Bring the ringing rain drop
Whole lot
Remembrance

Determined turtle vanishing green all my needs manifested scaring caring eyes viciously.  No acceptance can't claim existence willingly my ancestors have closed the blinds shrill speculative variety mixed amorous stenciled template.

Does it get better? It has before but I have no expectation. What I know is weak discovery and blankness. Lack of connection killing me before I'm dead my spirit drained and waning quickly. Stuck to couch cushions and 3 square don't fit there.

My only  hope is that my inability to accept/experience joy and lack of self worth does not inhibit my daughter's love for life.

Structures are built, broken down, and decayed by the hand of humanity.
                  Collateral Damage.
Planning is carried out with the expectation of structural compromise.

Windows grant access into the pit of vulnerability. Scores and scores of people spend the bulk of their short lives inside the pit of an artificial stomach, chasing what cannot be obtained.

Relationships are sacrificed over plastic alters where the blood flows over disposable cups, collected from fast food restaurants and graduation parties.

Waiting for the summer heat to eclipse the somber thread of one day, an old man is gifted a brand new pair of sneakers.

Father, Son, Holy Ghost? The pinnacle of the "y" axis has paralyzed the saltiness of the old man's overcoat.

"Grand dad?" A young boy turns the corner and peeks in while the old man leans over in his chair to reach his feet and lace his sneaks. "You were breathing loudly and I was just making sure you're okay."

The boy continued, "cool sneakers grandpa."
This reminded the boy of a new student in his class who moved here from Scotland, or Ireland - he couldn't remember which. Guess what the new kid in my class calls his sneakers?"

The grandfather looks up and leans back, "he doesn't call them sneakers?" "Nope" the boy replies. "I would imagine he must call them shoes, or something like that."

"Not even close. He calls them 'runners'. He came into class one day with a pair of red sneakers and Miss Kerrington had him stand up in front of class to talk about them. She said that people in England probably call them runners as a nickname for running shoes."

The old man stood up with a groan and said, "That makes sense. It seems a bit odd, but I like it. As a matter of fact, I am gonna start using that to refer to all sneakers. What do you say we go for a walk around the block so I can break these puppies in? We'll stop for some rootbeer on the way home."

The two of them set out on their walk and the old man felt invigorated. As they continued, a light rain began and the old man said, "lets get to the store, this rain'll do damage to my new suedes."

When they finally made it to the store, the old man rushed in the door pushing his grandson out of the way. Upon his entrance his eyes met with the shopkeeper's. The shopkeeper's eyes shifted to the young boy coming in behind the man. At this moment the grandfather realized that he pushed his grandson aside in his haste to get inside the store and out of the rain.

The shopkeeper turned his attention back to the grandfather who shrugged his shoulders before gesturing to his feet with a smile and said, "I'm breaking in a new pair of runners. They're not gonna dry off as easily as he does."

Continued questioning of the unlovable hatred; my life's work is appropriately - indelible. These words are testimony to the conflict between who I am and who I wish I could be---

But...  my understanding of infinite possibility seems to end while considering the black and white world that I create.

This dulling of experience is like the smudged remains of my most interesting work scrawled in pencil between the pages of old notebooks and scraps of paper.

I will chisel my own tombstone with a crayon frozen in dry ice.

A small furry tummy grows with pride and recognition. The day is new like fresh air and baby lungs. The trappings of usual experience have gone unnoticed with each wayward smile and shared glimpse.

Is this a dream?
What is real?

Silence guards haunting stories with latent thoughts streaming uncontested by a busy mind. If there is truth, then what is humanity? Who am I?

Do you feel ashamed too?
I'm not the leader I once believed to be back then.

I'm more machine now then ever before - lacking substance, strange entangled, my very best worst friend.

Polished golden ivy glimmers and shines light on the travelers eyes. What's to be expected of something that was once believed to be unattainable?

Fragile voices crack - birds sing in the distance - dead flowers slumping somewhere in a vase have long withered after the water has evaporated and the love that left them there has gone forever.

Painted pictures - canvas torn - dusty guitar with broken strings - old newspapers piled by the door and holes in the wall from fits thrown with sobbing tears.

Thoughts gathered through sad and scattered memories - I found your old journal in a box today.