stuck

There is a tension in waiting

for a blow that never comes;

Your body, crumbled to posturing

perched upon your splintered throne.

 

There are eyes tired of searching,

yet unable to close for rest;

There are lungs squeezed shallow from filtering

the quietest possible breaths.

 

There is loss multiplied by loss

in the fight to never be knocked down again;

There are waves that will never drown you, yet

you cannot ever risk submerging for a swim.

 

There is knowledge of inky black

which no one can pretend not to see;

There are stains of morbid red

where your heart rips open (every other beat.)

 

There is an exquisite agony

in never feeling home;

It does damage, it curries questions

that should never be asked.

 

You cannot learn to thrive and love

when your alertness

your caution

your awareness

when your panic will never relax

It’s nights like these that I wonder why anyone

Would ever

Love me as I am.

I cannot help but see the finite in my use; the inability in my body, the inevitable heavy leaning on another that the years will imbue upon my form.

I will not be able to care for myself alone; I will not be able to pretend to be well; I will not survive if I do not allow, or perhaps beg, others to care for me.

And I do not view others in my place as worthless … I do not think of them as lazy, or leeches, or hopeless.

But it is so difficult, reader, whoever you are, for me to put two and two together. I cannot see the value in others and also myself. Somehow i cannot allow that duality, even though it is essentially not duality at all but merely the simplicity of how intrinsic human worth must be. Either we are all of worth or none of us are – there is some old adage that goes to that effect.

But it is so hard, faceless friend, to feel the burden of a broken body already – at 21 – and to be mentally inclining myself to its downfall. Others are planning which classes to take… I am begging my corpse to continue play-acting at life long enough for me to secure some form of a future. A stable marriage, a job with powerful benefits and healthcare… a lucky windbreak to cushion my inevitable decline.

Yet I profess not only with my mouth but with this very vessel – the shattered clay I am bound to – that I am a disciple of one higher than my burdens. His insignia is emblazoned on my flesh at the front of a prowling lion… so where is that faith?

Reader, why can’t I trust my King?

I am afraid. I am tired. Am I lazy? No, not lazy… but most definitely exhausted and undisciplined.

Discipline is a terribly slippery thing to hold on to when there is no regularity in your form. Imagine your skin changes color without any notice, rhyme, or reason. Try to force yourself to match your clothing to yourself each second of each day when your skin could change shades at any moment. Are you going to change clothes every time a new color bursts forth? Are you going to allow the color to settle before trying to match it,

Only to find it has already fled and been replaced by a new tint, equally violent in its contrast? This is, in a far watered-down and gentle metaphor, the unknowing of my existence. It is the smirk the future gives me when I try to prepare for what may come.

I cannot plan far ahead, Reader. I can hardly plan my afternoons.

But I can trust. And I will seek to continue that most basic principle of my faith. If I trust, he will provide, as he always has. And I can let go and be the shapeless, colorless, undisciplined form that I am cursed to be. A thorn in my flesh will not halt my God. I am what I am but I am more importantly His.

And it is to this truth that I stubbornly cling.

a prerequisite to springtime

i see a beautiful tree, leaves

tumbling from its boughs

outstretched limbs, relief in letting go

a burden never meant to carry

alone.

 

she lets the breeze

borrow the load;

she lets the river

carry off her sorrow.

 

each crumbling memory

no longer rooted in pain

an autumn death which

brings renewal and

new breath.

Loading…

I just want to feel again

Something other than waiting or suspense

Let me remember joy without tears

Give me the patience of love without fear

I’m full beyond empty with courage and loss

What sense does it make – Love,

heartbreak’s highest cost?

Now I wonder when I’ll feel like I’m breathing again

Is it wrong to identify the transitioning seasons

While you live them?

Will I someday stop coping and start

Existing

Again?

Panic

I am told these endless tales

Myths and legends, of how I prevail

Tell me where then, this strength you cite-

has gone, and why I feel so frail?

At any moment my blood will stop

It will back into my skull and pop

Dripping down each empty socket

Breaking my rib cage and pooling my pockets

Back the way it was before

The days I was dying, the dreams I abhor

The memories of childhood stitched up and fixed

A traumatic memory, I endless resist

WHY

CAN’T

I

JUST

REST

Sdrawkcab

i’m not sure how i feel now that it’s revo,

and so many have left me to tor.

My heart feels tsol, ytpme, unwanted

and no one is still here to speak.

 

he left like the others, two winters ago

i still dream of him from the long before.

i see him in faces of men whose blood

never burned quite so black;

and from whatever traumas, they’ve found their way back,

but not him. not him. i still pray all the time

one day your heart will be healed

and maybe you’ll say

hello again

to mine.