Letter to the Young…

 

 

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One day, this world will break you

and when it does

you will never be ready

you will never be mended

and you will cease to believe;

in life,

love,

faith,

family,

god,

in everything,

although you may never admit it.

You will spend the rest of your days either in denial of the abyss at your center,

wearing a smile like paint poured out upon a sepulchre,

or

you will knowingly fall deeper into the squalor of existence,

embracing the black malevolence of your being,

casting light upon the cosmic joke of human consciousness,

gnashing your teeth at each new passing day,

cursing the insistence of the future,

and hoping for the sweet oblivion of pure nothingness.

But,

either way

you will never be whole,

you will never be well,

never at peace,

never at rest,

never at ease.

Selah.

 

 

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Beggar at the Gates

 

I dance with my despair
I kiss my suffering mouth to mouth
Lips wet with saliva and tears
sweat and strain

Do not let my stutter depart from me

I limp because I have wrestled
I have striven with “God” and men and have prevailed
Disjointed and crippled, I am whole

I am laughing sweetly with my anguish
Ever tasting this supple sorrow
I do not seek to numb the pain

I waltz with my sadness
never knowing who leads yet still we sway

I have made love to my wretchedness, never knowing who recedes yet here we lay

Shrouded in the darkness of a melancholy joy
May I rise, take up this bed and walk away
But, in my lameness may I remain

Smokestack

I just recently finished reading a book my therapist ‘prescribed’ to me; Healing Your Emotional SelfI won’t go into too much regarding its content here. I’m planning on writing a post regarding a few thoughts, considerations, and critiques of what I found in the text. Overall, however, I though the book was helpful and informative. As I was looking through my highlights and notes, I came across this short poem that I wrote in response to a mirror therapy exercise, an activity the book’s author is a prominent advocate of. In this particular exercise I was instructed to simply look and the mirror and describe what my face and body revealed. This is what I saw. I thought it might be good to share it. Let me know what you think.

 

I am tired,
worn,
exhausted,
weathered,
aged beyond my years,
weighed down,
hopeless.
I am a shell without occupancy,
empty,
hollow,
a fireplace without flame,
dark and foreboding,
full of nothing but soot and disuse…

Only Half my Bed is Made

 

I wonder where you are
And if you’re happier without me there
I can almost feel your laughter from the miles apart that we are
Without the weight of who I am bearing down upon you
I can sense your relief
Freed from the burden of my presence
Even in the memory of your eyes I see you’re over me and your body follows suit
Every gesture is your wave goodbye
Every touch a departure
Every kiss…the last

I lay in our bed searching for sleep
Longing to forget
Hoping to fade into an unconscious dream that is safe from the sting of knowing I am alone under these sheets
My mind refuses to pass into blackness of slumber and the unknowing of its blissful ignorance
Your absence burns a hole into an already scorched soul
My chest is caving in upon itself
Can a heart die out like a star?
Has mine already?
There is a black hole within me
It may have always been there but, it has expanded and grown darker and deeper now that you have escaped it’s pull

I convince myself that at any moment the rubbing scrape of the apartment door will sound your return
But the silence consumes me
My ears are ringing from every noise I haven’t heard you make
And I know that I will leave without seeing you
I will exit before you ever arrive
And I will depart in solitude and isolation
Even more alone than I was before in the bed we no longer share.
I hope you think of me.

Night Shift

Here’s another poem I’ve been working on. It still needs work but, let me know what you think.

 

With each new day I awake to the dawning of a brand new yesterday.

Tomorrow never arrives.

No hope on the horizon, just the eternal recurrence of all that has already been.

I am haunted by the ghost of tragedies past

 

A Centerless Mandala…

There is no quiet at my center.

There is no calm at my core. There is no peace in my being.
 I am inundated by anguish and turmoil.
Chaos permeates to the very marrow of my bones and it cannot be silenced…
In the tumult of where I am found there is no space,
no escape,
no safety,
no reprieve
There is no area that is not tainted by desperation, urgency, despair, and anxiety.
…come visit…

The Harrowing

The dust and I are daughters of destiny
I sit low
Dirty feet like souls laid bare, falling fallow on sacred ground
I breathe in the earth deeply
Like coming home
I am diving my descent

The dust and I are daughters of deficiency
I sit silent
Absent of a seed like soil tilled and turned over
Laying dormant
Staunchly empty
Purposefully preparing for the potential of the present
In rejection of a harvest for a season
I am found wanting

The dust and I are daughters of discrepancy
I sit in tension
In my lack may I be found fertile
Like a void of barren pregnancy
Ripe and teeming with the paradox of the possible
I sing with a mournful joy
Like a sorrowful serenity
The smell of Ash lingering upon the tips of my fingers
Bitter to the taste yet, sweet upon my lips

The dust and I are daughters of destiny