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

The rain against her window echoed through this hollow room with every drop, loud enough and long enough to drive away rational thought. If he was ever going to do it, tonight would be the night to tell you, my darling, sweet dreams.

Slightly, as if by pure coincidence,

This door on her right creaks open

Filtering stale light, pale dust,

From a lifetime set in mellow tones;

Dimming lamp shades that still reflect

Mistakes she wears upon her sleeve.

Her selfish thought today?

“I wish these scars would just fade away…”


Is freedom being able to make your own choices, then living with the consequences of those choices? Then why does it feel right to make this decision, when it’s the coward’s way out, free of consequence? Must be because I’m so fucking pathetic…


I am not the flower that touches delicate skin

I am the thorn of shadows the clouds rain in

I am not the bristling, inviting spring wind

I am the cold winter whipping at all your barred sins

I am not comforting hands that feel the same as home

I am the darkest roads abound; forever left to roam

I am that falling, failing feeling in your gut

I am that gnawing, aching pain of a cut

I am that harlot, that distasteful slut

I wish to be free, yet I am anything but