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

A Story Where

A story where I write about you, but you’re covered in changes.
With enough rearranges,
That someone could believe,
At least, a bit more than me.

A story where I write about you, but as tiny rabbit.
Hit by a car, truck, or train.
And all I can see is the skewed
View from the street.
Heatwaves and blood.
Snapped neck,
Gristle and bone,
Dark halo.

Heart
Slowly
Slowly
Slowing.

A story where I write about you, but you’re not such a dick.
You climb from the contraption,
Just to see what happened.
Spot the small bunny with eyeballs loose,
Runny.

A story where I write about you, but you’re hidden in
Flickers of allegory.
Splashes of enlightenment.

You with your hands on your hips.
And a sick smile on your lips,
Lift my broken body
With the tip of your shoe.

A story where I write about you, but the fantasy is waning.
And the truth is regaining.
So, when I go flying, I’m not that surprised.

I twist in the air.
Search for the semi, fox, or plane,
That will finish me off,
Instead of your face.

A story where I write about you, but this time I get it.
I can write all I want,
Reconstruct.
Make excuses.
But truth will out
And
It’s time for me to accept
That you’re just a fucker.
And
I have no regret.

Truth Behind Editing

You’re ready to do edits for me?
You bet, I’ve got my red pen.
Well, okay, thanks. I could use fresh eyes. I’m already on my third draft.
Third, you say? Great. I’ll grab that hard copy, get it back to you in a bit.
Done already?
Nope, just the first five pages.
Oh, whoa, it’s really slashed up. Red.
We’ll be working together for a while.
It could hardly have been a bloodier beginning.

Word count: 75
Edition 7

micromondays