This year I am bare
Not in flesh but in mind
You left with all of my thoughts
Any ounce of my motivation
Laying on my bathroom floor
I am bare
Some people would see this as an advantage
But pessimists will understand
How I’d like to lay here forever
With my hands covering my eyes I feel hidden from time
Like there is no one else in the world
I am alone
I am bare
A shamed of who i am.
A shamed of what i am doing.
And horrified of what i have become.
It started as a hunger for anything.
A wish for that depth within something.
But slowly that desire i had is fading.
The true glimpse of what i have started surrounds me.
The grip of reality and emotions plays loud in my hollow mind
It's hands devouring themselves around my already weak neck
Strangling this life i chose to live.
My dark lipstick is
an act to look tough
and my nose ring is a joke;
I belong to the zoo.
Twisting and screaming
I wriggle out of your tight grip, you say:
how the hell do you live with yourself
for ending up in a choking clench?
Oh, my feet must have slipped
into your lethally poisonous death grip.
I’ve searched the world for a comfortable place to rest and never found it. Sought recognition from others where I knew I didn’t belong. Of course, it was temporarily granted. But you know when you're drying up inside and your purpose is dying. You know when there aren’t enough fumes to run on any longer. It all comes down to which voice I listen to. One voice calls me a fraud. It plays freeze tag with my life. God calls me to step out of my fears and go to the place He created for me. There is no time to brood. Keep moving. Breathe at least.There is much to write about. My rest will ever be in Him.
Filtered sunlight exists beyond another leaf.
Lingering in the musty smell of wormwood
thoughts, regrets, permeate parched veins.
Amid tenuous crackling the mantra persists.
While glassy gaze and fingertips move feverishly
oils pillage to dismantle fiber and ink.
Aimless memories fall apart unglued,
unbound by desperation's white-knuckled grip.
Chapter two is an inkling, a slip of the tongue,
a pasty hand reaching for the curtain's leading edge.
A give, a break, the playful breeze
slipping a tendril beneath the foliage to steal your breath.
An ending without a reader,
sunken eyes or wizened lines,
without a face--never lives.
Living is every page.