Wants A Gun

He thought if he left, things would change, all would be new, his world re-arranged. There was just too much of nothing, like a hole within a hole where life moved so slow it was stifling. He wanted to avoid the trifling haunts that called to him like the legendary Sirens, a cacophony in his ear, rifling through his mind making it difficult to think. The bars, the nightclubs, the drinks. He thought of God and family: what would they think?

Frustration mounts, a thick pain in his head that punches and stabs, a killing stroke, until he bleeds his dreams in black inked words. He seeks the light in all things, looking to the changes as divined fortune, whether ill or blessed, no matter the outcome, God knows best. We are built for struggle, he recalls, as the Bible tells of trials and tribulations that will ensue, the challenges of life, must be accepted and expected. Welcome the strife. It’s useless to resist.

Forgetting is so soothing, yet it is dangerous, so we look to find the balance between. He ventures to the shaming balance, his ego dancing on the edge of disdain, caring and wanting to be care-free. What a conundrum that keeps him treading away from the answer, playing games to rid himself of the questioning devils licking at his angst. He wants to laugh, he wants to run. He wants peace and he wants a gun.

He left anyway, a woman on his mind and greenbacks beckoning. No reason to stay. No one needed him. It was the end of those days, as they say.

3 Ways

Enemies

The Attack

Create

I said I’d give myself a change to be happy, to fix my eyes on jubilant skies of blue and bear witness to the reflection in my eyes gazing on the unknown and new. So I cried a lifetime of cries that lasted an instant, tears heavy, rolling down my face like ball bearings. I’m waiting for a sign. Waiting for a time. Waiting for the “intelligent design”. Restructure. Re: Define.

I said I’d give myself that chance and so I will. I see the power that I wield. A power to create, to build worlds with words and sculpt dreams through brushstrokes. My skill is evident and must be nurtured, so I insist on writing to gain purpose. God insists that I write to glorify him, so I am to do both, praise Him in victory and defeat; hold Him close. Chronicle my days by writing the notes.

The true power is in the freedom to create. The brilliant light that language can generate by placing words and phrases in various ways, brings joy to my face. I cannot tell you how unhappy I have been as of late, but I can tell you that these words are my only escape. And I ask God for guidance, for answers I anticipate, and in seeking His glory I find my fate. I am bound. I am charged. I am destined to create.

I Hurt, I Pray, I Cry...

I hurt, I pray, I cry for the day
That I don’t have to anymore. It’s the only way to envision happiness.
And happiness is shackled, a fool lost in chains
While I do battle, worried and worn, torn and stained
My scars are hidden, still, you’ll know the day
You’ve seen the tragedy of the hurt I refuse to display.

I hurt, I pray, I cry for the day
That I don’t have to anymore. It’s the only way to envision happiness.
And happiness is a sucker, a chump that got beat up
Too many times, that’s why I’m watching their moves, turning the heat up
So I can avoid the pain, I don’t need the prospect of therapy
No longer a youth, long in tooth, walking the path to a better me.

I hurt, I pray, I cry for the day
That I don’t have to anymore. It’s the only way to envision happiness.
I am grasping light, figuratively holding the method of liberation
Peeking at it through my fingers, amazed at the illumination
I would hand it to you, freely, if you only would look my direction
But maybe it’s too much to see, at once when you’re looking at your reflection.

That Dreams Again

Think of how overly sad it seems to be tragically caught up in a memory
That takes it time draining you of yours, lingering and loving as it so pleases
touching your face and holding your hand, never really being there but there nonetheless,
making the days nervous so that the nights tremble, and you can’t shake the longing
A broken smile so crystalline, shining thin and ghostly and gone
Is a dream that dreams again, laughing that seems like a song

A memory made, a thought trickling to a cascade of wondering about
Sorrowful intimate notes that were once known to inspire adoration
Living the truth is living a lie is loving somehow watching a cloud filled sky
Casting a somber canopy that is a mirror to my mood, so I’m wishing I could fly
A careful kiss that is warm, is soft, something I carry with me as I walk
Is a dream that dreams again, and the tears pour from my heart.

Never Undone

You could never be undone; you are whole
Though thinking so pulls you in pieces
leaving strands like cloth fraying at the ends
a tattered memory, a dream in prosthesis
so when he reaches to touch, he can't feel
Yet what is deemed false? What is real?

Thoughts that are tangible, the waking arts that
manifest pages as ink stretched words and phrases
poetry and pictures of places, things, shapes, faces
are the stitches that have been sewn, the lines etched
permanent marks that can't be erased
They're engraved. Pressed.

You would never be undone; fully together
Watching the storms hover close with no shelter needed
Will you look to the lightning and hear the thunder precede it?
For there is warning that comes, the angered spark
That wakes the sleeping men or yanks them apart.

This Is How They Go

I haven’t seen anything yet, possibly they were fragments of the whole,
Puzzle pieces that have yet to connect, waiting flat and inanimate to be found
It’s all I can do to pick them up, one by one, place them carefully where I can see
And know, thinking, “maybe this is how they go”…
But no.
What you think might click, just don’t fit and back you go to search again
But at least you know what won’t work, what you can’t put in
The beauty is you’re learning to put it together on your own, grown enough
To discover the connection was always known.

Comatose

Slipping into an emotional coma. Seemed to be drained of what little remained in the first place. I try to explain to myself that there is an underlying message for it all and it probably is. I would like to think that giving it my best is what I have done. Don’t know how to manage loving when loving seems to be returned to the sender like mail that went to the wrong house. Nothing changes, nothing stays the same. It’s a cycle that I seem to be drawn into, undoing what has been done, walking around a path that ends up at the same wall I just climbed over. Sadness pours like a fountain.

Don’t cry for me, I am awaiting closure. Not so much more I can take. God asks me to have patience, and to ignore my pride, which I do. Pride is the offspring of the Ego, and they are both monsters, so much that I don’t know which is worse. Sadness.
My eyes dream of something I remembered and possibly lost again. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s much more than a man such as myself can even hope to accomplish.

God grants you what you need in order to get over. It may need to end in order to get over. And if that’s His plan, I’m good. I’m fine with it.