I never really know why I am here…again.
The things that set it off—a sharp report
That starts the pistons of my mind
chugga cha chugga cha chugga
that pound away at who I am
and leave a bare exposed—like sand
after all the shells are washed
It goes to center—deep inside the core
Of who I am (or who I thought I was)
And drags away the periods,
The commas and excitement
And leaves behind a question mark
A speck of glass that stayed behind
After all the shards have been swept
The deepest dyes: the ink that that
should replace my blood
the lush creative tropic of imaginative hope
just seems to disappear
and leaves behind a sand dune flat
and radiates the bitter sun
and waterless expanse upon my
It’s lonely in my hole, a bit, but better far that way.
Some griefs carry best alone,
No words can solve the ache
That Providence declared your part
To yoke you to the Cross.
The times you need a soul—other than your own—
Are times no human can get flush
To where the raw has been.
And as the pain subsides it
Somewhere water flows like silk—
running up the hill
And tress are green and rich and full
And children play in sand and rightly think
That they are architects.
And any dream that they can make
Turns play into a world they live inside until they’re old
And someday…not too long away… I hope Ill make it