Countertop

The last tear drop on the counter belongs to me…

There is a breath- a heaving really- that takes place when the place taken by taken places plays favorites.  When the track record of spun emotional hits fails to record the streaming tracks sliding down your face and plunging off lips- when the only thing you’re left with is the counter that caught your scattered fragments.

OCD lovers, and made friends who became maid friends, frantically clean up my environment.  Glass is swept, but 20/20 tears remain invisible and quiet.  My clothes are straightened out- stains removed by re-staining with stain proof “new.”  The glue they used to fuse the crude accoutrements on this broken warrior into something suitable for a fashion lawyer is an oily substance.  Not designed for repair, but to reap the air and draw a harvest of hotly blown explanation to cover my unveiled illumination of how I really feel.

Thousands of paper towel rolls expire as they mop up the soaking wet counter- that’s because each and every splattered ocean drop is undeniably real.  They wipe faster and faster trying to dry the counter off with the rapidity of their movements.  Get a gusting wind to come gusting in gushing gusto to give strength back to my guts again… but they missed a spot.  There, dangling like pieces of my fractured insides, out of sight at the edge of the countertop… A swirling, prismatic, micro-cosmic globe of stained emotions, pierced heart pieces, and misunderstood intentions all wrapped up in the bosom of the sea…

That last tear drop on the counter belongs to me.

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The Man

That man over there… he’s got an odd look about him… but it is one that is so very familiar…

He’s got the look of a man resigned to a pain he’s surrendered to. Pain not born of weakness, but of destiny embraced- the acceptance of incapability beyond endurance.

He’s got the look of a man whose sorrows number the grains of sand along the shoreline… a man who feels broken because he understands the true nature of his wholeness.  A man whose paint can only bleeds colors in a world that only receives black and white…

I see this man often.  I long to speak to him, but what words are there to share with one who bares his heart to bear the world?  So I patiently watch…

He’s got the look of a man who is afraid of love, not because of the uncertainty of its future, but because of the certainty of his past. Evolving from a heart breaker, but braking his heart from the dame his heart’s hard is breaking for because he doesn’t want to break her too… but he knows he loves her.

He’s got the look of a man whose only option left is to survive. Who cannot do right rightly, or do wrong well and so all that’s left for the weary warrior is to fight on…

Fight on warrior… fight on… these are the words I would say to him. Fight on… Faith is strength, and hope is sustenance… don’t believe the illusion that you can give up in this- there is too much in you… fight on warrior, fight on…

He has the look of a man who has encountered his personal demons… and dared sentence them to exile. A man who has stood in the mirror peeling back the social illusions of his identity… and been haunted by what he has seen.

He has the look of a man… who has finally learned what it truly means to be one.

Glimmer

A contorted expression of twisted responsibility. I hate it. I’m trapped in a lake of loneliness. Locked into a promise that only guarantees lies to me.

Lies of belonging, when really my only belongings will forever be the emotional myriad of internal longings… I crave access to normality. To pull it over my crazed identity like a cloak and pose like one of these folks who don’t bear the hero’s worry of the soul.

But I could be standing on a stage and still my presence would be staged. Tapping on hollow mics, not for praise, but merely recognition… acknowledgement.

Hello, can you see me, is this thing on? I’m looking for the place the wanderers call home… Hello, can you see me, is thing on? Right when I’m in need I notice everybody I need is gone…

Invisibility is profitable only for the heartless.

I don’t know how to not need… how to not be what I am…

All I know is how to be alone. I’ve gotten it down to an art form. A science. Heck I’m even writing a poem about it-

Oh how the lies make fools of us all…

Empty Gates

When does the game end…

I’ve been forced into a force quit- a no holds barred match for life where the only way to win is death.  No breath is given without one being taken away.

Behind this smiley faced emoticon emotions are gone, and our “con”versation has become my favorite con in the making because I make you believe I am who you want me to be in the moment. You keep me remote, and I keep control.  This joystick has been replaced with pain because at the end of the day… that’s all there is.

Pain stuck in my side, as I bleed out the room…

Winking at all the pretty ladies… desperately trying not to think of them as possibilities and maybes… because my crazy is, a flagless ship- my heart bears the broken bones of reckless pirates. A soulful sire clubbed with broken iron.  Broken armor.  A woman’s touch is just enough, but still too much, I drink though my bladder’s full, I just can’t get enough…!

When.  Will the game.  End.

There is nothing beyond these eyes.  Do not be fooled by shining irises soaking up light like some universal sponge- once light enters into these retinas its life force is over and done. A blackness darker than Africa’s penumbra rules here… a puppet master of masterful vocabulary, verbally inducing his strings… you think this is the real me but it’s all an act.

There is nothing behind these eyes…

When.  Will the game.  END.

Wisp

Where do dreams unrealized go, I often wonder…

What happens to thejoy that is swuelched by overwhelming dpression..

What kind of Heaven could there be that smiles at those in Hell, and

Loves people all through the before-life telling them that you wish them well..?

Where do the good thoughts go- the pure ones?

When you lust in you mind wherefore falls the righteousness of intellect that was displaced?

Strike a key on a guitar string, and pluck piano keys..

Changing the name of something doesn’t necessarily change it’s purpose… or does it?

Do you covet, or want it, or do you self-forbid

Because you’re afraid of some dark and mystical sin…

You might be correct.

Take it away from me…

Lock it up with my destiny…

This ability to see willingly the outcome of persevering, and foretasting teh sweetness of winning…

I don’t want it- not while I yet suffer.

What used to be my comforter is now strangling me beneath the covers.

**

~The Wordsmith