In my darkest hour my thoughts wander, sometimes too far and sometimes just yonder. I find myself in total darkness, without a torch or word of kindness.

Entrapped in space, where sorrow thrives, enduring the pain of a thousand knifes. I feel the tears gather in my eyes, as a hundred questions in my mind arise.

A place beyond, where the forsaken dwell, between the garden of Eden and the gates of hell. Where there is no sound but the sound of silence, or desperate laughter, or cries of violence.

The taste of bitterness ran in my mouth, as my head revolved, from north to south. My heart beat accelerated and exceeded the rate, while on its drums, it violently played.

I hear the queries in the drummers beat, should I advance or should I retreat? My soul is standing on some rocky ridge, do I descend or just cross the bridge?

My thoughts are shattered, for help I call, but my words resonate in a desolate hall. Amidst of worries I seek a light, a sign of hope, or a hand of might.

I have grown weary while strength I assemble, as my feeble hands began to tremble. It could be  light there in the distance, must I bide or seek assistance?

To my Lord I appeal in times of stern, at one’s leisure, good deeds you should earn. My heart is joyful, when dancing to its beat, what tasted bitter, has now turned sweet.

I let fear fog up my mind
My thoughts yell at me "I'm trying!"
While my actions show me
I want to let the light in

but I fall into darkness
all too often I hide away
and avoid the open blue sky
because the rainclouds distract my mind

the sky-blue sheet above me
only inspires every thought
I try to avoid to blow through
and bring rain from within

nearly five years old
my nephew plays
with a stethoscope
a fully functioning
auscultatory device
not just some toy
of unavailing plastic
and purposeless rubber
lost to his imagination
he holds the chest piece
against my sternum
the diaphragm cold
even through my shirt
making me pull away
momentarily
out of instinct or habit
even though
it is not needed
he sits listening
concentration tight
across his brow
with very real concern
as he informs me
that he can't hear anything
that i must just have
no heart at all

there comes a slow, soft afternoon pace and a dinner bell
i sweat, jogging, to the table,
soaked with the cherry blood red fruit of my labor.
when my meal is served,
there’s grease in the pan
and my hands are black as coal,
so it lathers my throat and turns sore.
unfixable bellyaches and frequent *****.
my hairbrush combs knots of dead hair, clumps in my fists
and the mother is a cross old women,
apathetic and unforgiving
she touches with a stonewall embrace
she tells me i am worth something,
and then she tells me i am not
as i scrub the dirt from every single step she takes
and wash my entire mouth with soap after every word that i slip up and say.

yet there is a place inside the trees
where there are fawns and fairies and peacemakers
and the meadow sings almost humanly
with a beautiful flute and a distant harp
and that is where the light is the brightest.
there are no cold, empty corners
hidden by the dusty rust of time
there are only staircases leading to the sky
and bounding rabbits and seashells nowhere near the sea,

but in this house,
the cruel and unforgiving mother
owns me
and i cannot fathom escape  
in this fit of naivety.