My soul is made of glass,
but I’m not easily shattered.
My demons are made of dust
that muddy the water within.
My cracks are made of tear ducts
that open with too much pressure.
It’s okay to leak the filth away
and cleanse the glass for clarity.
Time is a devious creature.
With every passing year
I am smothered by the legitimacy
of the idea that
the older you get,
the faster time flies;
I feel my life move at a snail’s pace.
It’s getting increasingly difficult
to remember that
does not mean
but here I am,
folding my hands anyway,
because if there is any chance
something better is on the horizon,
you better believe I want to be here
to see it,
and even further…
I want to feel it.
There is a heaviness in my shoulders
when I pull into the complex,
a seeking sense I can’t seem to shake.
I park but don’t move;
There must be something inside a note
that has some answer,
but it falls short,
just like every night that preceded this one.
I turn off the ignition to hear a silence
that screams too loudly.
I journey to the door,
and the passing of my feet across the threshold
is my emotional “off” switch.
it is out of my hands.
I’ve watched sunsets
reflecting off of lighthouses,
blazing in deserts,
and while resting on mountaintops,
Even though the view from here can’t compare…
there is nothing like watching the sunset
on a Sunday
with the evening dew beginning to wet my feet
and the buzz of nocturnal insects
singing from the trees.
The countryside has a way of slowing down time.
The crashes of each raindrop against the leaves beside me
drum a beat that silences the clatter in my head.
I close my eyes and just breathe.
The grass’s dewy aroma is the sweetest perfume
I have ever encountered,
and the absence of street sounds is deafening.
The cool draft against my skin as this swing slowly sways
back and forth…
is the guardian angel keeping me at peace.
I had forgotten what this feels like.
I spent years
learning how to
put my mental health first,
only to feel
like a selfish fool
when I need to act
on those instincts.
My house is filled with pictures
of people I never see,
keeping its aura of eerie serenity
and complacent loneliness
so perfectly crafted
that when I find the devil on my shoulder,
screaming its whispers of sweet nothings,
****** every millimeter of my eardrum,
trying to minimize me into
I almost believe him,
but the beating I feel under my sternum,
the one that keeps my eyes alert
and my cheeks pink
and my chest slowly lifting up and down...
even when those assaulting words
gnaw their way inside of each crevice
of each lobe
of the brain that’s constantly playing defense...
that beating is the tempo
to a lullaby
whose lyrics remind me
that God made my timeline different for a reason.