Because it Comes at a Cost

Under wing,
you've hung up,
 my desperate need to spread,
to take flight.

Potential can't propel me
across nations
when the stormy weathers show.

A single storm to shake your shelter:
Frozen in a wintry disease,
left to thaw in a cool spring breeze.

Summer reminded me when flight,
 and freedom had meaning to me.

My ailments- empty.

A deep breath,
a strong, winded lung,
and in creep their memory.

Simple freedom:
A chance to allow yourself life.
To be righteous.
To learn from another, as opposed to self.
An encompassing cliche.

The complexities of being free:
A right to rule.
The privilege to obey.
A vague perception of justice.
The uncertainty of fairness.

I'll leave my weighted wings behind;
walk not fly, sail not soar-
if it's what freedom deems necessary.

One Thrives, Another Dies

A blown expense, cost you, my support.
My ideas mismatch the mutual.

I'm told to use my voice,
"Speak-up!"
They say!

Then refuse to listen,
when I say what they'd rather not hear.

Reminding me, my voice,
couldn't be more useless.

Wholeness, health, restoration,
other lies they'll feed you.

They cause us to ignore
vital information.

The Maze My Mind Has Become

A list of what-if's fill my mind.

I pack the bags under my eyes
with exhaustion.

Walking with fright,
unsure if I'm making any sense. 

You're the road I take
to unknown places.

The forgotten dark roads left behind
with pieces of myself intertwined.

You're a soul-crushing cackle,
bouncing around me at night.

Sleep, or my mind,
what do I call on tonight?

I spoke to myself,
to calm the craziness,
but there's nothing I could do.

The only way out is through.

My Morning

The time of day I drag
my body out of bed.

Try to avoid losing vision,
fainting, or falling down.

A migraine awaits me,
at the top of the stairs.

A place where my breath runs from me...
Impossible to catch that guy some times.
Who needs to breathe anyhow?

The top, where my heart races.
I'm feeling flush,
and try hitting the floor
before it hits me.

My sight escapes me, my ears ring.
Zero sound, hearing lost.

It's a miracle
I've made it this far!

Etiquette

How to accept an apology with grace:

Understand humanity
doesn't understand
the word sorry.

Realize, integrity,
does exist in an
"if, an or but."

Some people, while genuine,
feel no remorse for their actions.
Yet they're honest,
sorry for the aftermath.

I know, at times, it's much easier,
to blow off steam...

To scream in someone's face,
to exclaim,
"IF AN OR BUT! HA!
WHAT ABOUT THAT I?
OR DID?"

Try to be kind, and say instead;

I understand the effort put in to this apology.
I'm unimpressed your sickly sorries.

Everything you've done
is incredibly infuriating.

However, I realize an apology
can be hard to find.
There's both promise and integrity
in a person who's willing to try.

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.

It's Sad When

Humanity isn’t able to apologize.

No longer knows how to understand;

Accept our differences.

Except for our differences.

What we don’t know is;

How to love despite being flawed,

how to be flawed, how to be flawless.

When to care, when to care less,

and when to be careless.

How to think

without being told what to think.

We believe everything printed in digital ink.

We don’t think. . .

We don’t adopt, but breed

children in need.

We don’t give,

but instead give

in, to greed.