon where my life of love distributes rapture in this dastardly soul I call my own. I hold your words tightly to my breast, and breathe them in closely to inhale your heart. I would be lost in the still dawn of hope. I will wait patiently to feel your breath. I know you are not imagined in these depths of longing; rest assured of my love.

yours deeply,
Isabelle

I so tire of playing with the predators. Sometimes I just want to lay low with the prey, relax a while, and not feel the need to rip a throat out just cause it’s what I’m supposed to do.

—rueberrry

"…lonely is goodbye"

I stood in my loneliness, today
And it felt so wrong
My being here and you out there,
In the world, somewhere…
And, I think, I might have shuddered
a time or two
I’m not exactly sure, but I did feel
a little cold, like someone who needed
warmth, but couldn’t find it
We were so unhappy, then
And I know how much you tried, that
it wasn’t only me, wanting more than
what we became
And, yet, here I am
This piece of you, so all alone, wanting
only to sit next to a fire who’s embers
no longer burn

by:rueberry

"…if I fall down in sorrows"

In an August gust
I held your hand, and it
Began to rain
Both of us were true in love
Come September’s winds
Of change
I’m not sorry; I would do it
Over again
So if it’s cold out and the wind
Questions what I can’t explain,
And I fall down in sorrows, and
I love you all over again,
I’ll try not to forget
That seasons don’t always last
Our forevers,
And that sometimes Septembers end

by:rueberry

Dead Poets

There’s a road in front, and it goes
underneath an overpass.
Don’t mind the graffiti, dead poets
have always left their ink somewhere
for us to read.
And there’s a homeless guy who
walks this road most never see.
They just think he’s old and crazy,
but his words written with dirty hands
and piss stains on his pant, that’s the one
thing they will never forget.
So the seasons turn and night bows down
to day, summer to the cold of a wintry grey.
Once bright colors fade, and re-nown souls
of old lay still in their graves.
While on the road looking up, but not at
the sky, as cop car lights flash and burn
for men with guns who scratch their heads and
wonder why, lay there old and dirty, stains on
his pant, hands, and chin, having a frozen smile,
the last dead poet ever known.
The last verse of his very last rhyme, spilled in
blood and stench and a need - only he could
comprehend, seemed to all make sense that icy morn.
It was the first time in all his searching, in all his
entire life.
On that cold and frozen byway, on a road in front,
underneath an overpass.

by:rueberry

A Sunset Sky

I look up high above me into our stars and our skies, and I still see them.
Why did you go and leave me here in this abandoned place? Was it something I said?
Every word I spoke, I spoke of you. Or was it what I didn’t say?
All those many stories within my eyes that you believed then, promises, I had meant to keep?
There’s a certain grit to this sand I’ve not known before, on this beach where once I knew love. It feels like melancholy bleeding, and I look up one last time today, into our stars and our skies, watching.
Ever slowly I wave goodbye, and they begin to
slip away

by:rueberry

I still feel pieces of you

mydarlingwhispers:

my rituals never change
far away or close to my breath
moments of interlude I sit and tangle
my words become less and less
I’m not unhappy, never will express
the momentous banners hung like truth
bold and fierce
across my chest
whiskey a little stronger
sometimes it’s best
not to listen to the…

So often time it happens, we all live our life in chains, and we never even know we have the key.

—~The Eagles~ “Already Gone”

"A Day At The Park"

Oh silly me
Oh foolish boy
watching from afar
amazed by you,
intrigued by every subtle
move that you make
My heart quickens, and my
mind reels as it races,
hurriedly grasping for words
I will never tell
I watch you stand and, then
you walk away leaving me
to fall in love once more,
as I always do when
watching you;
this silly boy whom you’ll
never know
the one you dream of, but
never see
the one you long for - to be
that certain someone you adore

by:rueberry