I need to have a real conversation
to talk to someone
eyes looking into eyes
I want to find someone to talk to
I need to talk to someone
I’m not depressed
I’m just tired
I’m tired of separation
of loneliness when I’m busy
I make a lot of art I have a tattoo studio I make a lot of art art gets in the way it takes over, it will push you aside it loves solitary times and hidden times and bird watching and music surrounding my mind and wakefulness and insomnia and going…
There’s the story of dirt and soil
A hand that moves the mountain
Will of transformation
Will of healing
Majick is the sweat in the rain
Removing one to replace with another
Building the shelter
Time is a legacy
Committing to the act
Loss in this fragile fire
Heart filled with ashes
Don’t vacate the pain
Painting by DHBogucki, 2020.
Struggle sets me inside
a chicken coop.
Feeling safer with
the salmonella sisters,
the day blends with
the light of a flare in the sky.
Blue, a poem by its very
nature, regards this world,
makes us whole.
Return my being
Align, stretch, crack,
I am beginning to make
After weeks of isolation
I accomplish surrender.
Janitors, maids, housekeeping, physical plant, and orderlies; they are literally picking up after everyone else. What is a fair wage for people who make the world cleaner for others? Why are people who prepare “your space to your specifications” viewed as less critical, less valuable? Why does society believe they should be paid so low?
Perusing the internet reveals this work is labeled “entry level.” What does that mean? Does it mean they can expect to advance through the company? No. Not really, but it does mean it could be your first job. We’ll see if you can show up…
I know what death looks like
Its jaw eternally hanging open
Awe and guile slipping through the gap in Its teeth
The puppeteers hand mechanically spitting out words for the weak
Too afraid to raise their voice
Too stunned to question the line winding to the cliff
Hollow on the inside
You describe the outline of love with precision
Its rotting carcass heaped at your door
Even in this world of beauty
You tug the hemline of dread
It’s not of you to leave
The cycle of your own making
Pushing death to the surface
A new Daisy for the sunshine
Clinging fuels your hunger
So you hack off another limb
Standing and leaving too simple a solution
There is nothing more exciting than the mundane, life in its weary drabness as you drag on into your late forties. Especially if you have been living life as a constant midlife crisis. Everything can and has been abandoned for reasons that now seem trivial, but give it time, any wound will scab and get picked away.
So, why all the blather? A big move is taking place, but I’m doing it within a relationship. It’s a total cluster-fuck of a move, but this is where life is.
Life also managed to blunder into a dream job, only the blur…
Trading safety for a free heart
I married you by commitment
No ink on paper
No government decree
I wanted trust building
Will of iron bending from your tears
Shaking in the light of lessons
I could never trust my own desire
Self protection, and the determination to flee from every crime
I have stolen my heart back so many times
Nothing lasted until your healing heart shone its cracks
The beauty of its scarred surface
A map of lines telling the rarest of stories
Strength is built by the toil of forgiveness.
Artist, Writer, Tattooist, Find me on Instagram, UnSplash, and FB under that same name.