The year is ending

The year is ending.
Slowly days replay and readjust their meaning
into shadows of better and worse self.
I try to reject the possibilities
of my own wrong doing,
and yet, know
I shall repeat them if I do.
.
(Chorus)
What to do?
Who shall I be?
Have I truly forgiven?
Have I been forgiven?
Is compassion real?
Does anyone hear… me?
Can I change?
Will I ?
And you…  You in the mirror.  You who the prayer is for.
You who I have struggled to give name to.
You who keeps me up at night.
You who has laughed at my weakness.
You who has grieved with the only tears I ee.
You who has tried to forget…
tried to forget.
Oh how I have tried to forget.
And in my forgetting, I cast shadows.
 
And now I sit with the rain tapping on the window of a broken life.
Bright pieces still cherished by those who know and believe.
Cellophane tape sticking out of corners and begging
in one way or another for forgiveness of sins
realized, intended and not intended. 
Suffering with clarity, the life I have made.
What is this life I have made?
(chorus)
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In one year

In one year

I raged, wept, laughed,
stumbled, flew, dived,
and drowned.

names carried

like selfish, friend, love,
blind, cynical, hurtful,
and superficial.

words languished

became silent, seeking, slippery,
sharp, frozen, cataclysmic,
and rude.

places survived

found regretful, hurt, lost,
pity, lonely, worry
and sink.

and still I seek

I rage, weep, laugh,
stumble, fly, dive
and drown.

a prayer to whisper

hopeful for compassion, longing,
loving, faithful, fruitful,
and true.

to abolish in the next

uselessly just, intent, fear,
doubt, victim, lonely,
and self-inflicted.

and remember

to float, breathe, lift-up,
forgive, forget,
and be

unsinkable again.

Freedom 

I write to be free: of an emotion, a thought, a burden, a moment, a dream
I write to be free. So, when the moment takes me and the words spill onto the page or vomit, as the case may be, I am writing to cast off some shuddering menace, some heavy joy, or philosophical nonsensical battle with my soul.

But I write.

And I don’t need approval. I don’t need the clapping and hand back smacking. What I do need is you to hear me, even when my words fail, when my sentences are constructed in a meandering emotionally coded language of my heart, I need you to hear me. If you can’t, if you can’t look and agree to see first the pick you up carry your broken ass to the 7-11 across town to get the cigarettes you need or the tickets to that show sold out on Thursday and realize that yeah, sometimes I didn’t put the words in the order considered perfect
but I showed up…

So, I don’t need you and you don’t need me because I am not the candle giving you warmth. I must be the match burning down your house and I want be that.

I have never wanted to be that.

So go. I give you permission to leave. I give myself the same. Like a ticket to a train south bound to warmer climes take the vibe and the ride and just go.

You know, I told myself long ago, I would say no. Then returned for more of the same. I left thinking how could I change? What could I do? So, determined, I put on new shoes and a new hat, covered my heart in the plastic wrap of preservation to hopefully deliver the left overs of a worn out line better.

and I failed.

However, I showed up

Some how I think that should’ve mattered. But here is the thing – it doesn’t matter to everyone. Sometimes the showing up just means you accept you might get shot and when you put that shit in park, you put the target on your soul to be delivered every blow – whether it was yours earned or not. So why keep showing up?

That is what I am wondering. Why keep showing up, when showing up means I have brought my best albeit flawed self and know it is the monster under your bed. And that when I speak, “I didn’t mean that” you hear “you’re a liar” and believe me.

I write to be free. And now maybe I can be free of you and you me. 

Woke up 

Woke up this morning

crying again

Wish I could call back 

every simple sin

Leaving my heart to break

And seep into cracks in the floor. 
Oooo

Saw you yesterday

Tried to stay away

Lingering scent left me a wreck
Said you can’t compete

Can’t touch me cuz of he

Left the imprint of your kiss behind

But I’m fiiiiiiine
[What will it take? (What will it take?)

To end this costly war (what’s it all for) 

Land mines in my soul (never let you go)

There’s no where else to go

No

I really must let you go

I really must let go]

In my dream I fled

To where darkness was instead

Slipping razor through the bend
Sharp hints of it will end 

Wishing you were near

So I could let go of this fear
But only ghosts live here

Only ghosts live here 

anymore
I woke up this morning

Crying again

Trying to forget 

My sin ….

Twighlight

I wonder if the stars get anxious

When the sun begins to crest

The edge of a world sleeping?

The moon of course is always touched

And on occasion visits her brother

But the star with no name

Save an account in some ancient book

Has no quarter but with darkness. 

Who notices her shimmer?

Who counts the moments she strives to shine? 

And should she weep, would even the sisters give comfort?

In briefest moments, she gives light and takes care of a wish drifting by

But twilight comes, as the celestial perfection emerges

So, I wonder, do the stars grow anxious

As do I?

Run

Press against resistance

deliver from moments left on the floor

scattered across the hall

I run.

Seething at darkness creeping

into photograph ghosts left hanging

littering walls with pain

I run.

run…

Where can I go
Where the images cannot touch memory
and memory not ravage tender heart bleeding?

and so I run
down halls with walls hung with tears.

… with intent.

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