hatred.

i told you not to.

but you don’t listen.

damn it all.

castaway.

It's so dark; only a lone beam
of moonlight shines upon
the ground surrounding me. 
On my island in the sky.

With each step, the surface shakes.
A wobble, a tilt, a quake.
The leafless tree sighs in the wind.
Its lifelessness radiates through me.

Just a step, that's all it would take.
One tiny skip, a skip of faith.
The grass here has all died.
Branches snap beneath my steps.

A deep breath, as it may be the last.
Nervous thoughts seize in my mind.
A secret too great to keep.
One tiny skip, but rather a leap.

Falling, there's no turning back.
Waiting on your hands to catch me
I begin to fear an endless descent.
In an ocean of questioning, I submerge.

The air is warm here.
The sky, still only a beam of light.
But, the water is cold.
Living just progresses towards futility.

One final inhale of the smokey atmosphere.
Giving up.  Only to sink.
Hair floating freely, air unnecessary.
An end.  A peace.

let go

(Hopefully, someday, this will be a chapter in my book.  Enjoy)

Excuse me, too busy; you’re writing your own tragedy..

     He couldn’t take it anymore. Instinctively, his body moved out of his room and towards the front door. The sky was just beginning to darken completely. Music in his ears, he proceeded to try and calm down while he sat in the rocking chair. Night was one of his favorite aspects of life--a time when light ceases to exist; what could be more perfect? Darkness hid the truth he didn’t want to face. Each small breath was full of cursing. His eyes, exhausted, easily lost their focus; the landscape began to dissipate into an abyss of nothingness.

     Never had he wanted more to take in the aroma rising from a smoldering cigarette. The tranquilizer for his ever-increasing stress was within access, but he could not bring himself to move from his quiet chair. For such a warm evening with little cloud cover, the sky was practically bare from any celestial objects. A sense of despair began to overwhelm him. Thoughts of the future, plans for life, reputation, suicide, and self-hatred bombarded his mind.

     Why had he allowed the situation to elevate to this level? Why the problem even posed a question was beyond his own understanding; he knew the source of the problem. The past three days had been the worst in his life. Smiling had become an effort rather than a reaction. There really wasn’t anywhere to go from where he was.

     After what seemed an eternity of waiting, his phone rang. “I’m so freaking sick of this.” She couldn’t even spare a greeting for him. Sycophantism was by no means the root of this conversation. His heart sank.

     In all honesty, he hadn’t any idea what could, should—needed to be said. Moments passed one by one as he searched within himself to find an appropriate response. “I’m sick too,” he admitted, “literally.” And it was true; not even a sliver of food had dared to come near to him in the past three days. Just the thought of food made him nauseous. Eyes beginning to coat themselves in saline, “I can’t take this.”

     “Well, what do you want me to do?” she exclaimed. “It’s not fair that you won’t let me have any other friends! You have no claim to me and I should not feel bad for anything! So quit making me feel bad just because you’re unhappy.”

     “What’s wrong with us?”

     A pause of silence lay like snow in their valley of despair, only breathing.

     “I don’t know,” she told him. “I just don’t know.”

     “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m sorry we—I let it get this bad.” His heart screamed, I love you, but his mouth and mind knew that this would only further complicate everything and suppressed the passion’s plea. With a click, the conversation ended. What’s wrong with us? Those words echoed in the endlessly reverberating halls of his thoughts. Hours later, his eyes finally surrendered to the night and eased shut.

     As he tried to sleep, his dreams were teeming with visions of her. The sleep was interrupted several times by sudden shakes and what seemed to be the breaking of fevers. Sleep was in vain. He lay awake until the sun’s beams invaded his quarters. As he rolled over out of the bed he whispered to himself, “Great, another day.”

merely suggestions

who says This word must. be capitalized!

or that words can’t be spelled sdrawkcab.

what deciDes the words of order

after all, your brain is smatr enough to moev letters to their corretc positions.

Why not give the brain a little exercise once in a fixial-hegro?

The human brain can do some incredible things.

Did you just disregard the word fixial-hegro?

Or did you pretend that you knew the meaning?

It’s not a word.

But who decides that?  I wrote it, did I not?

My power comes from within.

It is displayed through my writing.

MY freedom to write as I wish.

Be unique.

Be individual.

dream.

peace

A sort of euphoria.

The sun beating down on my back.

Breathing fully to the depths of the lungs.

Fingers combing through the coarse green blades.

Calm.

Doesn’t everyone instinctively strive for happiness?

Or is it possible to be content? 

Without happiness or sadness.

Lacking distress or conscious thought.

The wind makes my hair flicker.

My heart beat, steady and complete.

invincible

The dreamer is a unique individual;

one who can believe in oneself

with little or no support

can stand against the fiercest foe

undauntedly. 

The only thing that stands

between a true dreamer

and a goal

is a dreamer

who lost

hope.

unbound

there is truly

something empowering

about removing the binding

from a composition notebook;

perhaps, it is that the contents

are now able to escape

the confines that once

selfishly

held the text to the pages?