You think about it all the time,
But never have you said
The weight you carry in your heart,
The words within your head —
But in the morning, hard and gray,
You’ve known these secret pains
Then covered up the traces,
All the bruises and the stains.
To all the world you’ve shown a face
You’ve painted on for show,
But that’s become habitual;
Now, everywhere you go,
You just display the sunlight.
You’re a beacon mid the rains,
And no one sees the leakage,
Or the bleeding, or the stains.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
You know that’s how you think —
And when you seem on edge, I know
You’re really on the brink —
Why is it that you won’t come clean?
There really is no knowing,
But maybe you’ll see hope to know
Your stains at last
The guest we never want,
Who will not leave
Is not an academic thing,
Nor is he quite reducible
For there is no reality
That’s greater than
What can’t be touched again
And here it is:
Another sunset, meaningless
Within this strange and empty
a hundred-weight of dreams inside
a thousand-weight of fears;
some scattered days of hope within
and dozen months of tears —
a dread that’s born of emptiness,
a questioning of worth:
a plague of such anxiety
as rends the very earth.
the colors of accomplishment,
ineptitude, or both;
the tearing sound that signifies
both injury and growth —
the hotel with its silence, or
the spotlight with its cheers —
a hundred-weight of dreams inside
© Andriy Bezuglov | Dreamstime.com – Redhead girl with wet hair sits in the bath full of water with m
what is your truth? what have you seen
when no one else was there to see?
is there a lonely spot of road
that's made from you or maybe me?
you knew one in the wintertime
when walls were painted with despair
and no place that you went preferred
what is your plot? your character?
why do you linger over post,
or stare at empty screens and wait
or dream of flight, while sealing out
the lonesome road of wintertime
the isolated way;
the habits that are character,
the token we must pay
to see while we have eyes to see,
and not to look away:
for humankind is horrible
past what mere words can say.
our eyes look down,
the raptors coil above:
it's only love that is our hope,
and all our hope must be
Every Saturday, her dad
Would grill in their backyard;
With charcoal hot on cinder blocks,
While she kept watch and guard.
And savory and sapid-sweet
Were those times without care;
Until the day the grill went cold,
And her dad wasn’t there.
See, no one lit those coals again,
Although she looked in vain;
In bars and underneath soft sheets
She sought that taste again.
She could not find her lost charcoal;
Her desperate search – no trace –
Till she woke in a small white room
With charcoal on her face
The saddest day I’ve ever had
Lies shrouded there, in time;
The nights I spent among the mad,
These are not yet in rhyme
The cheerless road of winter, where
Despair was born of doubt –
Just like the greatest loss I’ve known
That I don’t write about
Yet, I hope what I do not say’s
Relatable, somehow –
There’s madness in the very air,
It’s all around us now
Still there, within the frozen past,
The branches bare I see;
A lonely road in winter, where
I lost the best
Now every pathway seems the same,
And choices vary not at all;
The way of hope, the way of blame,
The spring, the summer, winter, fall –
They’re all one road. It’s all one thing.
The path of tentative mistrust
That each new footstep seems to bring
Her in this world