gigi

I'm always thirsty/. I have dry mouth syndrome. Some members of my family think it is rude. I do not. I think it is a necessity because we don't always get seated right away and then I'm stuck without a drink for maybe a half hour. I get these terrible hiccups that hurt, and water is the only cure. So, why should I leave my water bottle in the car?

I really do want to know your opinion. Thanks for your thoughts in advance.

I'm visiting a friend, and I keep waking with bites on my arms, legs, wrists, legs, etc. Even my scalp itches. I know this is a big problem on the East Coast due to the materials brought in from foreign countries that don't have the restrictions the USA does. How do I deal with the itching? I have to be here another 3 weeks.

Colors of Life

(or funk's changing colors)

by gigi

10/21.2010

my funk takes me back into the past

dreaming of love with sailors on leave

falling into Sinatra's blue eyes

fiery sins making nightmares that last

finding God, beginning to believe

the boy next door was my true ally

his bright red hair, a tender contrast

to a black haired liar, (tears on his sleeve)

wed me, and my toddler, in July

my son was his, he was always steadfast

the siblings knew not they were deceived

that's how he wanted it, this great guy

roller coasted through the life we cast.

black funk when he died, I was bereaved

one day, in white, to him I will fly.

I have very strong opinions about politics and religion. Other items, I have opinions, but not really strong or weak. Sometimes my opinions are based on facts, others simply on what I like or do not.

I did not find it to be clear about where to put a poll question.

When I enter the building

the stench assails me.

Odors of urine, of disease,

of unwashed bodies,

of death held at bay.

Vacant eyes, encased in skeletal

bodies, stare at me.

Old Jacob Marley escorts

me down the hall.

"Behold," he murmurs,

"the things that are to be."

I enter her room.

The hum of the oxygen machine

cannot lessen the sound of

her labored breathing.

Hands, thin as bird claws,

draw into knots on the cover

I lean to kiss her,

falsely bright I ask,

"How are we today?"

She struggles for breath to answer.

"Why can't I die?"

I've noticed on some questions that they want you to vote for the best answer. In other questions, the best answer is selected by the one who asks. What is the difference?

Sledge hammer blows to my head.

A fist in my gut.

Blinding flame, blue-white

as the welder's torch

sears my eyes.

I retch.

The doctor's voice

drones on.

Cancer.

I stretch my arms to

shield you from the blows.

No, not you, not you.