Dry

A poem

Photo by Mockup Graphics on Unsplash

I am dry, I am telling you, my friend
Dry as sticks in the desert
Ready to burn for warmth in the night

I am dry from bleeding my worry
She could have died, do you realize
I am dry as a dead tree

No leaves, no sap
Hollow on the inside
Dry as straw lying in the sun

Waiting to be gathered
I am dried out from hearing of death
In war zones, in gun-toting lands
Where the bullet is king

Dried from the news of children killed
I am dry, don’t you hear me
Women raped, men raped

War crimes, suicide, murder
Dried from pouring my love out
Like an oasis, but effect no change

I am dry I cry out to anyone who’ll hear
Dried by what humans do to humans
In war, in jail, in the system

I am dry and can be dry no more

Published in The Lark

Some of my readers…

Some people come here to be nosey. There are people who behaved so badly as neighbours that they were mentioned in my blog. I never say where I live, and would never put my address on here.

They moved because they were stupid and don’t realise there are many people with that last name here.

I am so glad they are that stupid as they made my life untenable and refused requests from the council and even the police to stop causing me agonising pain.

Who does that? Who knowingly causes unbearable pain to another human being? Torture is a war crime. They were torturing me.

They send their minions to hassle me. They don’t live a purposeful life. They live with bitterness and unkindness.

I am enjoying better neighbours now. I have made a window box for them and passed some of my daughter’s childhood things to their children.

I enjoy giving pleasure to others. I always have.

The previous neighbour believed me to have fake accounts. I’m not sure what that means. The flowers I sent were returned. She has written to other people about me maliciously.

What a tiny, sad, mind.