Those Waiting To Break

Each mistake is a promise. A strike. Keeping them at bay. No way to allow yourself anything because you’ve created a shaft, a chute, a well, in which you can fall.

No action underpinned with vows. No truth. Scaffolding and a beautiful facade. With so many pounding on the entrance; the hollow center shakes. Echoes. The emptiness reverberates and dust motes sing.

You are not home. You never will be. Could such a place exist? Would you go if it did? Or recognize it?

You’ve set it up so the fault will be yours when the time comes. When the metal bends and wood splinters beneath the weight of lies and good intentions; your need will not see the shifting of trusses or hear the peal of resistance. When the curtains catch fire, you’ll mistake it for a sunset. Watch as the walls are consumed. Stand on the edge of your clever construction; missing your opportunity to drop.

Middle of Things

        It’s safest for me to walk in the center of the road, far from either side as I can be. Keeping from what’s real.

And imagined.

Looming in, creating shadows.

Silence, all at once golden and terrifying, grates at my ears.
Its full weight pressing me to that white dashed line. Unbearable, like the heavy hands of god showing me how I’ve failed. Then the gift of lifting off, releasing. Allowing me to rise, my back to straighten, my head to turn, and my heart to beat.

I need to leave this line. Pick a side.

And go.

Several months ago, I stopped writing. I allowed attacks, accusations, and endless bombardment to stall me. To fill my head with worry that my words would be used against me during each encounter.

My words.

My words hurled as proof of my inadequacies. My lack of resilience. My failures.

I’ve decided it’s no longer my job to fear interpretations or retribution. This is my space, my sanctuary and I’m taking it back.

And Yet

And yet, you choose to defend
With blind eyes and closed ears
Ignoring your Truth.

Hope seeps through your fractured heart.
Slowed evermore by Should, like
Sand, those tiny glistening bits of quartz,
clogging all sense
Of self.

Drawing a line between protecting and sacrificing,
Your search is endless and meaningless.
Blanketed by Ought, and held out of reach
By your own hand.

Extending forever outward in all directions
Never to realize
Nor to accept
Each dream, each desire stems from within.

| CLOSE | SAND | DEFEND | STEM | LINE |

-Weekly Writing Challenge #163 Poetry from the secret keeper

Sitting With The Sad Few

white ines and asphalt in car park

I spend a lot of time in parking lots
not avoiding
but really most likely
avoiding

I spend a lot of time
in empty lots
early in the morning

save for the sad few that
park and sit and wait

wait for clarity
wait for decision
wait for answers

vast empty spaces
have no answers
bulldozed and covered in an layer of asphalt
they only offer a place to sit

a place to wait
a place for nothing
a place to observe the emptiness

even when they’re full
sitting with the sad few
we park on opposite ends

avoid eye contact
avoid each other
avoid acknowledging that we’ve gathered
separately
together

to be sad

Not Quite Shards

Cracked pane,
lightning splintering jagged
edge to edge

Not quite shards,
Plates hold
Balanced

New space created
One to many
Delicate footing

Held fast
With hope and
Sheer will

Not quite shards,
Rumbling trucks pass by
Rattle the smallest piece

Loose
A glinting shower
Of dreams

All shards now
And an empty
Pane