Forward move.
Tripping sometimes
With doubt.
Reaching toward
Grasping at air.
Standing, stillness.
Spilling thoughts
And prayers.
Head down to hear.
Forward time.
Ergo, I go.

I hate you
I hate you very much.
Yet we share.
The history.
Only you can help.
Only you know
The deep of my pain.
Yes, dear,
I hate you very much.

Each day brings it closer.
Started as a whisper.
Moaning to a living known.
A struggle to face.
A fight that can not be won.
Yet belief in delay.
So much yet to be done.

At the seams.
Frayed strings
Spilling forth.
So worn and spent,
Cause be gone.

With all the celebration
of Eve and Day;
The festive expectation;
The next day is forgotten;
The feeling of all done;
The giant wave of over;
Wait for another Eve and Day
yet to come.
The guess of how many more.
Somehow the bust of over
is never truly calculated
in the fun of Eve and Day.
All  the thought and expense.
Yet the gift is always there.

Just a delay;
Awaiting a stop;
Careful coasting
To life’s edge.
Brief lapse
From tumbling truth.

Like an envelope unopened.
A song unsung.
Not to be known.
Just a touch of sorrow.
A little bit of want.
Dropped from heaven.
Bursts of stars.
Sloppy kisses.
Tipsy turns.
Careful sips of life.