How many times do I have to regress
and regret all the times
I've faltered?
Should I relive and revive all
my sins and wrongs,
create and shape my own private hell?
Is it not what I deserve?
To bury the past in shallow graves
so the rain may reveal
the skeletons of my loves past
yet never gone -
what of the dirt on my hands?
Is it not plain to see the time
I've spent digging holes within?
How long do I continue digging -
until the soil beneath my nails
turns to blood in clenched fist?
Can I keep looking to the past
to reveal the ways of my future,
or is it in this present moment I am
to seek and see answers?
What words should I etch on tombstone
to harken what it is I cannot say?
To what spirits and lords above
and gods below should I
shovel so many final resting places,
and to which of these I've dug
is mine own grave?

Face your fears
or have them face down you.
How can you not even face me?
You run like a child,
do not.
Instead of fight
you take flight
and reveal truer colors yet unseen.
There must be a lesson for me here as well -
in what ways have I been running?
In what ways have I failed
to be truthful
in action and in words?
A question presented
and an answer revealed.
I did not flinch,
I did not waver
in the revelation of your feelings
truthfully shown,
but I have been cut deeply
and taken to my knees
in these darkening hours
to ask God
why?

"I'd tell you everything if you'd pick up that telephone."

I've spoken many words to you
into the empty air.
I know I've said that before,
but my one track mind has our
song on repeat,
and I cannot forget
the connections we made.

I would show up at your doorstep
with wildflowers of purple and orange
if I knew you stayed there.

Some days I still expect to hear from you,
forgive me,
and love me like we never stopped -
we didn't.

That's not something you forget.

I would write letters to you,
confess my sins of then,
now, and more,
poor taste or not.

I've lied to lovers recently and since,
some of those lies
lies to myself,
but lies nonetheless,
that I had moved past you,
but how can I?

How?

You left me lost
lonely
longing
loving
insecure
incomplete

How did we go from
lovers
to being (in)complete
strangers?

If you cannot even think of death,
how do you expect to ever face it?
What roads do you walk down
with face cast down
as stones you dare not throw?
--I am no different-- [strike-through]
I remain tempted to say
I am no different,
a common pattern in my thoughts,
but, in this,
I certainly am.
I am not scared
(anymore)
to hurt another,
monster such as that I may be,
are you?
And what unnecessary hardship do you cause
in your ******* excuse for
compassion?
You did not let me off easy.
You hooked and gutted me like a fish
unworthy of a reason why.
But, unlike you,
I am unafraid of being hurt.
Maybe we were too different
after all.

What do I desire?
A fundamental question.
Like asking what must
I be a slave to?
Music and the live crowd?
Finances and independence?
Knowledge and the books?
Words and the ink?
With many passions,
it is hard to choose.
And I must ask myself,
do I have to settle?
Why can I not have it all?

I will push and pull
for reasons undisclosed.
Could you still love me?
I am fragmented
and torn across time.
Can you see it yet?
I know it doesn't show
in the beginning,
and I always think
this time
I will overcome it.

Obsessive.
Obsessive.
Passive.
Obsessive.
Obsessed.

I obliterate these thoughts,
leaving them like torn leaves
flailing in the wind,
and some source,
undoubtedly of the past,
always replants these seeds of doubt,
their roots not yet destroyed.

It's in my pathology.
These neural pathways have
grown stronger and stronger
despite my effots
to dig them up with words,
poison them with reflection,
and hack them with an ax of will.

Still

it's not enough.

And in these troubled times,
I seem to find that my love is no longer yours,
and yours is no longer mine.
And I stopped writing.
I'm no longer inspired,
by our love or my darkness,
I'm just sick and tired,
of running in circles,
no more can you hurt me.
And if we're both so scared of being loved,
why did we dare?
Flown too high,
sunk too low.
If goodbye is a must,
then what is to show?
But a love that shouldn't have been lost,
that is.
And a heart that screams don't be soft, no matter the cost,
but is.
Again and again,
I give and I give.
For it is in my nature
to live and let live.
It is in my nature
to heed and take heed,
to bleed and to bleed,
'til there's nothing left of me.
I hurt and I hurt,
until I give birth
to a devil that says
you'll pay for these wounds.
Trust me, trust me,
you'll pay for it soon.
So we plant the seed,
and soon it shall bloom,
and you shall read,
that a love once cherished
and a love that has been proven
to pass any test, any obstacle, it's shown,
is now a love withered and worn,
a love now gone.

If only there was someone
with which to share this.

The writing challenge is to pick up the book nearest you, turn to page 68, and use sentence 11 in a poem.

Stephen King, The Drawing of the Three

You're not hearing voices that aren't there, the voice inside his head returned.



You're not hearing voices
that aren't there.
The voice in his head returned.
As it always did.
Tell me,
tell me what it is
you want to know.
He wrested with it
but submitted
as he always had.
I'll tell you everything,
how I surround you,
how I'm inside of you...
ARE YOU LISTENING?
He was, he was,
please let me go, please
let me
go
he pleaded
please
as he always did.
Don't you want to know?
These pieces inside you,
you know to what I'm referring,
don't you?
I see it all.
He did. He knew.
He always had.

Eyes, mind, and thoughts are weary,
laden with heavy dreams.
Family, friends, love, dog,
work, school, health, spirituality,
roommates, mortgage, Mom's failing health,
family passed, dreams, aspirations,
for me, for my family,
my future family,
mental health, staving off depression,
alcoholism, old and worn habits.
I'm tired, and it's all I can do
to keep my head up.
But I'll press on.

Confront your uncomfortable truths.
It is your duty.
It is our duty, as humans,
for being uncomfortable is what
leads to
growth.

Forcing against the rock of
our own ego,
we must search for the light above,
reach for it,
and burst forth, shattering ourselves
and our perceptions of reality,
but, most importantly,
the perception of ourself.

Many times have I forced myself
to see myself, my thoughts,
for what they were,
and many times more I shall.
I have been crushed by myself,
fueled by self-hatred,
driven in ways that I thought
came from hate,
only now to realize the growth
of oneself by constant destruction
is not an act itself of destruction,
but an act of love.

And many times henceforth
I will be driven by the same feelings
of futility and impotence,
the same self-hatred as before.
I do not fool myself
into thinking that I am free from myself,
but at least
I am free.

And in confronting the truth,
so shall you too be.

I need a
loving touch.
I need someone
to care.

You were right
I was different, weird, odd
I grew up poor
My home was broken
As I’m sure yours was too
My first car didn’t come til I was 18 and in college
Paid for by a Pell grant
Alcohol drugs and violence in the home
No father to be seen
A drunk and abusive and mentally ill step dad
Clothes that smelled of cat ****
A working mom stretched too thin but loving all the same
Loved ones lost and mourned

I imagine we had more in common than we realized

I know in some ways you were trying to keep me down
But in some ways you knew that you could never
In the ways that dumb kids can know things without knowing how or why they know them and unable to articulate their truth
I was never meant to stay
You were never going to drag me down
Hard as you might try
Names, hurtful and crushing
Violence when no one saw
Hiding in shadows or in plain sight
Maybe that’s all you wanted was to know
That you could work your way into my mind
15 years later still
Still I search for an explanation
A ******* reason
A ******* apology
Something
Sure I made it out
I moved on
I left
But I still look back and ask
Why

Maybe we were just stupid kids
Maybe I’m the only one that still thinks about all those things

I do know one thing though


You can’t hurt me now

A squeal and a giggle,
a flutter and a swish -
the chase is on!

Dodging dandelions,
rolling clover.

A swoosh a whip,
almost!
Not quite!

Over there!
Now over here!

Keeping pace,
keeping wild,
erratic and momentous.

Landing briefly here
then on the nose,
flits away,
chasing butterflies.