I've stopped writing for now. A hiatus if you will, because I have started to question the words forming in my head. I don't always believe they're genuine, of my own fruition, and will therefore refuse to claim them as my own. That's what writing is, really...affirming your faith in your thoughts, words, and actions. I can't give myself that right now. I can't claim something I doubt my trust in, the same as I can't caress a face that isn't real...and I'm not about to hurt - or overexert - myself trying to do so.

I do, however, still have hope for the future. I can admit that much. I have dreams and goals for my life that I believe are highly attainable and I will reach them. I will continue climbing that tree, always looking up and staying humble by occasionally looking down. I know the higher I go, the more risk is involved by ever falling. I may perch on a branch, catching my breath, but I will never give up. Not even the gustiest of gales will shake me from this tree, not even the hottest of flames will persuade me to give in and come down.

I may not ever reach the top of this tree, but that's only because it will continue to grow as I continue to climb. Its arms will stretch higher and will strengthen to carry my weight as I become stronger, as I get closer to my dreams. Maybe eventually I will stop at a high enough branch. I may even stay for a very long time, but I vow to die as high up as possible, in the arms of my aspirations, instead of on the ground, wishing I had started already.

I only hope you will be able to say the same.

there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider

something was always
just a little bit
wrong

a constant drip
in the fridge

a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case

missing corners
of floor tiles

pictures hanging
slightly crooked

one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble

the rattle
of the heater

smiles from those
i couldn’t trust

a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes

every year was
the year that would
make it or break it

so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs

last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas

i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard

the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans

and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart

i might have been
the first slice to go

but at least i got
out of there

before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan

a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly

over
just
like
that

and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved

big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all

every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past

it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it

there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed

but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability

maybe
they were

maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded

an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos

or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives

There was a young math **** named Herbert
Who fancied himself a tax expert.
Touting tax tips he tried,
Till terribly tongue-tied;
No more will he overexert.