Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat.

He stares off into the space surrounding him.

Lost his freedom of expression to the wound ball of yarn.
Each push continues an ethereal unravel.

By the throat, left tangled in stringy embrace.

Something as simple as this left him voiceless.
Our response seems to be, "accidents happen."

Let me tell you, those at fault don't believe in accidents.
They believe in horrible, horrible mistakes.

Mistakes happen.

To Be a Step Away

My limbo state was the failure
to make it to square one of recovery.
Whatever the reason may be,
denial, reluctance, or even rebellion.

The world keeps moving.
No matter what state of limbo you're in,
and you criticize me
for being okay with recovering.
A laughable, no, is all I can say to that.

Please understand,
I come from a different place,
a place of ambition.

I fall. I break. Pick my pieces off the ground.
I carry them until I'm able
to glue my disconnected parts back on.
Maybe you haven't found your square one.

So listen, I can't help you.
I can try.
With no explanation other
than what I've been given,
I can tell you,
your square one is close enough.

The Sad State Of Me

I'm as delusional as I've ever been.
No interest in joining the world in the daily grind today.
The blank spaces of life, the time spent doing nothing
get's greater with the hold depression's got over my head.

And inside it, a groove that spoke to me
and said my place in this world.
Notching me in to a space I belong.
Alone. At my desk. It isn't so bad.
I belong in this book, on this page.
Again and I again I tell myself
I'm some sort of superhero.
I can change the world from the darkness
that midnight brings to my desk.

If I'm unable to to fulfill the job,
the weight of how horrible I am
at taking care of myself falls over me.
A loud thunderstorm of thoughts.
Remind me I can't be good enough,
again and again.

The storm starts to quiet down. . .
I'm left dealing with the aftermath.
The flood of reality telling me -
I'm a nothing again and again.

Where's the superhero,
where's the weight of the world?

It's the sickness that caught up with me,
the pressure of needing to give back to my world,
that has sacrificed all it has, to keep me happy.

But I fail to be.

Ninety

You feel your memory is fading,
half asleep,
in a fog.
It's a theory I have for you,
that you feel as if
you're drifting through the day.

In a daze,
and unafraid of dementia.
You've accepted your age,
your death to come.

I can say for certain
that you're the only someone
I've met so willing to keep
their wits about them.

Or prior to the start of your senility -
someone so accepting
of the world as it is.
Or someone so willing to lend
the helpless a hand of grace.

We owe the world your wisdom,
and it's our job to pass it on.