Pin ***** beneath your valley of ribs.
Your mousy heart beats
Endlessly and namelessly as static. What
Used to be swollen with purpose, constipated
With pride, greasy and blistered as a cocktail sausage,
Is now an old wound; it needs a poultice,
A placeholder of semantics
For the palms praying to the peerless sky,
A paperweight for that
Headless neck. You used to be pedantic.
Now ease is the strangest feeling;  born of the dailiness of splitting hairs
Between us, over and
Over.

Numb under mine, your crossed arms
Frame my grave in a way that seems sacramental,
To be left barren too of hope for you. Not fair to
Create it out of nothing, like some ****** pregnancy.
If God won’t come to hold me down, I’ll go to him and start
Over

While you stay curled up by the window like a vegetable.
Time makes cautionary tales of lucent billboards that brand the street
Infected by moths numerous as ****.
Subdued and flickering out, they don’t concern me anymore; now I
Contemplate cleft-lipped fractures in the concrete
Cracking seedy smiles at me, and grow quietly dim as understanding takes
Over.

My whole life, I’ve felt like I’m living a life that isn’t mine,
Following a script I didn’t write, wasting away with time.

I never imagined a future, I just live day to day.
Am I a puppet, playing a part, until I decay?

I don’t remember who I was before melancholy caught me;
It seems to be all I know, all I feel, all I think, all I see.

Maybe this is my purpose, to endure these thoughts with persistence.
I exist so you don’t feel alone…
How unfortunate my existence.

Mom, what is my purpose?
"That, my love, is yours to decide."
And so he lived—until he died.

Now his son reads through those pages,
Tracing thoughts from distant ages.
One day, he'll be gone too—
And, in time, so will you.

By the coldest depths of the sea -
soaring in my highs as a bird with no wings,
a cliff diver so afraid to jump; silent most of the time.

My greatest pride is in my eyes, for if I stare
at for you too long; we'll make it a worthwhile time
looks do ****; so staring at pretty face is suicide.

As life could be perfect, if you live without purpose
who would judge you if you hold no case to plea,
how complex wouldn't you be in this perplexity
For without purpose none are pressured to be -
seemingly so free, yet it's a freedom so cheap
But for the struggles in life, what purpose do
you have to shed your share of tears

Are you not free?

No, life isn't perfect, even as you make your way
to fulfil your purpose - but there's no great purchase
in doing nothing for yourself. Our struggle to live
a day as a pretty flower in an ugly world, is what
makes us a relatable bunch. Perhaps too sober in
facing troubles; momentary pleasures are so warm
while the tears afterwards are all so cold.

Everything is different,
aggravated noise is swept
off into the distance
I wanted quiet, here it is,
and I still can't relax
as questions persist
over an everlasting cause
while answers dance
beyond the hanging clouds
of resistance,
showing that I make choices
but don't really know
what's missing

My life is a constant
reminder
of being trapped in a blind spot
from the bind of one’s own
imperceptive thoughts-
it’s a feat of escape
to consciously accept
what might be an earthquake
because I'm mental,
I'm down,
and I'm about to break
but this only makes it harder
to alleviate

It didn't matter when
I was young,
I could run faster then,
but inevitably
wherever you go
there you are

So I lose patience,
looking at the sign
telling me what I already know:
I'm stuck in misery's
afterglow
wondering why I
go out of my way
to make being alive so hard
by spending all of
my time alone
hiding in the dark

Lord,
you tell me to serve you,
but I haven't heard even a whisper
about this path and purpose
you intend me to pursue.

God said
“love your enemies”
but he didn't tell us
what to do when it hurts,
when a piece of your heart it attached to every kind word and gesture
that then gets picked apart
and shredded into shards that shoot
right back at me.

Our Father affirms
how we must forgive our trespassers,
but he didn't tell us how to repair the damage,
how to stop being taken advantage of,
or how to stand up for ourselves.
He didn't tell us how to end the the cycles,
just how to continue them
by turning over your other cheek
and not withhold even your tunic.

Jesus preached
about how we should love our neighbors as ourselves,
but he didn't say what to do when you’re full of self-hate
or when nobody cares that you care about them
because they're too busy trying to get someone else's approval.

He also said
"Don't let your hearts be troubled”
but he didn't say what to do
when they don't listen to you,
when there's so much at stake,
when your world caves in,
when you're cast aside like dust
but the world still wants to much,
or when you're just not happy and you don't know why everything is so hard,

or when you're wide awake at night,
knowing
the ones you care about the most
could be on the verge of breaking
their skin.

If the world has no meaning, why do I stay? Is it not because, even in the bitterness, there is one thing worth waiting for? And if all sweetness is the same, why does my heart turn away from them, longing only for the one that makes it tremble in delight? Perhaps meaning is not in the world itself, but in choosing to wait—for the one thing that alone can quench your hunger.

Strength is not a raging river or a roaring tiger.
Strength is bravery in small, significant things.
Even the smallest things can be significant.
Importance is not decided by money or popularity.
It is chosen by value, meaning, and purpose.
We are not brought into this world only to consume.
We are given the strength to create and choose.
Choose strength every time you are given a choice.
The hardest decisions are the most important, and
Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.