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)

I’m bouncing off something Dennis just said,
cause I totally get it.
I’ve been here a while.
Long enough, anyway.
And before I kinda just stepped away
and took a break for a while, I got hearts
for anything I put out there. Some of it
I wouldn’t read past the first line.
Now though.
Now those wonderful souls who actually
read what I write are still here.
And God bless em because each is precious
to me.
We go back a way.
And there are new friends who read rather
than simply heart a familiar name. Thank you.
I can get false adulation in the world - easily!
Here, however, honesty is what I seek.
That’s how I’ll grow.
That’s how we all do.
To you who “read” you honor me.
Thank you.
And know this: if ever you see I hearted a work
you spilled your soul to create, I’ve read it.
I owe you that.
We all deserve at least that.
Otherwise, what the hell are we doing here, right?
Peace guys!

- rueberry

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

—Dead Poets Society (via langleav)

(via fforyouu)

"Ferguson"

By what right do our children die,
lose their innocence while still
young?
Who took the glory that once
we had, taught us not to lift
our heads up too high?
Are we not legacy of a royal line?
Did our father’s and mother’s not
tell the tales to us -
Of grander times, of honor, and the kind?
Yet, we bleed for strangers.
Die as we are born.
Fight battles and wars that are not
for our own.
Who placed these chains around our
souls, and told us we were beggars?
Lucky to breathe?
And why this do we “still” believe?
Why must we weep, forget all our
tales, and watch as our children die?
Why do you kill us?

- for not being white?

by: rueberry

"Anton Herman"

“Anton Herman had been
a horrible man.
A nasty young hellion with
a grit and ire to boot.
Yet, t’was no fault of his own.
You cannot blame a wild thing
for being wild or for following
the assertions of its nature.
He was born as was his station,
dirt poor and nothing other than
black trash spawn from a sewage
ditch.
Sure enough, like any other, he found
love, if one could call his brand of beatings
and drunken yammering’s love.
But it never lasted.
Trapped prey tend to escape given
any chance to do so, wounded, half
dead, even if escape means dying in
the process.
All four bore him a son he never knew.
Sons he never wanted and dead set
on letting them know.
In his mind, it was best to put things in
their proper perspective from the go.
Not much else to say.
Not really.
One cannot pontificate upon his amends for
the shortcomings of his character by having
any sincere discussion as to his work ethic.
Frankly, he had none.
At least, none aside from his alleviating honest,
decent, folk of their hard earned money.
Most times through corrupt and/or nefarious means.
Anton Herman was a bad man.
Good for absolutely nothing.
Certainly, he died in his youth.
Seems wisdom sometimes refuses or
is unable to bestow her virtue on some.
He did not depart from this world as one
might expect.
Not in a blaze of glory doing battle with 
the law.
Not in a bar room brawl unlucky enough
to meet his end at the finer point of a blade.
Nor was he hit over the head while on a drunken
rampage by one of the many ladies of the
evening he liked to call “his girlfriends.”
Anton Herman just simply died - on the shitter.
Seems, somewhat, appropriate.
The good book says we shall all return from whence
we came.
Anton had simply done what he expected
poor black trash spawn from a sewage ditch to do.
He left behind a life of filth, while all the while,
endeavoring in his last act to stink up the place.”

by: rueberry

"Rain"

Little miss obsolete,
Why do you sit in the rain?
Your hair is all wet, and
your pretty dress wrinkled
to woe.
Little miss obsolete,
why do you weep so all alone?
Your pretty eyes seem as coal,
and your smile is gone away.
Haven’t you heard, little miss,
wounded darling I once loved?
I hurt, too!
Perhaps, should you grant the chance,
I could share the rain with you.
And you and I can cry and cry.
Us two -
obsolete.

by: rueberry

"Sunshine"

I like the smell of fresh cut grass,
of rain… ,
and dainty flowers.
I like it when a woman smiles my way.
Her scent when she bathes my soul with
nice perfume.
I like to laugh.
I’m okay with making silly mistakes.
And I like to love, if only for the sake
of love.
These things are a part of me; the better
part, but they’re not all of me.
I like not knowing, most of all, because I’m
still looking.
And one day all these magical things I’ve
only stated will make sense to the rest
of me.
I’ll know the why about them.
And I’ll know the who about me.

by: rueberry

"Abigale Horton"

She lived and she died
a poor housewife,
T’ll the soul bells called
to guide her,
And they buried her beside him.
The weeping willow’s wept
their tears,
And the hollows all were quiet.
Heaven waved her last goodbye,
as he lay there beside her smiling.
Their’s had been a life so cruel,
and it was a liar,
But they found their time to love
between the tears - and
laughter at the bottoms.

by: rueberry

It is a risk to love.
What if it doesn’t
work out?
Ah, but what if it does?

—Peter McWilliams

…and I remember when people were good to each other. Not for the things they did, but because of the things they wouldn’t do.

—rueberry

"Defenestration" (A Daughter’s Heart)

"I know it’s been hard for you.
And I remember how much you
hurt when mom and I went away.
I saw it on your face, the tears you
tried so hard not to show.
I want you to know - I cried, too.
Mom said some awful things, I know.
I know that she blamed it all on you.
Blamed you for everything.
That she was disappointed and confused -
angry.
Daddy, I’m sorry.
Sorry I hated you then, but I know better
now.
I know that mom was only lashing out,
needing to make some kind of sense of it all
at a time when nothing made any sense.
We had become - broken.
Daddy…I love you.
And I’ve tried to do my best.
I’ve tried to be a good person, to move past
back then and make something good
of myself.
But there’s still this missing part, and it
leaves me feeling empty.
No matter what I do!
I miss you daddy cause I don’t get to see
you anymore.
Not like before.
Not like before we got broken.
And I need you.
It’s not the same, and I worry about losing you,
becoming not so special.
Not like I used to be.
Daddy?
Are you still proud of me?
Daddy?
Am I still pretty?
Daddy ?
Am I still your princess?

…daddy?

by: rueberry

"Keepsake"

"It had been a Friday.
It was night.
And I remember how nice it was,
how there had been a cool and gentle
wind blowing,
that it kindly kissed your face and danced,
ever so gently, through your hair.
I’m sure we must have talked for hours, sitting
there, on the grass.
There had been music playing, somewhere,
and I swear I believed it played for us.
We knew the words to every song.
Or so it seemed.
I sang under my breath.
You hummed along.
And, when it was over, when we said
goodbye, it was such a beautiful thing, I thought.
Something that seemed so right.
Spending that time with you.
I never saw you after that.
We were just two people, kids really, who
said hello.
And we talked
in a way that was so much more than words.
I still think of you.
And wherever you are I’d like to believe that,
maybe, sometimes you think of me, too.
That boy you met long ago.
So if, someway, you can hear me - hello.”

by: rueberry

"Always"

This heart of mine.
So faithful.
So loyal - misunderstood.
If I told you I would wait,
by the lonely brook, where
misfits like me go, would
your heart happen a smile?
And if I painted you a lovely
autumn’s sky, wrote your
name among the stars, would
you softly whisper “how sweet
you silly boy?”
I would do that.
I would do so much more.
I would give my last breath, if
only to amuse you, to have you
not forget the memories written
upon the history that is my face.
It was always you.
Always, only you.
I can’t forget that, once, it was always me,
too.

by: rueberry

My life has been an interesting though be it enigmatic query. And I suppose it such as I would have preferred at the start. How awfully boring one of predictability would have been!

—rueberry

I have, most certainly, had my fair share of regrets; yet, in retrospect, many of them had been the best thing that could have ever happened to me.

—rueberry

"Mr. Nobody"

I’ve had my moments.
My time in the sun.
I’ve known how it feels
to feel alive.
To feel that strength from
within.
And it’s not that I minded
the rain, so much.
To have the clouds cause
me to disappear.
What I hated.
The thing I liked least of all,
was waking in the morning.
Believing I knew the day, and
finding myself unable or unwilling
to smile or cry.
Not feeling a thing.
That hell I go through.
My being dead, yet, still alive.
I have had my moments.
In the sun and in the rain, but to
be buried while still alive -
Above ground. In the realm of
being here and of being there, at the same
time, of being nowhere.
Those are the times when breathing simply isn’t breathing.
And to hold my breath - nothing more than pointless.
Those are the times when I am, but I’m not.
Nothing more than numb.
A nobody and a somebody.
All at the same time.

by: rueberry