Closure
Is an illusion
Science shows us
Life is constantly
In flux

Cant keep waiting
On a certain moment, event,
Or epiphany
To button up our suffering
In a neat little package

We've hung on to this hope of
AFTER
Only "AFTER" is when I'll be healed
Enduring days won't be devastating
And suddenly I'll be this beacon
Of strength, I'll be able to endure anything

In truth,
Grief's a heartache
That never really goes away
The brain starts to play
With what's "fact"and whats "fake"

If this is the way
Then where am I going?

The people here
are not quite grown up
They live past inconveniences

So I'm gonna settle it
Like a parent for their own good
Comment is all in the game

I don't mind, we have to move on
Who does not act, is manipulated
and my own preferences
don't appear out of the blue
I have experience

I chip and wipe away the chips
I am a doer, a maker
No expensive gestures
no desperate remedies
to reassure desperate patients

I know what I'm doing, there are goals
to achieve and worlds to win
with ambition

the seed of my misdeeds
my taunted pride
to want to achieve something

It's always the same:

there must be a better way --


So, should I do it?

Scornful words; as a resting tongue reliant on lies.
Bitter sweet intentions, intentive of it being intentionally
sound. I'll be loud, overly of being too proud when
humbleness isn't found.

The wise know when to hold tongue, not being boastful
of knowledge's gain. They do not entertain the rantings of
fools. Those so few—do not conform to a standard of pitiful
stance. But instead stand out, as ones of content in their
struggles. As with feet with scars, but unafraid to dance.

So trade off those scornful words, but instead let be
encouragement, lest scorn. An encouraging poem.
                    Share your encouragement in action,
                    as much as you share them in words.

Friends have the power

of repeating together --


what they are good at.

What I would do, I

must, and hope, want, shall, can, may --


begin to do now.

returned to the same desk,
the same grindstone, the same thoughts,
cyclical patterns of thought and action,
but which comes first?

the will slips, the cracks widen,
and it all floods in, easier to understand,
caught within the same ropes,
you spun from woes of a broken past,

and they were meant to help climb out,
but the grease that bounds the threads,
cannot be grasped by those unresolved,
to the reality they crave most,

Maybe if I take the leap of faith
that you will jump into the stream with me
I will enjoy the swim.

A thousands spires that whirl and dervish,
high upon the scorching currents in the air.
Across the empty desiccated wastelands,
so long parched without waters soft repair.

Like gyrating embodied souls rotating,
to lay scar deeply carved upon the land,
driving clouds of rock like pelting hail,
headlong until all is shattered into sand.

Flashes of lightening and thunders call,
clouds cast in iron, observers of the scene,
testament in muted light from up on high,
sole recall of still waters that once had been.

Desolate open and forsaken landscape,
where only wind gives motion to the world.
Leaden clouds of rain without a falling,
static charged clouds constantly re-curled.

How long ago it was that life had left,
its own scars and marks upon the soil.
until through life's' own achievements,
a once beautiful world was left to broil.

In that not so distant time when remnants
of the miracle that was life is erased and gone.
not one thing that we have ever seen or know,
nor memory of who we once were shall live on.