Tag Archives: life

Tragic Painting 

Crawl inside this decorated masterpiece. 

Crawl in the garden of this hollow fairy tale. 

Crawl in the trenches to gasp for air.

Crawl inside this lost graveyard. 


Crawl inside this wound of romance. 

Crawl in the river between anger and hate. 

Crawl in the carnival to laugh at despair.

Crawl inside this forgotten casket. 


Crawl inside this broken melody, 

Crawl in the words of this pale chapter.

Crawl in the tainted memories. 

Crawl inside this tragedy without a trace. 

The Hawthorn Tree, Fire, and Waterfall 

She mumbled words of Dylan’s poetry staring at the waterfall. Often times she sits Indian style below the Hawthorn tree. She reflects upon her childhood and her insides become numb. She has tried for years to store these memories in a treasure chest without a key.

She spoke two words of pain gazing into the fire in the distance. The fire reminds her of those two words “Stop” and “Please.” She has tried a lifetime to erase the distorted glimpse of his face.

She spoke a thousand words in therapy in her 30’s. Often times she drives by the Hawthorn tree and see its aged. The fire is no longer there. She is a poet, writer, with a heart of copper.

She published a book of a hundred thousand words in her 40’s. The words that drip from her tongue feel like the waterfall. She is educated, accomplished, and respected.

Shadows of Amber Leigh

Amber stares into the kaleidoscopic sky. She was baffled about her net worth, value, and the choices she made over the stairway of decades. She shrugged her shoulders even though the weight of conviction was a thousand pounds.

Amber stomped her feet on the hollow ground. She was perceived as having a heart of a mannequin. The shadows of Amber Leigh began to fade into the twilight. She craved the attention and ate up the selfishness with a big spoon.

Amber’s affection was treated like a doormat. She often blamed others for her state of disarray. She rarely ever looked inside of herself, focusing on the end result and the limelight. The fame was an addiction. She ignored the applause of the crowd.

Vision of Amber Leigh 

She woke up to the sound of her barking dog. She walked down the wooden steps to see her mother finish up packing. No goodbyes nor serenades. Amber saw her walk out carefree. Amber’s father was working on his pride and joy in the garage for the 12th day in a row.

Amber Leigh set her sights on being the bright lights. The vision she created in her twinkling eyes never went dim due to her tattered childhood. Amber needed to prove she was someone. Neither parent gave her the time of day nor did they spare a nickel.

Amber leaped on to the sinful streets. She danced around a pole in the dark entertaining lonely rich men. She craved the attention she did not get. Amber Leigh became a house hold name in the naked skin world. The vision of Amber Leigh has now become distorted.

Let’s be friends



You chased me.
You made me feel amazing.
You made me think
what we had
was the best you ever had.

I actually thought so too
then you tossed me aside.
Now you want to be friends.
You say I’m your best friend.

You say this is
the best friendship
you ever had.
But how am I
supposed to be friends
with someone who
made me feel used?

This is not a friendship,
I was just a placeholder
for the void you needed filled.
I was just there to give you
what you couldn’t get from her.

This is not fun, it’s pure agony.
It’s time for me to move on.
It’s time for me to realize
you used me.
It’s time for me to admit
you made a fool of me.

It’s time for you to know
what you did is not ok.
It’s time for you to understand
you took advantage
of my brokenness.

You can’t break my heart
then expect me to be smile
at all your little jokes.
This isn’t funny, it’s pure hell.
My broken heart is real.

No, we cannot be friends.




Image 1 + 2 source: Google images
Contents compiled: April 30 2017
Originally published: April 30 2017
Copyright © 2016 Inner Ramblings Boulevard

Social Devastation 

Over zealous he walks as a aristocrat.

He raises his glass of champagne toasting to his investments, portfolio, and the peasants that bowed down to him.

There isn’t a wrinkle in his shirt nor is there a hair out of place.

Only he is the one who speaks in the third person.

As he mingles in his million dollar mansion he doesn’t even know half of his guests.

Isn’t this quite delightful?

Should we refer him as our majesty?

Isn’t this quite preposterous?

The conversations revolved around art history, 15th century poetry, classical music and the Great Depression.

I left the party hours ago when I realized I was spoken down too.

This was a social devastation.