You can never go home

You can never go home
I tried and Failed and was Flayed and Faltered
Forgot myself, My name, Who I had become

Daddy you mean old Bastard Can you never change

Who used to untie your shoes (those giant black work boots)
When you came home from work, dirt caked and crusty
Who did you beat with your belt
and try to beat some more with your words
though she is now a grandmother twice over

See, verbal abuse still counts in California
still hurts in California

You can never go home
I tried and died and was buried
in my postage stamp backyard
No one came to visit My grave sat empty of flowers
My sisters forgot to grieve
or they had to go shopping for the boys
or pick up cheap beer for some other dead people.
One was busy One was drunk
We are not close now Not even in death
can we cross the bridge of understanding to The Land of Love

You can never go Home
And if you do
You will meet your ghost (weeping and wailing)
On every street corner
and every overpass
at every high school parking lot
and forgotten rose garden
and the one you used to love
and the ones you will never love

You will see the Failure of Family
as you will not be able to escape to Arizona or Colorado or New Mexico

You have sealed you fate
So when The Tsunami Strikes
you will all float together yet separately
to some island off the coast of Alaska
Frozen in fate Separate not equal
Lost to each other Forever

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Wounded Elephant

By Tru Dillon

wounded elephant
lumbering in this life
lumber heavy
slumber sleep
wounded elephant
crippled deep
not body or mind
some affliction inside
causes the sway causes the decay
the way for you to weep

“swing low sweet chariot
coming for to carry me home”

what is timeless soon becomes mindless
as your dreams narcotize the waking air
nembutal demerol anbesol
anything to numb the pain
to hasten the night to hasten the nod
to say good by to one and all

wounded elephant
slumber sleep
wounded elephant
crippled deep

Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web.

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Clay Dolls

By Tru Dillon

The clay timidly clings
to our netherlands
whilst we make our Voodoo Dolls
from what falls off

Mine is fat and buxom
yours has a big alien head
We push in tiny pinon nuts
for eyes and leave them both mouthless

These are dolls of ourselves
With pain to be only self administered
Through the eons we will cringe
with fear
at how cruel
we can be to ourself

Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web.

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Who Forgot the Fudge?

By Tru Dillon June 1, 2010

30 pairs of tiny eyes drill my petrified head
Faceless teacher persistent teacher asks where is your fudge?

We have just tasted small dark squares presented by a nervous red haired girl
Our Mothers were instructed to help us
with the recipe and the ingredients
My classmate had by evidence received this help

What of the many notes sent home to my Mom
or the ones I crumpled up?
What of the begging for money to buy the few ingredients needed?

One day I forget
The next day she forgets
The faceless persistent teacher never forgets

Each morning first thing I think of is fudge
and my inability to produce any
My worry, shame and anxiety grabs tight little fingers
and pulls more hair from my growing bald spot

In class we have tried fudge with walnuts or raisins
some made from condensed milk
Each child proudly presents their confection
and explains how they made it
I cant make it
I never make it

Did I forget?
Did my Mother forget?
The Faceless persistent teacher never forgets
For this remiss of fudge I receive a failing grade in English

And later on report card day
when my father dispenses beatings
to help us
and we children silently wait in the darkened hallway
I know my turn will come
and I accept my fate

Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web.

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I do this for you

By Tru Dillon May 21, 2010

The brown rice is cooked until soft
I do this for you

The bed you lie upon barely feels the weight of your emaciation

The rice taken from the flame is left to sit until cool
I do this for you

Breathing in with a wince
you see the tall blue curtains hang silently against the wall
Waves of pain ride in

A thin mesh strainer is put over a tall metallic bowl
I do this for you

Your feet unable to feel
unable to walk or bound up Pennsylvania Avenue
Poke out from under a blanket looking pale and grey

One cup of cool soft brown rice is put in the strainer
I do this for you

The coughing begins
and tears us both right through our center
You spit up blood

The wooden spoon wide and flat
slowly pushes the rice through the sieve
I do this for you

Mottos for living and words of encouragement
course through your toxic chemo brain
Out with the bad    in with the good
I can beat this    this too shall pass

Spooning up the creamed rice
It is once again and again and again
pushed through the tiny holes
I do this for you

There is no comfort in these words
in a few moments you let the utter panic of it all consume you
You quietly cry

A flowered bowl carries the delicate creamed rice into your room
I do this for you

Slowly pillows plumped behind your head
hold your thoughts in check
Optimism reigns and you smile

The small oval spoon
a relic from the baby
holds this trembling offering to your lips
I do this for you

and you are grateful

Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web.

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Now I see honestly

By Tru Dillon

Now I see honestly that I only saw what I wanted to see
These eyes covered in the sticky toxic mist of self loathing
saw others as More
More intelligent
More well received
More certain
The More List is long
it extends into encyclopedic range
More, Their More, surrounds me
and if I sneak closer…… I too am More

My self loathing mist excluded the times he pushed me
slapped me
threw me up against walls
It excluded the money spent, all of it, in bars
or the times the power was cut off
or the landlord knocking on the door
It excluded the cheating
and the final abandonment of me
and our baby boy

My filtration mist was perfect
and not unlike a reclamation pond
the bottom of my soul was filled with the truth
Slogging into the muck
I find broken bits and pieces of this truth

I must carefully examine each piece
and as the pond water drains further
I am left standing, solitary
Before me lies a vast expanse of crumpled hopes
twisted and oddly shaped love
and cracked dreams

Poking up through this sludge is my past
I will not turn away in denial
I will not pretend it’s OK
Instead I will let the mist of self loathing
gently float, disintegrate, into the slowly draining pond

I will cleanse and restore my hopes
I will caress and caretake my love
I will create new dreams

Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web.

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Silence and Denial

By Tru Dillon

My hiking boots are leather and I carry a big stick
These boots will delicately trample all those who oppose me
My stick unbending and unwieldy to grasp
is my sword of truth

Cutting back the curtain of silence
Slash and cut this mask of denial
Smash and trample all those who Lie

Tendrils of hope spring up
spring green
they unfurl and shake their way to the ever present light
Where was this light
when I was alone at 14
when my father told me I was a mistake,
I never should have been

Slash and Cut
Smash and Trample
No longer silent in the face of this Lie
This forest is full of Lies
I will be here a long time
Prepare: The journey awaits

Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web.

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