The crushing,
The Crippling pain,
I can see the path I need but the bars ahead of me just say no.

I step,
I talk,
I scream and walk through this torrid wood,
Made of one part memory,
And one part of fear.

The glear* in my heart hacks away,
Chopping not at the trees,
But at the writer here,

The endless edge of the forest,
Perpetually out of reach.

Breathe.
Close my eyes.
Walk blind.

When I look,


Am I there?

~Robert van Lingen

Lights sputter,
Ringing in your ears,
Held tight in hope's embrace.

Tears pour,
Muffled screaming,
Everything you knew is gone.

Ground is shaking,
Dust in your fingernails,
Blood on your arms,
Curled up, you pray this isn't real.

A bright flash.
Silence.
Nothing.

What happened?

~Robert van Lingen

------------
A poetic prologue to One Year,
a short novel by Robert van Lingen

At a glance,
The Circumstance advances the feeling.
I take my stance,
With yet a glance in the other direction,

Enhanced by my retrospect,
With respect to the other.

I sit quietly in my introversion.
All while I build my newer version,
Averted to the adversions of the life I quietly observe.

Here I am.

~Robert van Lingen

The hidden love,
For the friend who is always there.

Through every step,
Through long times and hardship,
No matter how long since we speak,
It's like we met just yesterday,

Through many friendships,
Come and go,
There is something different about you,

I hope my patience will last,
Because you just may be the last.

~Robert van Lingen

"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.

You cannot tell her she's beautiful,
You cannot tell her you love her,
You cannot tell her she's your world
When she's at her best moments.

You may only tell her those things,
If you're ready for her to have those off days,
If you're ready for her to not always wear makeup,
If you're ready to deal with her mood swings,
If you're ready for her to be clingey some days and distant others,

You cannot tell her any of the pretty little comments,
Unless you can handle her
Alone at two A.M.
As she's struggling with life,
And wondering why

She is not enough to win her own internal battles