Like a drug taken for a quarter century, this writing doesn't help like it use to...
See,
I'm starting to feel like it's working against me
Holding me here in pain and misery
Cleverly disguised as creativity
I use to lie and say it was a way to get rid of all this negativity
But I've spilled so much blood and tears onto stationary
...and not even purely metaphorically...
I should be completely empty
Hell, I think I might be
I think it's moved onto draining my energy
Can I still call this writing therapy?
Is it healthy or does it keep me from a new me?
Holding tightly but in spite of me
Hiding a different side of a complex personality
A new level of maturity
Is it actually helping any?
Today it's hard to say, but maybe
Unfortunately, it's something I'm good at, a skill I enjoy and I don't have many
So I've begun to notice I look at it differently
It was suppose to help me let go of the painful unpleasantry held in many a memory
But it woke a part of my ego that I didn't know would grip so tightly
It might have been a mistake to rely on it so heavily
It's no longer moving along the story
No cautionary tales to learn from because they never become history
It becomes a bookmark that I don't use properly
I never move it to the page I left off on and now, I must admit openly, I'm doing it purposely
I keep the worst of me right next to me, close as a frienemy
All because I notice I DON'T write when I'm happy
And I like to write so I dance around emotions strategically
I don't know if it's anything worth saying but writing is calling and drawing me in closely
A ghostly presence that when I look closely I see my identity
It hasn't always been but is now a big part of me
But does it want all of me?
Can't say either way with any certainty
No AH-HA moment, no clarity, only a death grip on disparity
So I recklessly walk the line of happy and tragedy
Like a DUI test on the side of the freeway, drunken pageantry
Eyes closed usually
No thought of mine or anyone else's safety
Dangerously close to calamity
And I just worry

©2024

Lord knocks at the family of four
sensing the needy void
a grace hopes to cure
and fill light to its darkness
that almost devours the other three
for its life-taking shadow

A veil of moonlight uncovers
Lord's worn in tanned and dreads
Together his lady angel
carrying bags of white powder
looking around for space
separated, weighed and fed the void

Led the lord to a room
spacious and humid,
no other stuff but
a static television sound
no moving air
powders remain
let the cure runs thru the house
of juvenile and the lost

Goodbye days are waving
to the lost's relative three
A vast and lonesome emptiness
Hits the face and broke a bridge
Of trust and a second chance

A Lord's fraud grace
put the four
floating in pitch black water
sets the powdered metal
and spark from their eyes
shines through
the soul and life
were almost taken
if the wall didn't catch
the bullet
from the drug lord's blessing.