There are days when I feel as though
I may actually be okay.
It’ll be a good day where I am not
weighed down by anything in my brain.
I can function on a level that almost
But those days don’t last.
And they are not more then half my days.
Most days I spend in this state of mundane,
But on my dark days.
On the days when the sky has no light.
And my mind is as turbulent as the sea in a tsunami.
Those days tend to take up my months.
And I spend most days,
Trying not to drown.
But those good days.
God do those good days taste wonderful.
After months of tasting ash and debris in my mouth.
Those good days taste like sunshine.
And the ground beneath
My feet vanishes.
The air in my lungs
Evaporates within me.
The blood in my veins
Exsanguinates through my pores.
And my mind shrivels and expands
Like the core ready to explode.
And I’m dying.
5 things I can see:
The walls are closing in.
4 things I can touch:
The walls swirl in my vision
3 things I can hear:
The birds outside
The sound of my feet bouncing off the floor.
The walls move in and out of my vision.
2 things I can smell
The cut grass.
The sweat on my skin
1 thing I can taste:
The salt on my lips.
And then the walls vanish.
You will never truly die
Because a writer loved you
With such an immense force.
Every sunset is about you.
Every sunrise is too.
Every morning begins with you.
And every night ends there too.
Such a love will never die.
It only changes and molds.
To something we like to call grief.
Being so tired you can't get up.
You can't drag yourself out of bed.
Being so wound up you can't sleep.
You can't sit still without feeling like
Your skin will crawl off.
It's a weird feeling having both at once.
Like you can't move,
But under your skin in vibrating.
There is this innocence we have as children.
This fundamental right
to believe in a world where anything is possible.
That our daddy's can scare away any boogeyman,
Hiding under our beds or in our closets.
That the world is full of possibilities,
and there is endless time
covered in romantic notions.
But as adults we are no longer fundamentally innocent.
We are patchworks.
Taped in some spots that come lose all the time.
And sewn together in other spots,
That don't come undone all so often.
But we are broken and glued back together,
more often then even we are willing to admit to ourselves.
We harbor resentment and bias,
creating our own worlds in which the boogeyman
and not a soul can save us from him.
The part of us that was so eager,
The part of us that believed in a world of endless possibility
Withers and rots.
Leaving just the acidic taste of lack luster life.
Endless, monotonous daily tasks.
Craving the days when the world didn't feel like
The inside of stove with the pilot burning but out.
We are no longer the innocent.
We are the patchwork creation of a life,
That hasn't always been forgiving.
We are what our children think can save them from anything.
We are the boogeyman killer
The demon vanquisher.
Patchwork and all we may not be innocent,
But we are strong.
It is like running a 2 year long marathon
In all types of weather.
To see the finish line coming up
And when you get there
For a moment there isn't anyone there.
The streets are bare.
It is dead silent.
And all the anticipation
No one is there to even see you finish.
But then the fog clears
And you realize there are people here.
They were just hidden behind
The fog I can now say was grief.
Hitting the finish line
Without him here.
Was like reaching the end
And for a moment
I had to take the time to sit
With no one there
The silence his space that's now empty
The penance for his absence.
Slowly that grief lifts
And I am reminded of everyone else,
Who is here today.
Vibrate as if my
Muscles have been turned into
A 5 foot 3 ***** on extreme.
And my mind is thrown
Back and forth inside my skull.
What do I do
If I failed?
What do I do
If everything I have ever wanted
Slips between my fingers like