“I killed my son,” he said, fielding the catch in his voice,
words plain, unwreathed with plea or pardon.
“They say it was an accident, but I swerved the sled
that hit the tree that slammed the skull
that bruised his brain and knocked the life
right out of him. I heard it slip away. Twice.
I couldn’t get a handle on something so fluttery,
went right past me real slow, but too quick
just the same. Air, they told me, is what it was,
escapes from the lungs when the brain is only matter.

“Ten years old, curled up, a question mark on an envelope of snow.
Death arrived and I, to him no more than a mitten or a cap,
barely breathed as any creature does when danger seems close,
a lunge or swipe away. He stood, his face beneath a mask,
or so I thought, although I’d seen neither.

“And then one night he came again, I knew, for me.
Hours I waited in horror, to see what look he had
or what he buried. The hardest work I’ve ever done,
to will my eyelids up, to see--not night, not death,
but light and love and morning.”

My shortcomings aren't what sends me over the edge
It's knowing that I am not and never will be good enough
It's the torture and taunting that my own mind creates
It's the fear and worry over this feeling of impending doom
It's the snide glance they give me that creates a "down the lane" ****
It's trying your hardest and it not ever being enough
It's the feeling of failure
But mostly, it's knowing that all these things aren't true and feeling them anyway

That sad moment
When your fingers can’t type acros the keybboard.  
Because itall runs together like something
From another time whe nthings were less
Than they are now. It’ s always easier, you know,
With less. Always easier when hnds run smoothly
Over the snow or the leaes or the sun
Because they arent shaking quite like they are
Now. Now, with more thought, more feared, more lost
To the losing of days that always leave, evntually.
More to keep you up at night as your hands
Shake but tryto type throug it anyway. More
To keeep you distracted from yourself
But also more to kee pyou all too concentrated
On the world, thatthing that makes you rhands shake,
Tha thng thatis always more thn you want itto be.

Whether it be a book or a verse from a poem you once read.

Whether it be a beat or a song you once heard.

There is always that one thing.

That one thing that takes you back .

Takes you back to a memory of time of not great importance but of a time that you can't erase.

Whether the memory is good or not it is there .

But keep in mind cherish every memory because on day you will be someone's memory .

if you could paint the constellations to capture the beauty of your favorite heroes
then the universe would be your self-portrait, my dear