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10/8/2013

Hey

Ive been away for quite a while, seriously missing my new found family here at Hello Poetry...kind of going through some personal, professional and financial challenges as we all do...I've allowed those that dont mean me well the "temporary" victory...and even felt like giving up and throwing in the towel at one point (but not quite to the point of death)...but I feel that we all reach this point at least one time in a life time of many experiences whether good or bad. I haven't had the desire to write or express myself because I am stuck and wallowing in my own self pity and despair, depleted of strength. Some have caused me great malice, and up until this point I've resisted to the impulses and feelings to lash out...back, against them, but a person can only take so much and I know that violence only begats violence, and ignorance, ignorance, so please...can someone, anyone...revive me, resusitate me...and just breathe life into these dry bones that have become shallow and empty with thoughts of anger, frustration, doubt, procratination and guilt...just shoot me a few words of encouragement...lift me up...I will surely pay it forward when I regain my strength and confidence...for I AM NOT a quitter....selah

~Dwayne~
He said :

Summertime is when he would change some awful habits.

Not serious enough at that moment,
perhaps, perhaps just lip service to those willing to listen?

A game he liked to play with himself.

A game not born of lies,
but rather, "who cares" procratination.

He said :

I'll organize those old pictures I've been putting off.

He said :

I'll finish that poem that has been waiting for it's ending.

Announcing to himself out loud,
or anyone else that would listen....
"come summertime" I will. !

And then...

The coldness of winter still thawing,
his bones still cold.

He notices...
His health deteriorating,  slowly.

A cough that lingers,
shortness of breath.

Energy reserves on fumes,
he falls gravely, unsuspectingly ill.

He says to himself:

Come summertime I will see my doctor.

He says :

I will organize those pictures into a neat scrapbook.

He says :

That poem I will finally write an epic ending for.

Trouble is....

For him,
Summertime never comes.

— The End —