Moraine

It’s easy to be bitter
It’s easy to hate the day
You lost the courage to
Move forward, walk away
Until it’s all just a noise
In the background, ringing dead

Steps forward lose their purpose
And so you fall and don’t mind
The pieces scatter out
So far you’ll never find
Lie face down in the dirt
Certain nothing will matter

Again

It’s the freedom you never had
Sever yourself
From the equation
It’s the tears you never shed
That held you back

Again

The lies that left your lips
Mask the truth that’s in your eyes
No one can see, no one can see
It was you all along

9 months ago  /  Notes

Burning Guilt

“It’s nothing.”  His lies were no longer convincing.  Something had drained him of that unmistakable charm, wiped the undeniable smirk from his face, robbed his desire to weave in and out of the truth so quickly that the lines would blur.  Clarity led her to persistence.  “No, really.  What is it?  What’s bothering you?”

He let down his hand and met her eyes with a blank stare.  Never before had he admitted it to anyone.  Did he love her enough to open up to her?  Did he lover her enough to keep it from her?  She loved him enough to stick with him as he pushed everything else in life away.  She put up with his mood swings, his violent outrage, and everything else.  He figured she could take the burden of his secret, and with a defeated sigh, shared it with her.

She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she found she had to sit down in the chair by the window.  How long had this been eating at him?  How long had he been losing a fight that could never be won?  The fight with himself.  Regret.  Remorse.  Misguided guilt.  His father didn’t leave because of him.  His mother’s death was not his fault.  He did what he had to do to survive.  No one blamed him but himself.

She took his hand and led them out the door.  Down the steps and into the car.  She knew where they had to go.  She knew what had to be done.  He started to recognize the streets they passed and she took his hand.  “It’s okay.  Everything’s going to be okay.”  His nerves were shot.  He didn’t think she’d ever be so cruel as to take him back there.  The old schoolyard.  The rusted street sign.  That damn dirt road, still bumpy.

“Come on,” she said.  “We’re here.”

For hours, they stood and stared at that old house where he grew up.  Not a word was said in the crisp sunlight.  At dusk, she let go of his hand.  “I have a surprise for you.  Stay there.”  He watched as she circled the house twice and then lit the book of matches.  As the flames consumed the house, he became certain just how much he loved her.

1 year ago  /  Notes

Tripped Up

In the background of nothing in particular, it clicks and ticks away.  They tell us to ignore it.  Constant and true, it forces their request into the realm of impossibility.  We are commanded and dictated.  Another cycle around.  This is unnatural.  This understanding underestimates its own unimportance.  A universal measurement of everything based off of gravity.  A futile reference.  A joke unto itself.  We have nothing to do with our time but to discuss how we have and will spend it.  How good it all used to be.  How good it all could have been.  If only.  Wise men share their philosophies while the fools squander within their follies.  We sit and wait for something spectacular, something momentous.  Nothing quite measures up to the stories of old.  Theories get tossed around about it all being some giant metaphor—an allegory of a puzzle missing pieces.  Search and scour all we might, we’ll never know whether or not they were even created in the first place.  The concept of deception divides us.  Over the years, it starts to look as if that’s how they had planned it.  Faith versus reason.  The endless battle.  Death of man.  Survival of ideas.  Preservation of integrity.  Little improvements along the way.  The first draft was better, anyway.  The flaws and room from improvement allowed us to breathe, to strive, to live.  The steps toward perfection trip us up.  However faint and far away, it still clicks and ticks away.  We don’t accept that in the end it is we who fade away.  In defiance, we dig up something special, something we hope to be spectacular and momentous.  The questions and doubt amplify the ticks and clicks into deafening destruction.  The pressure is too much.  It swells and we snap.  Everything falls back into place and we sit and wait.  Overdependent and faithful, we will never measure up.  We will only measure our shortcomings until the faults and cracks line up, seamless.  The puzzle of life will fit together perfectly and not a soul will understand.

1 year ago  /  0 notes

Thanatophasm

I knew the moment I saw him.  A lifetime of fear and anxiety peeled away.  Layer by layer.  Bit by bit.  A slow turn of his head tugged me along.  He must have known I’d resist.  I didn’t want to leave it all behind, but still I knew.  It was over.  Something in his tired eyes told me.  Indisputable, accepted, and already forgotten.  This is the way it had to be.  With each passing second in his presence, I found myself agreeing more and more.  Everything would be left behind.  It didn’t matter where we were going.  I found I knew this because he did.  He never spoke a word.  The realization sent a strangely familiar shiver down my spine.  Backlit with impatience, he led us down the stairwell.  I ran my hand along the wall, broken, scratched, and rotting.  My blood left a trail until there was none left to leave.  No one would follow.  Chain link creaked and clinked behind us.  The halls were empty - aside from all the clutter.  We passed by broken pushpins and burnt out light bulbs, defaced paperbacks and discarded clothing, sweat-stained sheets and cigarette butts.  The trash of modern life strewn about in places it did not belong.  Our journey had just begun, yet it seemed we’d shared an eternity.  My companion faded in and out of focus as we progressed.  I tried to tell him I was getting tired, but he stopped me before I could start.  The way he held his hand felt natural and I remained quiet without question or resistance.  I knew what he meant just as he likely knew what I was about to say.  He stood there in front of me with a saddened slump.  He knew I wasn’t going to like what was beyond the doors.  The pitying wrinkles upon his forehead and his apologetic eyebrows told me.  We could have stayed there forever, but he knew my curiosity wouldn’t allow that.  I would lose the only thing I had left.  My broken, silent companion.  Myself.  My ghost.  My soul.  This is the way it had to be.  It was over, but still I knew.  It had just begun.

1 year ago  /  0 notes