Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“My love remains an unfurled bud, a future with a diametric fate; I’ll blossom in the Spring, or else suffer through another winter alone.”

You aren’t here.

But somehow,

Even when I can’t feel you,

I am guided by you.

I know what you are;

Just a false light,

A fleeting sight,

But my eyes

Catch your fire

And my heart takes over;

I can’t move forward

Without you.

My world remains opaque,

Where nothing exists

But the indent of your feet

On a path I can only follow,

Hoping that it leads me

Towards our new beginning,

Or to the end of me.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

Every day I feel it, and it hurts, but never enough…I never feel like I’m hurting enough.

Do you want to know what it feels like? To be sitting in a waiting room of a planned parenthood, knowing that only a door away lies your girlfriend who is begging for the pain meds to numb her emotions as thoroughly as they have her body?

For starters it makes you feel useless.

You can feel every individual heartbeat under your chest, the noise echoing into your bones, and even though blood is clearly rushing to provide oxygen to your body, you are short of breath.

The exit sign above the waiting room door begins to shine and grow and shine until it becomes a red blur against the screams you are holding back.

The purse she leaves with you suddenly weighs a ton and becomes the only anchor binding you to that ugly, uncomfortable chair.

You blink as rapidly as possible, praying that with each closing a new tomorrow will be staring you in the face, that you’ll wake up and this nightmare will fade away.

You clench your fists so tight you doubt a crow bar could open them.

You can suddenly smell the other people in the room; the overused cologne and perfume, the scent of sweat rolling over you like an ocean breeze, the stench of bodies unwashed for days that fights its way into the portion of your brain you associate with fear.

You feel all this and still…you can’t even imagine, can’t even begin to fathom what the real pain is like, so you pray to whatever God, any God, every God that somehow, someway you can take any of that pain away, take even a fraction of what she’s feeling into your body so she won’t have to feel the full brunt of it. You do this knowing it’ll only push you over that edge and in that moment you see the truth.

Every single fear you’ve had about who you are becomes reality. You realize the world sees you exactly how you see yourself and you stop having that hope you deserve to smile.

But do you know what sucks the most about sitting in that ugly fucking chair, waiting in silence to see the girl who just went through hell…

~If you feel like your life is over, what does she feel as the one with her body limp on that table, trying to ignore that doctor telling her it’ll be over before she knows it, holding onto that nurses hand as if she’s about to fall off the edge of the world…