America / Various
Flash backs of an earlier age, I mean like nine months old. I was sitting on the living room floor. The radio was playing while horrible yelling and screams was the backdrop of a soliloquy. Fist ball tagging it's target with sporadic accuracy. Feet kicking like a pendulum. The provocative sound of flesh slapping, bruised, and bleeding DNA. You've guessed by now that this is domestic abuse. Love taps between my parents. Dad picked up and carried me closer to the radio then turned up the volume. He, I guess, didn't want me to become a casualty but in all honesty I am. Writing poetry, short stories came easy to me because I found it very hard to explain myself before the tears would fall from my eyes. Lyrical tunes, prose and haiku, have been among my best friends. They have never left me, lost for words. Many times they impede my brain with sounds, voices, songs at unfavorable times pass midnight well into early morn. Refrain, after refrain they lull me to sleep. Creatively known as Bi-polar. I'm divorced because my marriage began to take on the blues, and rock and roll just like that of my parents. It doesn't hurt anymore. Blessed with two beautiful adult single children. I continue to write the dance of life. By: Rosslyn F. Marks.