I find along side the road I’m currently on in my life with cancer, not waste and detritus, but people. Not hitchhikers, but people waving to me and telling me to keep going and not to stop since its rather unnecessary.
Tag: cancer and love
We all fall down. The ground grows smaller, As I pass the Earth, Becoming her daughter. Funny to stand today, Eclipsing the sun. My books marked still, On page one.
https://www.etsy.com/listing/500887842/vintage-rhinestone-encrusted-button-withButtons – it started with buttons. Vintage and old buttons to be precise. Hundreds became thousands. My theory: button mitosis. The rhinestone 1950s button you see above, one of the latest acquisitions, stands alone as a thought prototype come true by a nameless, faceless designer. I look at them as though I can save enough […]
Each life writing a page.
For a bound legacy,
Marked by birth and death.
And of our own self images, they’re not influenced by much positive representations. Especially those of us at stage IV. The stage no one wants to know much about at all. We, the misfits, don’t measure up to Santa’s ultra high standards, and become the toys left behind on Christmas Eve. Weepy-eyed, we stand shivering from the cold, waving goodbye to the tail end of a sleigh, to Santa Clause’s fat ass, and reindeer tail lights.
There is no greater sorrow than to recall the misery in time we were happy – Dante A belligerent handshake, a reluctantly shared cab. “You know where to let me out?” Your smile, a dagger, Mouth unwrapping secrets, your sleeves full of cards. My stomach twists into a gilded fist, so hard, Throwing a kiss,
Vintage clothing and accessories look unique and provide great conversation starters. And now you can also tell all those complimenting your gorgeous, well fitted outfit the facts about today’s new “fast fashion,” akin to fast food, and the waste of the fashion industry since the second world war, especially in the United States. Fashion is the third largest producer of waste of all industries in 2017.
Many of us experience isolation and walk alone in our cancer journeys. Regardless of the stage or type it's difficult and frightening, causing emotional strain and stressing the infrastructure of even our strongest relationships. My husband is in the third year of his depression. Although he’s trying, the lows and valleys run into and erase
“Function, sweetheart.” A line in code, Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity, The sweat of cities, And the hearts all pretty. Served with new orders, realizing She flinched dramatically yet faintly, Rudely chortled, then crossed her “i”s. He barely escaped a double, a body, The usual. She’s pretty, toiling for trouble. Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade?