Back when I was in high school and college, LiveJournal was a happening place to be (online). In addition to it being a forum for one to vent and write about his or her day, there were communities for discussions on certain topics and, actually, a good place to “meet” people with similar interests. Morney Wilson was one of the people that I “met” and stayed in contact with over the years. We bumped into each other in a Sylvia Plath community and I was immediately impressed by the wealth of knowledge that she shared. This paired with her playful and kind personality and writing talent made her an incredibly special individual.
Unfortunately, Morney passed away over the past year. She is still greatly missed. Like me, she had a dream of being published. Unlike me, she made it happen. And today I would love to share some of her poems with you. If you like what you read, you can buy her book on lulu.com – http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/i-am-the-blast-from-your-past-other-poems/4358265
Pretty Prozac Pearls
Your greens,
your yellows,
you’re rather pretty.
My bedtime partner.
I can count on you.
You’re no trouble,
I take you as easy as that
(A sip of water slips
you inside me)
I am you.
Or are you me?
Keep me quiet,
slow me down,
artificial sanity.
Pull my hair out,
paint my sleep black,
shriek my nightmares.
Creativity leaves.
The Truth
Incandescent with white-hot rage,
I lie here in my furious grave.
You think I am gone.
Safely locked in my box.
My eyes won’t see.
My ears won’t hear.
You think you are free
to spin your tales of fate,
to spin our lives into a web
of lies that catch our souls like flies.
But I was there, darling,
when you wrote those letters.
I stood behind you and watched
your pen leak excuses,
ink made from our blood.
Weaving your pages of myths.
I, your first wife. I.
I inevitably died.
Written in the stars from the day I was born.
Mad thing that I was.
How else could it end?
Like a puppet
I jerked into hatred of her.
But now I have seen. Now I have heard.
I wrote the rival. You wrote the other.
Now the unlikely partnership forms
and we, we write the truth.
Look over your shoulder, dear, at all times.
Keep a watch in every mirror you see.
Be afraid every time that the telephone rings.
Listen our for unexpected knocks at the door.
Do not fall asleep with the TV on.
One of these days, my love, one of these days.
We rise from the ashes. We will have our revenge.
We will write the final chapter of this myth.
Two suicides will drag this God to death.
One of these days, my love, one of these days.
No Other Appetite 