Awake

I don’t want to close my eyes and fall asleep tonight.

Nightmares come; I spend those hours prepared for fight or flight.

I can’t wake or take control, a victim through and through.

Fear and I match step in our horrendous pas de deux.

As I lay there, poised to dream, I try to focus thoughts.

I think of people I adore, and happy, pleasant plots.

Lately, it won’t work. I dream of danger, always scared,

fighting off some beast with which I’m violently ensnared.

It takes so damned long to shake the feelings nightmares leave.

Knowing they’re not real has always failed to bring reprieve.

So I stay up far too late, avoiding what I need.

Sleep comes with a price which I won’t easily concede.

Then I spend my days much more exhausted than I should,

straining my poor sanity and all that it’s withstood.

I perpetuate the cycle I’d most like to break.

And since it’s all the same, I think, tonight, I’ll stay awake.

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Illegitimi Non Carborundum

 Don’t ever let the bastards get you down.

Don’t give them what they want and take the fall.

Brush off your fear and turn yourself around.

Make sure they all can see you standing tall.

You’re so much better than their lies and hate,

far stronger than their arrogance and greed,

no side show in the circus they create …

there’s nothing state-of-mind can’t supersede.

To live well is the fiercest counterblow.

Deprive them of their precious schadenfreude.

Take charge and redefine the status quo,

and never let them know you’ve been annoyed.

It’s easier to be said than be done.

I promise, if you do it, though, you’ve won.

Don’t Ask

Don’t ask me how it’s going, for the truth is that it’s gone,

 a wholly unspectacular, prosaic denouement.

Don’t ask me how I’m doing. It’s a question that I dread.

I hate admitting how long I have lingered here, in bed.

Don’t ask me how I’m feeling, ’cause the answer is the same.

You’ll think I protest too much and dismiss what I declaim.

Don’t ask me how my day’s been so I won’t feel I should lie.

No man should have to fill his head with all that I decry.

Don’t ask me if I’m better. I so want to have good news.

Lacking it, my side of things, I heartily recuse.

Don’t ask me if it’s you who’s added pain to my distress.

If I have made you feel that way, I promise to redress.

Don’t ask me anything at all. Just hold me extra tight.

Being held by you is all that makes my life alright.

The Verdict

I can’t say I’m surprised to get the news.

It falls in line with my unchosen course,

arriving just in time to disabuse

me of the hope that fate is not the source.

I pray that nothing changes for the worse

before I’ve time to take stock of my debts,

to pick out my own coffin and a hearse,

adorned with golden filigree vignettes.

Though … six good men can’t heft it, I’m afraid.

Regret and sorrow overload the joints,

disfiguring my final promenade

with spectacle that never disappoints.

A blaze of glory seems the better end,

the course of action I, myself, intend.

King For A Day

He’s the quiet kid who sits in the corner.

He’s the last one picked for the team.

No matter where he is, he’s the foreigner.

 He’s the King of Low Self-Esteem.

His single mom would be his only mourner,

and would pay dearly for his scheme.

Nothing he had said could possibly warn her,

his words not sounding too extreme.

Though she did her best, everyone will scorn her,

and honor, she’ll never redeem.

Still, she is most grateful he was born of her,

despite the fatal blasts and screams.

 

burden

the albatross approaches

it’s far past time to run

a burdened life encroaches

the worst has just begun

caught up in sickly deluge

and straining hard to breathe

no sweet relief or refuge

the sword you cannot sheathe

your best commitment sagging

resentment breeding hate

you find forgiveness lagging

no patience to abate

you want to see improvement

the journey long and hard

no vow of upward movement

both parties spent and scarred

your lover’s reprobation

upon your heart is seared

abhorrent confirmation

as bad as you had feared

there is no good solution

except for you to die

at last the devolution

his money couldn’t buy

 

Puppet Master

You pull the strings and watch the puppets dance.

You bend them to your will with loving threats.

You tell them lies to put them in a trance.

You keep them busy turning pirouettes.

You build yourself a pedestal on high,

your puppet beasts remaining down below.

From far above the stage they occupy,

you plan their coerced warfare blow by blow.

You promise they will change from wood to boys,

but only if they grant your crazy whims.

You treat them like abandoned, dusty toys,

yet dictate every movement of their limbs.

You wait to hear the crowd is most impressed,

bedazzled by the spectacle they’ve made.

The problems you’ve ignored have been addressed,

your puppets filling orders that you’ve bade.

But someday they will learn the awful truth,

that they were boys before you made them wood,

that innocence was stolen from their youth,

becoming soldiers long before they should.

Solace

How long have I been tensing both my shoulders to my ears,

taking my frustration out on everyone around?

It seems like it’s been going on for six or seven years.

Now the solace lost so long has once again been found.

 Breathing comes so easily, beloved peace at last,

never looking back behind me; I know this is real.

Now I’m certain struggles fought remain far in the past,

giving my existence an enlightened, weightless feel.

Incubus

First slumber imparts disingenuous peace

as day fades away and I’m plunged into night.

Trance beckons a torrent of fright to release.

Sleep’s righteous new guardsmen invoke fight or flight.

My heartbeats make dents in attempts to break free;

their echoes clank like jagged rocks in tin cans.

Control leaks from pores, my legs deaf to my plea.

I waste too much time as foes execute plans.

‘They’ all want me dead and I’ve nowhere to go.

I’m scaling high fences and crawling in mud,

gauche ducking and rolling as daggers ‘they’ throw,

blades piercing my flesh and discharging its blood.

All safe houses dangerous, floors turn to dust,

air jilting my feet as they scramble to grip.

Huge flakes of sunned freckles chip off like old rust.

I bolt for the door, but on dead skin, I trip.

Disguise my last hope, I spot wigs and a cap,

their blackness such contrast that soon I can hide.

Once on, they turn orange, their betrayal a slap.

They flaunt my location. Concealment denied.

Half-conscious, I’m twisting, adjusting my sheets,

one slice of me screaming ‘wake up or you’ll die,’

unable to rouse till the horror completes,

my will to resist ‘them’ in dwindling supply.

I prostrate myself, left no haven or choice,

submitting to torture and pain that results.

I howl at the dawn with what’s left of my voice,

reflecting back onto my soul those insults.

Awakening sweaty, I punch at my bed

and toss pillows high to unearth stowaways,

reluctantly grasping: they’re trapped in my head

alongside fixed squatters I scorn nowadays.

heartache

growing up, I thought the word heartache was just a metaphor

but now I know that it’s literal and not figurative

it’s not a simile “like my heart’s being smashed on the floor”

real pain burning my chest, not its descriptive derivative

hot, enervating, radiating ache which will not subside

it’s all focused where my heart is physically located

not imagery in this poem, that’s how it feels inside

heartache’s an apt description that should not be underrated

pet peeve: people using “literally” when they don’t mean it

so I want to be clear that that’s not what I am doing now

this heartache feels like it might literally kill lest it quit

everyday it’s harder to say that’s something I won’t allow

 

 

 

 

Bury The Hatchet

We never will agree on the events that once took place.

By now, all we can do is start again and work from here.

Let’s both quit acting like we’re in a nuclear weapons race,

each purposely provoking, every action more severe.

There’s not a one of us who hasn’t someone else to blame,

pretending like our own mistakes are pure and innocent,

when really, in the end, our motivations were the same,

for none can claim so righteously he’s only good intent.

Let’s bury deep the hatchet and then move on with our lives.

We’ll share only the joyous and hold back our tongues in rage,

for when we look beyond, we see resilient love survives;

it still remains accessible, and pays the ideal wage.

Homewrecker

There once was a mother with hate,

who threw in the garbage the meal on her plate.

There once was a mother who left,

her children in agony, lost and bereft.

There once was a mother who cried,

“Take care of my children as though I have died.”

There once was a mother who moved,

her gross inattentiveness all that she proved.

There once was a mother who judged,

her perfect mascara remaining unsmudged.

There once was a mother turned green,

who couldn’t sustain consequences unseen.

There once was a mother afraid,

unable to live with the choices she made.

There once was a mother absorbed,

expecting to claim what she’d passed and ignored.

There once was a mother who foiled,

inciting a riot amongst those embroiled.

There once was a mother obsessed,

herself the one reason she raided my nest.

There once was a mother with guilt,

so viciously jealous, she smashed what I built.

 

 

 

The Road To Hell

The timid grey chinchilla has intent to cross the street,

considering his options far too carefully to move.

His true love stands beyond, yet he won’t animate his feet,

the pressure ever-swelling, adding something else to prove.

At last, when he is ready, traffic’s blossomed in the road.

It’s surging to and fro’ in a vertiginous display.

Anticipation mounts until he’s ready to explode,

his cowardice proliferating, much to his dismay.

His true love waits with bated breath, admiring from afar,

encouraging her quarry to come claim the prize he wants.

The Doppler promulgates the trail of every passing car,

his reticence interpreted as targeted affronts.

All day he sits and ruminates, comparing pros and cons.

He’s hoping she may come to him if he won’t go to her.

He looks up just in time to see her disaffected yawns,

his true love now retreating in a swift, indifferent blur.

Adolescents

So, you want to be treated like adults?

Then you’d better start acting that way.

When I ask you just what you were thinking,

you have nothing (that’s lucid) to say.

“Can’t remember” because you’re “too tired?”

Then you’d better start getting some sleep,

’cause you’re going to need to think clearly ALL day

if this freedom is something you’ll keep!!!

“I forgot.” “I don’t know.” “I don’t get it.”

Well, then clearly, you’re not an adult.

Jamming your head so far up your own ass

is what yields, once again, this result.

Fool me just two times, and it’s shame on You.

But fool me three times, shame on Me.

Revoking your privileges only makes sense.

Ask again in a year and we’ll see.

 

 

 

 

adrenaline

heart racing

eyes red

throbbing center

throbbing head

toes curling

feet flexed

tension now

tension next

fists forming

blood boils

crippling fight

crippling toils

living raw

love burned

nothing gained

nothing learned

Awakening

I’d like to say there’s anything I’d do,

no length to which I wouldn’t ever go,

no epic tale of woe I’d not go through,

no gesture graced with love that I’d not show.

I’ll rescue you from structures pitched with flames,

I’ll carry you at times when you can’t walk,

defend you when you when your foe unjustly blames,

and listen to you when you need to talk.

But I will not stand idly by and watch,

nor keep inside my words which bear the truth.

You’ve kicked your self-destruction up a notch;

no longer is this folly of your youth.

I’d die for you … that’s all I have to give.

But one thing I can’t do for you is live.

possession

losing grip like an icicle melting in the sun

crashing down, striking man rather than hitting the ground

a surprise, the ancient asteroid, crack of a gun

splitting flesh, tearing what did not belong to him down

 havoc wreaked, spoiling ruins strewn about, a shipwreck

waning yelp, the lion mangled his voice with that roar

turning red, the scarf blazed an autograph on the neck

termination. absence of fodder for an encore

Mean Mister Blues

rhymaphilia

Mean Mister Blues pitched a tent in my shoes

last night as I did sleep.

Now in my womb, he made it my tomb.

He came for emotions to reap.

I’d try to fight to keep light in my life

but that result wouldn’t come cheap.

The windows unlocked, I just couldn’t act shocked,

and over the sills poison seeped.

I would scream out but that’d give him no doubt

and he’d find me before I could go.

Gnashing my teeth with such pain underneath,

that could only set Blues’ heart aglow.

If I lie still and give up my free will,

the tortures I might undergo

would leave me a shell while my pain is excelled

until agony’s all that I know.

Trapped in my mind with so much undefined…

it’s my happiness I will forsake.

I let him come and consume till I’m numb,

stoking his fires with…

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Acid Rain

The tension flows freely and fills up the room,

condensing like dark clouds that bully the sky,

with clustering pustules that fester and bloom …

those unanswered questions about how and why.

Expanding balloons grow enormous and pop,

broadcasting a mist over all in their wake,

refusing to wilt, as their poison, they drop,

corroding facades, and exposing the fake.

Acidic remarks lash harsh stripes on the wall …

transmogrify love into caustic defeat.

They crush good intentions to dust where they fall,

ensuring destruction is swift and complete.

Stripes become solids, their coverage increasing.

Resentments pile high, exponential in growth.

Permanent statements– they live without ceasing–

obliterate all that was precious to both.

Unearthed

I constantly discover whom I am,

each new experience, a catalyst,

a psychoanalytic self-exam …

an invitation I just can’t resist.

 I learned, one year, that both my thumbs are green,

that horseradish and mustard stole my heart,

that I’d maintain an exercise regime,

that really, it is not too late to start.

But other things, I didn’t want to know,

like how harsh I can be when it gets tough,

that things I’d hoped were always, I’d outgrow,

that sometimes, words would never be enough.

 It’s tempting, to avoid perceiving more,

to skulk back in my cave and latch the door.

Spontaneous Combustion

Without a warning, I can feel my heart explode in flames.

The tendrils curl and lap, consuming all its bitter juice,

incinerating ancient scars incised by lovers’ games,

extinguishing emotions that were never any use.

As lipids, dense, and rife with fuel, will burn and smoke so long,

my heart continues smoldering each day and every night.

But if enduring heat like this will make me brave and strong,

I’ll stem this conflagration raging on, no end in sight.

Deus Ex Machina

greek-theatre-276382_640

You don’t have to do this alone.

I’m here for you. I’ll be your crutch.

  I know you’d get by on your own.

I just want to help you so much.

No, I cannot say how you feel.

I know that I’ve never been there.

But I know my love for you’s real.

So please keep in mind that I care.

Grown men are allowed to cry, too.

It doesn’t mean that you are weak.

Just say what you want me to do.

I’ll be the warm comfort you seek.

I’m here in this difficult time.

 I’ll be like a harness for you,

I’ll give you support while you climb.

I promise that I’ll see it through.

So when you are ready, just lean.

I’ll catch you before you can fall.

I’ll be your own godsent machine

and smash through that treacherous wall.

*picture courtesy of flamenco on pixabay.com

Hindsight Is 20/20

couple-158859_150*

If I’d worked my abs each day, I’d have a nice six-pack.

Instead, I tend to go ahead and fix myself a snack.

If I’d planted bulbs last fall, some flowers would have grown.

I waited far too long and now my chance for bulbs is blown.

If I’d planned my budget better, I would have those boots.

I just can’t seem to get my life and money in cahoots.

If I’d bothered setting up my cell phone warranty,

they’d replace my broken one entirely for free.

If I’d written down the passwords for all my accounts,

I would never write a check the bank would have to bounce.

If I got my head pulled out from so far up my ass,

I’d have stopped before we left and filled the car with gas.

If I’d checked my email I’d have seen the one from you.

I’d have read what you so kindly told me I should do.

It’s my own damned fault, which I wholeheartedly avow.

I plan to get my act together, if fate will allow.

I will make concerted efforts so I can improve.

I’ll try doing things of which I know you will approve.

Can I have some points for standing up and being brave?

 I’ve recently acknowledged your approval’s what I crave.

*picture courtesy of OpenClips on pixabay.com

Unicorn

horse-194999_150*

Growing up, I had the finest mother that could be.

She was full of love and gave the best of life to me.

She told me that she never lived within a happy world.

She said she’d been depressed since she was just a little girl.

I have a sister, one, and she is older than I am.

When we were still just kids, she’d scream and hit me. Wham! Bam! Bam!

All these long years later we discovered that she’s sick.

She’s bi-polar, and in finding anger, she is quick.

Then there is my father who’s a mean and nasty jerk.

Always getting fired, he could never keep his work.

After he got violent, Mom would finally get away.

When I have to see him now, I don’t know what to say.

My first love was jaded ’cause he’d been abused at home.

Neglected and mistreated, he’d been often left alone.

Try, though, as he did, a healthy viewpoint was not found,

even though I did my best to keep him smile-bound.

Two long years I dated, then, a man who in plain terms

was crazy ’nough to make the most outrageous nutball squirm.

I almost didn’t notice ’cause I guess that’s what I knew.

Admittedly…my outlook, from inception, was askew.

So it’s no surprise that, first, I married a young man

who battled with depression and a short attention span.

I wished I could be enough to make him happy. But…

I couldn’t and eventually, we both just gave up.

Then one day, a man appeared…a man who’d change it all.

Immediately, to his arms, I’d run and swoon and fall.

A well-adjusted unicorn pranced up to my plateau!!!

I had always wondered what it’d be like. Now I know.

How nice it is to have someone who’s not depressed, instead!

We fell hard, and soon the two of us were newlywed.

Afraid that I will spook him, I approach him with due care.

To take my past out on him is a move that isn’t fair.

I try to keep it reigned in so he’ll stay right here with me.

He says he’ll tough it out if I should lose my sanity.

I don’t want to lose it. But I know that if I did,

I would not be garbage of which he’d want to get rid.

But despite assurances, I still get scared sometimes.

So I write my fears out using goofy, verbose rhymes.

Thanks go to my unicorn, for saving me, once more.

He’s proven life exists outside depression’s haunting lore.

*photo courtesy of jes872148 on pixabay.com

Relics of the Past

deadman-ranch-283352_150*

It’s something that I’ve read about but never had been there.

You could say that I was academically aware.

But living with depression’s where I put my focus now.

I’ve been told to “let it go.” I go about that…how?

The demons that I’m fighting have existed for a while.

Somehow, though, in spite of them, I know I used to smile.

How was there a change and now I can’t control my face?

Two blank eyes and deep-cut lines have shown up in its place.

It won’t matter if the doctor has me take a pill,

one for which I know that I’ll receive a timely bill.

All my problems will remain, my relics of the past.

If I find reprieve, it’s fleeting. I know it won’t last.

That thought cancels any progress, so I hide and cry.

When I’m asked if I’m okay, I feel like I should lie.

No one wants to hear the answer that is really true.

They look like deer in headlights who don’t know what they should do.

So to make it easy on them, I just say, ‘I’m fine.’

Probably that night, I have a glass or three of wine.

Transitory fixes are the only thing I’ve got.

Increasingly, I find that’s an excuse I use a lot.

*photo courtesy of werner22brigitte on pixabay.com

Déjà Vu

I wish I could stop thinking of the things I should have said.

But now it’s all I do; I keep reliving in my head.

Why is it that when I’m gone, I figure it all out?

I know so clearly what I should have said, without a doubt.

Even if I sit and plan the things I want to say,

when I’m in the moment, my words don’t come out that way.

Trying it a second time is never quite the same.

It loses any impact, like a slowly dying flame.

I tell myself that next time I will get my words out right.

And someday when I do it, it should bring me great delight.

Since I never have, though, hand-me-downs are all I’ve got,

sifting through, again, how come my words betrayed my thoughts.

Top of My List

I’ll kick your ass and take your name, so get out of my way.
You did your best to make sure things would end like this today.
Now you’ll point out all the ways I’m such a horrid bitch.
So go ahead and say it. Go ahead and scratch that itch.
Then when it is my turn, interrupt me. Cut me off.
When I try to make things better, roll your eyes and scoff.
As I’m talking, flap that puppet hand behind your back.
Then double-check your safety gear. Prepare for my attack.
I’ve had it up to here and I won’t take it anymore.
Check the lawn and get your stuff. I’ve thrown it out the door.
Don’t come back at any time. I’ll see you next in hell.
If you do, I’ll punch you. You can tell your friends you “fell.”
If I hear you’ve gone about besmirching my good name,
I promise you you’ll learn the definition of defame.
I promise when I’m done you will feel nothing but regret,
’cause I’ll unleash a shitstorm that you never will forget.
Congratulations! On my list, you’re now the first in line.
Crossing your name off will be a pleasure most sublime.
You won’t like what you’ll endure to make it off my list.
Watching how you suffer’s something on which I’ll insist.
Next time, that is if you find another when we’re through,
I might send a manual to show her what to do.
You can thank me later, for it’s not been written yet.
You won’t know when it will be, so just sit there and sweat.
It might happen late one night when you expect it least.
Once your amber beauty, I’m a vigilante beast.
No, this vicious side of me was not here all along.
If you think it was, you really couldn’t be more wrong.
I have never known an anger quite like this before.
Go invest in heavy guns, ’cause baby, this is war.

Return to Me

girl-107163_640*

Caustic tears burn my cheeks.

My nose is raw again.

Headache’s been here past nine weeks.

Seclusion’s now my friend.

See the tissues piled high

in fluffy, white cascades…

growing taller while I cry

as misery pervades.

Oversleeping keeps me numb.

It’s off to bed I go.

Don’t know this person I’ve become,

nor do I wish to know.

She’s so dark, it’s not like me…

at least, it hadn’t been.

In mirrors now, she’s whom I see,

my melancholy twin.

Want to smash the looking glass

so she will go away.

Till I do, the months go past

and seasons must give way.

Too long I’ve been crying now.

I wish that I were free!

Make the sad one take a bow,

and just return to Me.

*photo courtesy of geralt on pixabay.com

Old Cup of Tea

black-32044_150

Steeped in regret, I’ve become bitter like an old cup of tea.

Wait…don’t forget, I’ve been keeping it all under my hat.

Don’t hate me yet; I’ve needed a way to break myself free.

It’s not a threat. I’ve always known where I’ve gone, where I’m at.

Cracked is my  heart. I’ve crumpled up in a heap on the floor.

Nowhere to start…I’ve got to go to the end to begin.

Doing my part, I’ve tried not to burden you anymore.

Tear me apart. I’ve let it go and just won’t try to win.

Leave me alone. I’ve needed desperately to be at one with my thoughts.

Can’t I go home? I’ve wanted so badly to get to make it back there.

My chance is blown. I’ve ached for time to unravel these festering knots.

I should have known; I’ve long believed that nothing in this life is fair.

Where can I go? I’ve only ever known one path to follow.

I only know I’ve lost the chance to be whom I want.

Why is it so? I’ve worked all my life but my deeds all ring hollow.

Nothing to show, I’ve pushed only emptiness up to the front.

Well on my way…I’ve never been able to stop time from coming.

Later today, I’ve got some documents to check.

Once I’m away, I’ve moved on to something more numbing.

My edges fray. I’ve got to watch out for my tender neck.

photo courtesy of Nemo on pixabay.com

Mean Mister Blues

Mean Mister Blues pitched a tent in my shoes

last night as I did sleep.

Now in my womb, he made it my tomb.

He came for emotions to reap.

I’d try to fight to keep light in my life

but that result wouldn’t come cheap.

The windows unlocked, I just couldn’t act shocked,

and over the sills poison seeped.

I would scream out but that’d give him no doubt

and he’d find me before I could go.

Gnashing my teeth with such pain underneath,

that could only set Blues’ heart aglow.

If I lie still and give up my free will,

the tortures I might undergo

would leave me a shell while my pain is excelled

until agony’s all that I know.

Trapped in my mind with so much undefined…

it’s my happiness I will forsake.

I let him come and consume till I’m numb,

stoking his fires with ache.

Stuck on the floor, I don’t reach for the door.

I give the resolve he will take.

Now left destroyed, it’s the light I avoid,

for all promises weaken and break.

The Crack

i see a light through a crack ’neath the door

it scares me to think where it leads

i’d rather stay here and keep to myself

tending my heart while it bleeds

watching and waiting, I don’t make my move

i don’t think this is the time

i should prepare myself for what may come

purge my emotional grime

maybe what stands on the threshold beyond

isn’t too much to endure

but if I start in, and want to come back

my ignorance is no longer pure

better to sit here and just bide my time

tomorrow the crack will be there

it’s just the light that might soon disappear

and by then my heart can’t repair

if the light’s gone, is there really a crack

a way to break through the deceit

just as I’m nearing the answer each time

my heart beats a hasty retreat

Dark Thoughts

Dark thoughts…dark thoughts, all my own.

Dawn breaks through: a new day. Moan.

Still the thoughts are gray and black,

like barnacles upon my back.

They slow me down; I’d like to swim.

But there’s no light…the moon’s so dim.

I retreat and hope to sleep,

and soon the dawn again does creep.

All progress made the day before

has disappeared right out the door.

I start again and try to move,

try to learn to find a groove.

Mostly I just feel alone,

despite my site, and friends, and phone.

Endless Day

I cannot write my feelings down.

I cannot have them ever found.

I can’t explain how they evolved.

Nor how the problem will be solved.

All I know is I’m in pain.

I’m trying hard to stay this sane.

I want the hurt to go away.

I want to choose another day.

It seems I relive just this one.

An endless day with no warm sun.

i don’t know what’s wrong

depression-72318_640

sometimes i don’t know what’s wrong

i only know it is

for peaceful slumber do i long

for peaceful, never ’tis

once on paper i can see

i have no reason true

why does sadness follow me

and leave me here so blue

write it out compare it all

the goods outweigh the bads

from at the top my mood does fall

and i just feel so sad

medication seems to work

for several folks i know

i get impatient i’m a jerk

i fear all think it so

no excuses left to tell

i have to steel myself

i pretend i’m feeling well

put sadness on the shelf

but no matter how i try

i know it’s always there

wish that i could say goodbye

and never have a care

photo courtesy of PublicDomainPictures on pixabay.com

reaching

whatever I am reaching for will simply not be caught

no real name for that one thing it seems I’ve always sought

would that I could draw a picture, make it something real

make it something tangible that my cold hands can feel

yet they sit here empty with a keyboard underneath

perhaps I’ll never have a thing to hold, pass on, bequeath

it doesn’t stop the longing though, my hands still in the air

grasping at the nothingness I know is always there

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