Walking barefoot down rocky dirt paths.
Kicking up clouds of dust with each step,
testing the thickness of my soles soul,
I found comfort in the pain of each sharp stone,
digging deep. Comfort in pessimistic understanding.
Knowing, the next wouldn't hurt as bad.
Wounds turn to callus. Hardened skin, hardens within.
Each weathered scar, reminder of hard earned strength.
Ritual of self inflicted mutilation by choice, rocky dirt path
by fate. Walking, walking, still. Still barefoot
down rocky, dirt paths.

I am not your sometimes.
I am the traces of solace on unlit dirt roads.
I am the bottom of the bottle.
I’m the last drag of your last cigarette,
tasting me on your lips
long after disposal.
I am the empty space on your chest.
I am the cold chill of change, the goosebumps too.
I am the deafening silence in mists of chaos.
I’m the illuminating moonlight,
hiding alone and in the dark.
until morning returns.

~

You are the the book I throw across the room
then hours later pick up again
to leaf through your pages.
  You are not my sometimes.

Lips say he's different
now.
Drunk eyes reveal no
change.

~

My knees did not
buckle
At your matured tastes in blues and
bourbon,

my heart did when you didn't
recognize
the gleam of your own
reflection.

Naturally it is the sum of our inner forces
which forces us to look back again and again,
perhaps with too much of Anguish in the way,
reminding us of what we have or have not been
-for Anguish bears a semblance to Memory.

And this form of regret tries thru discourses to
look for resources for you to overwhelm. So we
must work hard towards this our goals,
regardless of the hardships
-that puts
us at the helm,
like
a Captain of survival.

One should only look back to correct
the course of their life in effect,
not to
kick themselves in
the hind
for every
slack, but to try to err
on the side of right.

Just remember, if our means have no end,
then our end has no means, to keep
obstinate blockades in the way of our
impassioned & hopeful dreams.