Darkness Engulfed

The darkness engulfs me,
No light shines through.
My soul screams and fights,
My heart starts to wither.

I hear someone screaming,
But they are not frightened.
They are screaming my name,
And I think I see light.

Hope flutters in my heart,
And it doesn't look so withered now.
My soul screams back,
Fighting even harder now.

This fleck of light grows bigger,
And soon I am blinded.
 My heart beats wildly,
And now my soul cheers and sings.

The light is so bright,
But I walk forward.
Arms stretched out,
My voice wavering 'Hello?'

I see her now,
A woman before me smiling.
Her arms are outreached,
She beckons me.

I hug her tightly,
Sobs quieted by the sound of her heart.
I close my eyes and sleep,
Only to wake in my bed.

This dream was not just a dream,
My cry for help was answered.
My God helped  me and her arms,
Comforting as she embraced me.

The message was clear,
I now know what I have to do.
Follow her voice,
And look toward the light.

Fort Justice

The clash of swords.

War. Anguish.

Something rotting and decomposing

Scattered weapons upon withered earth.

The soil upturned from struggles between men.

The ground consumes the blood.

This land soon becoming hungry for man.

Shrill cries of agony and death.

Bellows of man charging forward.

Hoping to live another day.

Sweat and stench clench the bodies

Of men alive and men dead.

Their corpses are nameless.

Ties between fact and fiction

Become a blur, none too distinguishable.

There are those that hide, hoping for

It all to just disappear, only to be found.

No mercy shall be shown.

For this is a war against Gods.

Men blinded to see that it was a just cause.

That the death of man brings forth the life

Of a just and noble God.

Others scared.

Fighting for their families and land.

Pillaging and ravishing.

Tearing apart homes, lives, families.

Fighting to do what is what they believe is right.

For nothing more than an opinion.

Or even for plunder.

Treasure.

The clashing metal of swords and shields

Lead to turmoil and hate.

What could be brothers are now enemies.

What could have been happy is now afraid and sad.

But we are all just fighting for what we believe in.

The scribing of pen on paper.

Of the sound of voice to the open air.

The splatter of paint to canvas.

It is all thought of as our own personal battle.

Between ourselves.

Alone is to be Alone

A friend. A best friend. Where is my best friend? It seems like I cannot find my way amongst the living. 

I used to be able to blend in and seem normal. But something happened. 

Experience, I believe, happened. My open heart was closed shut by the tragedies of yesterday. 

Like old newspaper turned yellow, but was once interesting and pristine. Now, dirtied by the outside world.

Things happen to us, good and bad. I believe everything happens for a reason, because each time, I learn.

Cumbersome and sorrowful, or even joyous and benevolent. 

Social circumstances eventually became easy, and the burden of loneliness subsided for the time being. 

Later on in life, the loneliness crept back in somehow and spread like a plague. 

It feels like trying to dig my way out of a hole six feet deep, with dirt as dry and hard as a desert floor. 

It is a plague. Personal as it is, it haunts until you feel it so far down in your soul, that you forget to feel sad about it. 

The feeling of self-pity quiets for a while and you actually become used to being solo. 

Like an animal that prefers to be alone, so there is no competition. Sometimes there is no sense to it. 

Feelings don't make sense sometimes. There is only the feeling, alone. 

Nothing else can truly explain why sometimes it feels okay to be alone... 

But that is denial.

It doesn't feel okay. It feels like I'm splitting in half, starting at my heart.

The sensation of being placed on the rack, a torture device used to stretch you from limb to limb.

Trying to make friends is like rocket science now. I can't seem to make sense of it.

What on Earth is wrong with me? Every attempt seems to fail, or putter out.

The next best thing is to climb back on the horse, and do so, no matter how many times I fall off.

Relearning what feels comfortable, and finding that one true best friend.

The Surface

So here we go again,

With the loopty loop,

And the long drawn-out,

Typography letters,

Trying oh-so-hard,

To make an impression,

On complex minds,

Or simple minds,

Cursive, half cursive,

Bunched up,

Upside down letters,

Trying to be noticed,

And to make awe,

Or maybe trying to be,

Unique or boring,

Something along the lines,

Of insanity and serenity,

All wrapped up in one,

Big and bold,

Tiny and thin,

There is no,

Making sense,

Of these compilations,

Of letter and arrows,

Stars and squiggly lines,

Making an impression,

On a train,

The side of a building,

A canvas or notebook paper,

To be recognized,

By other young urban folk,

To call out your name without sound,

And to shock and protest,

To lie and steal from your mind,

It does not hide often,

But it can be sneaky,

Oh the urbanity,

It creeps along city streets,

Galloping and hopping,

From eye to eye,

Near or far,

It awaits attention,

Craves it,

Until covered up,

Only to present,

A new blank canvas,

To be further worked on,

And in due time,

Under construction it may be,

It will be revealed,

To further grab you by the shirt,

And say "HEY, LOOK AT ME!"

Creativity.

Mrs. Misery

She wants to leave so bad,
But he won't let her.
All she does is sit around the house,
Looking at all the dingy objects,
Looking at all the books she's read 5 times over.
Her face is bruised,
And so is her dignity.
There she is, like a wallflower, just waiting.
Waiting for 5:00 to roll around,
So she can start cooking the roast.
He's home, and hungry,
He's tired, and angry.
She sets the table, and smiles sweetly,
He doesn't even acknowledge her.
She looks down, and leaves the room.
She cries momentarily,
Then returns to the kitchen.
He's in his Recliner, watching TV,
So she fixes herself a plate.
It's cold.
She does the dishes,
Then sits on the couch.
She's not interested in The Ed Wynn Show,
As she secretly glares at her husband.
She's lonely with him around,
Ugly with him around,
Sad with him around.
He's an all-around Misery Maker.
She leaves the TV room,
Going to the closet in their bedroom.
There, in an old hat box,
Lay her solution,
And she already feels a weight lifted.
She moves the box under her side of the bed,
And dresses into her nightgown.
She puts a change of clothes
Under the bathroom cabinet.
Walking in the kitchen,
She grabs the Cream of Kentucky Bourbon,
Pours a glass,
And sits on the couch.
After-while, they retire to bed.
She lays, with her eyes open,
And when she thinks he's really asleep,
She quietly pulls out the hat box,
Opens it, and
Grabs the .38 Revolver.
After making sure there's a bullet in the chamber,
She walks over to his side of the bed,
Pointing the gun right at his head,
She wakes him up.
"I just want you to know,
Before I kill you,
That you made my life
Miserable,
And I wonder why you
Even married me. But I
Don't believe in divorce.
'Til death do us part."
He was so shocked,
He didn't even move.
He just held his hand out,
As if signaling her to stop.
Before he could say anything,
She pulled the trigger.

A Place I Don't Want To See Again

There's this one place, a hotel, where beds are messy and things are scattered. Tools and objects. No good.
Another place, that smells of cigarettes, an apartment, with bedbugs under the bed. Nothing but beer and chicken in the fridge. A place of indecisiveness and hate. Filled with sarcasm and "couldn't-care-less" attitudes.
Another place, a run-down house, filled with people I don't know. Drugs. Dirty. Awkward. Strange.
Another place, a street, where others' doings are private, but not secret. Hoopin' and hollerin'. Loose, careless bodies. Blood was spilled. People, me, hurt.
Another place, a facility, where lost souls are taken in, droves at a time, and nurtured back to life. Where they are given guidance, structure, and a second chance. Some people take it, some leave it. Filled with people of all kinds; differences, but still the same.
Another place, where mentally unstable people go to figure out their troubles. Friends are made, but never kept. Where some workers are mean and strict, and some understanding and loving. They hold yoour hand in all but the physical sense.
Another place, a place where lives are saved, but unpleasant nonetheless. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Boring. Sedation.
Another place, a house with rooms packed with beds. No room to breathe. Requirements and responsibilities. Thieves and shape-shifting, conniving women. You want to be friends, but it's vulnerability they feed on, luring you in for the taking. Taking advantage, that is. Taking serenity. No room for peace of mind.
Another place, a city, made up of country singers, drug dealers, homeless drunks, and all the other entrails of a big city. Its familiar streets make me want to puke, and I don't ever want to be there alone again. Too close to old people who use and abuse. Mistreat. I try to think of other things, but that's essentially all I can think about when I'm there.

I need my soundness. My serenity and my family. Because, that's where I really want to be.

I Bleed Ink

We meet again. My hand on pen, which meets paper. The words form on paper, but do not wish to be revealed by tongue. At a loss for words, when the words are, in fact, there. Yet, no one understands them, as if I'm speaking tongues. An ancient language others can't seem to fathom. My heart and my mind grow weary of trying to explain what doesn't want explaining. Ashes to ashes. I'm afraid I'll never meet the right person to share my burdens with. Yet, I have. This book. The gateway to my sanity. Where will you take me? Nowhere. You are but a book. Pages that are combustible. All evidence is distraught though ink, which bleeds unto this very page. My mind cannot stop... And my hand, which holds the pen --my lifeline-- cannot move fast enough. Until the next time my heart tells a story, adieu!

Posted on dVerse