Scribbled Thoughts

A language of birth

hides in this side

of me,

masking that half

that is vulnerable

and real

and too scared

to let you in.

Read about responsibility

we have pulled you from

so we can declare you

competent and liable,

now that you’re behind

and we can blame you

for our timing.

This is how we care

for your well-being.

Enthusiasm gone

and the need to pretend

has drained away,

like your hope,

like your ability

to keep trying.

Cover the walls

with your selfish interests,

resigning yourself,

at last,

that no family portraits

will emerge

to take their place.

A darker mind

imagines the possible death,

the tragic surprises,

the unexpected interuptions.

They rehearse and prepare

for prevention

so those of light

never have to consider,

and can shine their pure light

a little into

their shadow.

Hide the remains

of a last desperate act,

sealed for months,

years,

before daylight

touches its truth,

and welcome

the horror

such enlightenment

brings.

Return to

lack of sleep

to prepare the day

for ungrateful recipients,

who stare

and ask why you’re here,

a question

you can’t answer.

Spill some ink

across the ground,

soak it into soil

and imagine

it reforming

beneath the surface

into a beautiful

world of words.

Flesh left abandoned

and only metal

left to bury

in a graveyard

created by one man

to grieve lifetimes

worth of friends

and have none left

to walk beside.

Throwing rocks

towards your goal,

hoping to reach it

a little faster,

feel more hopeful

that it can come true.

For those who

come after.