Crickets

Twilight brushes dusk with it subdued glows. The air is warm and moist from an evening shower. Birds flit and tweet. Crickets chirp and the river roars, unwavering. Serene and peaceful, the world prepares itself for sleep, but not yet an eternal slumber.

How many hours is it?

Days, weeks, months?

The sky will come crashing and Mother Earth will awaken. Crushing and bruising, her path will be painful and destructive.

Beyond repair,

beyond hope,

beyond words.

The birds do not know so, they will continue their dance. The crickets do not know so, they will continue to chirp. The river does not know so, it will continue to roar, unwavering.

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It is so hard to write

When I feel like I have nothing to write and everything to write at the same time. So many ideas but only half-ideas because my brains already off and onto the next one.

So many half finished ideas, all stuck together like glue waiting to be brilliantly unfolded and revealed. But I cannot do it. There’s nothing left in me to finish what I started and I feel like I need to but I cannot.

Even when I do write I hate it, I feel as if everything I write is juvenile and repulsive, the more I look at it the more I hate it. It is so hard to write when my brain won’t let me write because it tells me I do not know how to write and I’m terrible at it anyway.

But I write, and will continue to write, because it stills me if only for a minute; my brain is focused and no longer on edge. It calms me, if only for a moment,

so,

I will continue to write.

Shatterproof

How to have hope when everything feels like a spiraling pattern.

Actions repeated until they blend one into the next and then it’s gone.

Shatterproof.

It’s the new normal. The same hell to bear wrapped in disguise as hopes and dreams.

But it is waiting for you.

For that one small trip-up that sends it all spiraling again.

Up and down, up and down.

Around we go on the grandiose merry-go-round.

Stardust

There is so much more to being than what we’re led to believe,

But what is it that makes us more?

The cosmos that lives within us? The stardust?

We are atoms set and bound together to create this being, this form. Is it rare?

Not rare,

it can’t be,

but honest.

Honest in that each form is unique in some way, no two completely and irrevocably alike.

That is the more, the cosmos.

We are atoms that make up this inhabitant we use and that is the unique stardust of being.

Happy

I’ve never been this happy, it’s as if I’m in a dream,

Please, somebody, help me, it’s a fervent fever dream.

I’m wrestling with some demons who won’t seem to let me be,

If anyone is listening, I’d expect some sweet relief.                                        

I’m very, very tired; I’ve been up all night long.

I’m fighting off the devil with everything I’ve left to spare,

this fever hasn’t broken and the battles hardly fair.

I’ll take a rest now and give way to weary bones,

I will not see you in the morning but that, I’ve always known.

Anxiety

Washing over me like a spark at an electric fence, no words come out; gasping and begging for air I am gripped tightly.

No release, no comfort, only tendrils of doubt; smothering.

Dropping,

dripping,

dropped.

I am wading a pool of uneasiness and overthinking. Shivers in my bones tell me its all wrong, all of it.

But what is it?

They won’t tell me, they just coil like vipers ready to snap. Ready to swaddle my being with a hundred ton rocks, crippling and crushing; weighing me down

and down

and down.

I am gasping and reaching, but the parachute is always too far.

Always too far.

My husband

Is the light in my life, the moon to my stars.

But he’s a dark moon, a moon filled with repression and depression. Mental illness piles in his mind like lava over a city.

Everyday he battles fierce and deadly demons, and sometimes they almost win.

They almost took him this time, self mutilation laying in a pool of blood.

Almost. Read More

Creamsicle

Neither good nor bad, there is no imaginable or conceivable way to argue that death would lean one way or another. Death, however, is inevitable. You cannot excuse it, you cannot hide from it, you can not ask it to go away.

You can believe death came in good fortune to those succumbed to unimaginable pain and suffering. You can believe it took them too young or they did not deserve to go like that. You may believe anything you want, but the truth is death is coming. Death will come for you, whether you have asked of it or not. Death will be the shadow that knocks on your door underneath an orange-creamsicle-colored sky and ask for your hand; and you will accept, but only because you cannot say no to death.

Grey

A damp, dreary, grey morning yields to the comforting touch of hot coffee in a warm mug. The smell of rain on the air, lightly weaving in and out of senses. Pressing matters are no more pressing than the light purr of a fat cat on a windowsill, still and serene. It’s impossible to say what makes it so sobering and yet so intoxicating to breathe in this day. It could be the slightest touch of a blanket, crafted of mist and thin air. The steam from the coffee begs to fight off the damp chill and fills the voids in the air with the sweetest and most familiar of smells. It feels good to be here in this place, time stands still; nothing matters. There is no rush, no hurry. Worries have been drowned on this damp, dreary, grey morning.

Rose-colored

How do we hold on to memories? Ever changing and flowing like time; they melt into the subconscious. Drifting and swirling, they mingle with the others like fine capillaries on a riverbed. Always growing, they become painted with moods and emotions; time and health. What comes out on the other side? Rose-colored memories tinted and stained by what we believed they were. They become different and strange but always filled with strong emotion that lingers on and melts, mingling once again with the riverbed.