I’m in search of a come-home-to type love,
a partnership of life,
a hopes and dreams type love,
a forgiving and honest love.
One that bends and shapes itself
for the times.
One that laughs and cries
and worries and doubts
but does not waver,
a committed, steadfast,
and dedicated love.
One that builds a home
and encourages in times of apprehension,
supports in times of strength,
and comforts in times of hardship.
The love I search for is neither static
nor simple,
but instead is dynamic
and fluid,
a real, true,
and honest
type love.

Transfixed in solitude
and consequently bound by
the deepest parts of my shadow,
I've found that the poison I've known
is the poison I seek
and to lay it down
is a sacrifice I have to make.

Days pass and the craving grows.

My choice is either to fall into stupor,
into my blackness inside,
and have my life end by my own hand,
or
nurse my spirit
with shadow fully conscious
without spirits.

In this, moderation will not do.

It's only in refusing the drink
that I have a chance,
a hope,
a sliver of possibility
of showing myself some respect
and saving my own wretched life.

Returning to 16 hour days,
breaks few and far between,
no time to think or to ponder
but just to do,
a slave to my own will,
a puppet to my own dreams,
I am but a vessel for creation

I don’t know the weight of your words,
with what truth they carry,
but I assume the best
and that you have tied them up,
written them in fading ink
on homemade parchment,
considered them well,
etched them on the closed door.
I reach for the ****,
intending to see if it’s locked
but cease my motion.
I don’t know your intent,
didn’t know it then,
so chances are I never will.
Maybe you don’t either,
but, in this, maybe is a fracture
across time and
a life I wish to keep whole.
Closure is a blessing
when done with right intent,
but I don’t know you,
so I’ll take it at face value,
assume it is true and good,
and leave doors locked from within
alone.