I cannot see the light as I stare into the night. I stretch out my hand and rest it on a prayer. It flutters beneath the failing strength of my belief. Bottled hope is sold within buildings of sand and stone. Beacons of guidance that shine with splendor… blinding the very ones that approach on bended knee. Look up fool and see the god you kneel before.
I ignore the praise that is freely given. It clatters upon the cobbled courtyard and bounces oddly like fool’s gold. Value washes away with the tide, I lament the need for sorrow at its passing. Still, I care not.
Each morning I see you. We look deeply into each other’s eyes… the same damn eyes. We struggle, we accept, and we struggle again. The intensity of our bond causes the glass to melt. It forms small puddles upon the floor that reflect different images of my inner struggle. I stomp on them, but with each victory I am rewarded with more awareness of my failure. I weep my soul from my eyes. It falls like liquid glass even as it struggles to keep a single fingertip upon my queevering eyelash.
I stand before an open grave. Charred remnants of forgotten phrases lay upon a coffin of white. I long for what is held within… what I must do without from now on. Poetry is dead. I cannot find her hand in the dark without the help I so desperately need. I yearn for it, but I have made promises. It isn’t fair that I do not hold the talent to see the words I need, they vanish like the smoke I miss. I hear them pounding for freedom from within the grave as I quickly fill it with the dirt of anger. Anger… that is all that seems to find a home here now.
But I have made promises. They are far greater in importance than poetry. I will weep over her death later, but for now I drink. I drink to kill the dreams before they are born. I will join my poetry soon, just not today.
I have dreams and goals like everyone else. I ponder these as I type through the tired and push myself towards the task at hand. Would it be easy to simply lay back and appreciate what I have accomplished so far, absolutely, but that would not be me. That has never been me.
Goals are like mile markers and there is always another one in the distance. There is a hunger and a drive for some of us that seek to fulfill our dreams… regardless how many tell us it won’t ever happen. And they do, make no mistake, I have far more naysayers than supporters in this world. Online and in real life. I shelve the negative next to the kimchi, it ferments in my fridge now.
Sleepless, I dream of reality… I dream of restful accomplishment.
He writes to be remembered. Not as a great man or even as a success. Instead he simply wants the world to know he did live once, that perhaps he mattered to someone. Obligations hang like apples, I adorn my limbs further with memories like ornaments. Some sparkle and glow offsetting the orbs of darkness that are my life as well. I stand motionless in time. Some notice me, most ignore me, but still in the end it is I. I am me.
I stoke the fire to light the pyre. Feeding emotion from human devotion, conflict is found without a frown. Sticks and stones they come for my bones. Who knows, my phone knows. It vibrates the same but never a ring.
Murder me with a dagger of physical anger. Beat your chest and take comfort in the fact that you have a cause. How does the weight of that banner feel while you balance it against your large ego? A giant of a man standing so small on social media. Crying to the wind because no one else cares. Slay me with your fury and shake that small fist in my direction. I smile in amusement at your attempted aggression.