"You're always moving forward.
Just sometimes, the road gets bumpy as ****."
The road may get bumpy,
but I'm ever so clumsy.
Give me a spotter
otherwise I may break
something along the way.
I'm not saying I need to be saved,
I just need someone
to make sure I'm okay.

Onward, we travel, eyes shielded by off-white --
optimism. The blind lead the blind. Around our feet
the decrepit lie unseen. The blinded lose their sense
and the sound of weeping is kept in the blacks
and deepest greys, swallowed by relentless light.

Limbs drag against gravel, knuckles
******, leaving trails. We stoop in our agony,
ankles twisted like corkscrews. Still we persevere.
It is our hope that should we press on,
the pain will be rewarded. We are
consumed by instinct – survive.

We suffer most as we ignore the sting of existence.
We try to ignore the inevitability of death as we strive
again towards our prayers of a golden, personal prize.
We need salvation in the form of shelter
from the rain of sickened green and haze
that has stolen our sight.

People keep asking me how I’m doing.
If I’m getting better or if I’ve taken the time to process what’s happened.
If I’ve sought professional help for the metal percussions induced by my career-ending injury.

In all honesty though, professional help is futile. It can’t save me now.
I’m walking through hell and sitting in a ring of fire discussing the temperature of the searing flames would be idiotic.

Why would I allow the flames to dance along my already seared skin longer than necessary?
I know they’re hot.
I know I’m in hell.

I know the pain I feel every day is real and crippling.

Talking about this pain wouldn’t end it. It wouldn’t diminish the heat. It wouldn’t help.

I need to keep walking.
I just need to keep walking.

My crippled body can’t run anymore, but I’ve got to keep walking.

Others continue to rush by. Frantic because they’ve never felt the flames.
They aren’t familiar with the burn. The idea of being in hell is novel.

They are novices.  

But life hasn’t been kind to me.
These flames are familiar with every curve of my body and they dance around with trained feet.


I’ve been in hell for years.


People continue suggesting I find the light at the end of the tunnel, but that’s near impossible here.
I’m too blinded by the brightness of a vehement flame.
Sizzling with an angry vigor for the lack of gratitude I bestowed on my past life.

It mocks the speed at which I used to be able to run. It laps sardonically at the feet that used to run cheer-inducing speeds without thanks from their owner.

But crowds don’t cheer my name anymore.
I now stand on the sidelines and watch my team play.

I burn alive for the game I used to breath and as I watch each and every game, the deep breaths of oxygen only continue alighting the fire.

There’s no way out it seems, but I will try to keep walking.


Because talking is futile.



Note:
Spinal diseases are crippling mentally and physically. Watching the body you've sculpted for years turn to mush because you can't workout is dilapidating .
The despair and helplessness are unfamiliar feelings, feelings that can't be overcome. Disease is disease and sometimes it can't be stopped. Sometimes, it just becomes a burden to bear.


And sometimes people aren't strong enough.

It's different when careers end after four years of college. An expected end, an anticipated end. But when things you love are taken from you abruptly, before your finished. The pain is exponentially worse.

Exponentially. Worse.

Tie me in knots
     and drag your nails through my flesh.
Tear me open
     until orchids bloom from every laceration.
Take everything you want;
     only I ask that you put me back together again,
and trim the flowers back below my skin.

He will be every callus on your painter's fingers.
He will be every warm winter
     and every cold summer.
He will be every drop of rain.
He will be every scratch on the roof of your mouth
     and every last scar.
He will be every shard of light.
He will be every book unread,
     and every cup of tea gone cold.
He will be every speck of dust.
He will be every tempting kitchen knife,
     and every broken promise.
He will be every single thought.
He will be every one of your bleeding gums,
     and each of your blackened lungs.
He will be every torn out page.
He will be every picture on a postcard,
     and every blood-stained bed.
He will be every shot of morphine.
He will be every pigeon feather,
     and every torn-apart crow.

So light
I brushed the drops away
With a wave.    
But long enough
To soak the earth
And fallen timber.                
I balanced on precariously
Traversing effervescent deluge
Losing purchase
And contemplating a sanguine palm.
Empathy swells the waves
That wash from each other.

Waves ran wild across vibrations of metal
Like a guitar playing under an ocean wave
Carrying the purpose and dream of one man
A piece of metal of a surgery gone wrong
Saved, an outer symbol, the only one
I dreamed about it last night
This man, his piece of metal
As I am a water creature, a fish very true
I picked up the symbol and attached it to a compass
This compass does not move, mixed in place forever
A symbol of his attitude
His direction will not waiver, this is his truth
I handed it back to him as a gift of gratitude
An example he is of strength and determination
And for that I have admiration~

More haunting
Than the marks
Left on a tortured body
Are the marks
A tortured body
Leaves itself