#mid-life
They robbed us!
The one’s that told us what it means to be men…
THEY LIED!!!
They told us feeling is wrong.
And they taught us to be STRONG is to be silent.
"Build a pit," they said, "make it so deep that a lifetime of emotion can’t fill it."
And we oblige.
But we know it’s there…
The stench keeps us up at night.
The fetid fumes cloud our vision;
The windows to our souls opaque to the outside world and those we Love, those we want to reveal ourselves to.
Meanwhile, inside, we’re clawing at the glass with bloodied hands.
GOD HELP ME!!!
I want to be free of this!!
See me!
I’m a human being!
I have hopes,
I have dreams,
I have fears,
I feel sorrow, I know regret, and I believe in redemption…
but all of this...
It's for someone else… someone weak.
What a lie!
So delicious we swallowed it whole—a bitter pill dipped in honey
Given us by those we love,
by those we trust.
The poison works through us,
unrelenting,
T w i s t i n g us, turning us against one another…
No emotions!
Not here!!
You’re a man!!
Be a man!!
**** it up!!!
**** it up until it chokes you!!!
**** it up until you can’t feel anymore!!
**** it up until you’re dry and broken!!
**** it up until you forget...
What life was and what death is…
**** it up because that’s what men do.
They corrupted our legacy
They stole our future.
And we let them do it.
We helped them do it.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
He had always assumed that when his parents died
A kind of freedom would commence
For him to grow into what he could become,
But when his faher passed, unexpected,
His shock to realize the opposite was great,
And left him feeling numb and naked,
Weak and unprotected.
That he should realize his own mortality,
And the imminent farewell coming for himself,
And the sad goodbyes to other journeyers,
So gripped him then,
And robbed his sleep by bringing waking dreams:
Conversations with his father's silent ghost,
Worries of adequate preparations,
(What to leave behind, what to send ahead),
And desires to make some sort of difference,
So troubled his poor head
As to take the deepest sleep,
The kind he'd had whilst father was alive,
And leave him morning-tired and troubled.
Seeking solace for losing a life once charmed
With parents well and family whole, so tempted
Him to seek relief in revels far from depths-plunged grief,
That for a while, he lumbered on,
A wanton, seeking temporary pleasure
Who barely stopped to measure
The flying moments of his sordid life,
The cost of temporal flights with no intended destinations,
The emptiness of purpose-empty avocations,
The fruitless pursuits of mindless gratification.
But now he sits,
Back up against a lonely bedroom wall,
Violin and orchestra his late night companions,
Taking stock of where he's been and where he's bound,
Thinking deep and praying some,
Wondering what the waning mornings left to him will bring.
Lonely, he has become a different man,
Humbled in his un-sought and once-denied mortality,
A peace-begging supplicant beneath a tired moon,
While ancient winds blow ancient dust around
Outside his open window,
Just as they did while his mother moaned
Fifty years and more ago
Out on the dry land farm where he was born.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
When did sorry become throwaway?
When did remorse become a game to play?
When did I become an adult?
When did I lock myself in a vault?
When did life become so serious?
When did life become so meaningless?
When did you and I last cry?
When did we both ask why?
When did we re-evaluate our pain?
When did we measure our gain?
When did you and I remain,
Together, forever, in emotion and shame?
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC