my heels dig into the dirtelbow up, eyes aheadwatch her handscount the wind-upfirst, second, third, then homefirst, second, third, then home is all i have to gobreatheplay through the painrun even as her fastball hits you in the gutand you trip along the basesand bruise your ribs dodging a tag outwince and you're benchedfail and you're donefreeze and the crowd of eyes watching will all know what you've been told beforeuselesspathetic
eyes glued to the groundthroats clearedand smiles stretched thinthey count the patterned tiles one-by-onetwo-by-twoas if the answer will fix my problems
it's not your fault lindothat i flinch every time you suddenly turn aroundor that my hands shake every time i try to touch your faceor that i sob brokenly every time i can't bring myself to do it.it's mine.i'm just such a fucking mess who's stuck in the past andi'm sorry you have to deal with that.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the Year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
I never lost as much but twice,And that was in the sod.Twice have I stood a beggarBefore the door of God!Angels -- twice descendingReimbursed my store --Burglar! Banker -- Father!I am poor once more!
The weight of misfortune has stooped my shouldersBut I don’t intend to stop for a good while yet;I afflict my own destinyAnd don’t want anyone to mourn for my fate.I’ve made peace with God on my lossesAnd agreed with him on the epitaphsThat should be written about my senseless wars.