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)

"Every Bit As Broken"

Where do all the broken pieces go?
The ones that no longer fit?
Do they go away, somewhere,
off to another place?
Or do they hang around acting
like they fit?
And who are all these perfect people
with their smiles and happy faces?
So in love.
I don’t believe them.
I see the cracks.
They’ve been shattered once before,
cause pieces never quite exactly fit -
when you put them back.

by: rueberry

I would have forgiven you. And I wish to God, you would have taken a moment to forgive yourself. Now we’re only echoes, in an empty room, screaming to ourselves.


"A Season Changes"

Fall came early, today.
And I felt a chill.
For a long moment I
became cold, and a sudden
shiver gave me pause.
I became, in that moment,
I had no reason to.
You lay here beside me,
and these are happy times.
Yet, why do I fear winter when
it is still far away?
Why has fall touched me so soon,
whispered this unkindness to my soul?
I heard myself sigh, and I held you
And I think, as your warmth sang me
gently back to sleep, I heard myself
weeping, too.
Summer tried so hard not to end.


"Sarsaparilla & Green Tea"

There is a madness to love,
an insanity that, by its vey
nature, requires we lose sight
of ourselves, and drink from
a cup that is neither empty nor full.
And, yet, we drink up our delusion,
becoming drunk on a wine that is
within ourselves.
Love is not ecstasy or great sadness.
She is only what we imagine her
to be.
And she, imagining us, imagines us
to be
so very strange.


"After All"

After shadows cast, and sullen gasps,
After rivers dry that spake your name
After fear is dead, and written dread,
After love and romance and smiles
seem an ancient thing
After us…
And what once was sacred to the core
Here we meet again
Every wonder and desire, every hope
and touch, that made us alive
Remains within
Two hearts sing as before
Only the eyes that we now look in,
trust in, have we changed
And we fall down believing, again

by: rueberry

"A Door Not Shut"

There’s an open door, and all
I need is to walk through it.
Everything will change.
But how do I leave this empty
room where pictures were once
carefully placed, where laughter
and tiny footfalls still echo in?
Where love was made?
Do I even have the right?
I know I should.
There’s no real reason to stay.
One step…
And I leave it all behind.
Just one.
This goodbye, to all those yesterday’s,
shouldn’t be so easy.
So I turn around, and say I’m sorry.
Decide to stay.
Not for long, I know.
Only until I forgive myself.
Release myself.
Accept that: even the ghosts
have gone.
That it’s only me - in here, in this room,

and I’m all alone.

by: rueberry


"They say we write our own story.
I find that a bit hard to believe.
I would have never written my
story this way.
Not like this.
Okay, so maybe we play a part,
contribute to it, but we certainly
have no editorial control.
No say over what ends up cut,
and on the floor.
I think the people who force themselves
into our lives, and those we let in, pretty
much dictate the outcome.
How is that a say?
Everyone’s a stranger in the beginning
of whatever chapter they’re in, and they’ll
either fuck things up or add to the script
something you never considered.
Write our own stories?
Not when everyone else is doing all they
can to take the credit for it.
Even trying to change the plot.
If we’re lucky, maybe, we get to pick
the title.”

by: rueberry


I take a pill to bring me up,
and then a drink to take me
I don’t want to go to sleep
In my dreams I drown.
And I can’t bare the wide awake,
Can’t bare the light I see.
I live and breathe within the in -
Here every color fades to grey,
Here every shadow kindly bleeds.
It’s how I try to be okay.
How awake I find my sleep.
In between the here and now,
just above the underneath.

by: rueberry


These days of mine tend to
be quite burgundy now.
Surely, there exist, still within
them, a little color.
A little texture here and there.
However darkly that may seem.
But certainly not as vibrant as once
they were in my other life.
A life I do and do not regret.
Strong drink and ugly women
have that affect on a man, I suppose.
Yet, given the days, and many
years I have survived this far, I
would be a liar if not to confess
there had been one summer, my
finest season, that has surpassed
them all when I take a snort, sit back
under a tall, very old, oak tree and
study for a moment the life I have
Let the kindness of a friendly breeze
flavor the thought.
My finest hour.
Nowadays, I’m just old.
And the fire that rages within my bones
curses that simple fact.
Having been able to stay alive.
It is all vanity, this idea of growing old.
When one gets there the prize will always
feel somewhat more than lacking.
I suppose it is why at some point one
stops looking forward and begins to
ever increasingly look back instead.
Life and consequence does not allow
for anyone to live as fully as they do long.
For anyone to suggest otherwise, well, such
an individual is nothing more than a dirty
rotten liar.
Someone, when you are young, it is best
to flee from.
Middle finger raised high.
I advise it be raised very high with quite
a few choice words to boot!



I’m not a poet anymore.
Life has taken that from me.
And I’m not a silly dreamer
any longer.
I’ve accepted reality.
I’ve been changed, turned
into someone else, and sincerely
I say: I hate myself.
I’m not a poet anymore.
I’m not a silly dreamer believing
because, frankly, believing has
become too hard.
I’m jaded, you see.
Life somehow got its hold on me.
I’m a joke.
I’m normal, like everyone else.
Because I did it to myself.
I let it go.
What could be.
I became what becoming robs
from everyone else.
A body without a soul.
I’m not a poet anymore.
I’m a joke.
Seeing things for what they are.
And I hate myself.
Because things are never what
they are.
Why should they be?
I’ve changed, and what I am
- isn’t me.

by: rueberry


And if, by chance, I’ve hurt you
when with all my heart meaning
to, this, it, I’d done with great regret.
I promise you.
And if, on rare occasion, by chance
I made you smile, filled your heart
with gladness, forgot you all your
troubles if only for a while, this I too
For it failed to last no longer than,
but a moment in, these, our unrelenting trials.
Love is such a fickle thing, asking
always more and more.
And hurt, unlike, reciprocates abounding
score for score.




Children when you grow up,
and you have children, too,
raise them in a house filled
with music, and books.
Tell them fairy tales, and
stories that cause them all to
dream, and imagine, things
that have never been, but if
only they would be.
Have them gaze upon a fire,
outback in the yard, or look up
high above, for a while, at the stars
so that they wonder.
Do this and you will make a world
that holds the stars, not up in the sky,
but on the ground.
Where no one ever fears the dark,
but sees it, better still, a place to write
every needful longing to smile, or laugh,
or sing out loud with glee, upon their hearts.


"I’m down to my last
few shots of
Told her to fuck off
and die, today.
Can’t say I haven’t had
better moments, but I
finally figured - it was time.
Maybe there’s a part of her
that didn’t deserve it.
A side of her I don’t see, but,
sometimes, this fucking
time, none of that matters.
All you think about is the pain.
The disappointments that just
pile on, and on, and “suddenly”
…it just hits you like a truck.
And every good thing that kept
you hoping, kept you wanting to
believe, just goes away.
Just like that.
So I’ll finish the last of my regret.
Drink the last of it down, and wallow at
the bottom of this bottle for a while.
And in the morning I’ll wake up,
with my head and body all hung
over - feeling like I’ve been hit by a train.
I’ll chew a few pharmaceuticals I keep around,
for times such as this.
Chase them down with her favorite brand of coffee,
and I’ll look at the phone.
But it won’t ring.
I won’t call.”

by: rueberry

"We’ve all gone crazy, lately"

It’s a strange thing how a good
man is.
One who truly loves a woman.
He will take and take and take.
Unconscionable abuse through
his undying commitment to her.
But then comes that cloudy day,
and with it a storm as never before.
Hope leaves him.
Even the hope of hope.
And he who would have died a
thousand times, dies only once.
He destroys fully and unrepentantly
that which he so loved.
And the woman having never learned
is consumed with him, forevermore.