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Funeral and a friend

 On goes the stuffy black dress. I am reminded of how she loved to dress up. But we already know that. Black poofy skirt? No. Way too fancy. Why would you suggest that? Embarrassment, no, shame floods my cheeks. Stuffy black dress it is. No mascara they say with a laugh. Their dry chuckles sting the dull ache of my bones.  A sea of faces and arms and 'I'm sorry's' float by. Finally, a tissue box is found. Dab the puffy eyes. Pat the red cheeks. Back to the conveyor belt of people, people            people. Why must they apologize again and again and again for  something  they didn't do? Some wrap their     unfamiliar      arms around the tears . Some have quiet words and pitying faces. Some wail.  And      the family                 drains                                    away.  Each thank you wears down                     a little deeper.                                               the bones  I'm sorry for your loss. Thank you. Thank you. Thank You. Thank

Journal vomitšŸ¤®

    Just a excerpt from my journal that I thought I would share:) I don’t see outside of my cage. I see only the bars and the lock. The gag that covers my lips and chokes by breath. I can’t breathe. I can’t leave. I can’t break free. I’m hanging by a thread, about to fall of this cliff that you all call life. How do people walk this treacherous edge with such grace? Are the faking it? How do they get back up when they stumble? My thoughts pull me down the precipice making me totter losing my balance. The voice inside my head spirals downwards. Down it’s staircase it goes each thought and breath slowing until there’s nothing left but a dark void. My voice echoes into the abyss.  

Helicopter

  Do you ever feel like you are sitting on the blade of a helicopter? Going round and round, higher and higher until you are so dizzy and so high you can’t catch your breath. The roar of the helicopter drowns out your thoughts as you cling on to the rotors whirling through the air. As the blades chop the sky to pieces you feel the weight and burden of the helicopter beneath you, full of its passengers, hanging thousands of feet above the earth beneath. They sit oblivious, covering their ears to thunder of the flight, the thunder of the blades that you cling to. Spinning until there is no breath left in you.  

incendiaries

 Sometimes it’s not about staying alive  Sometimes it’s about not dying Not letting that last spark of hope float up  Into the abyss of the dark sky that envelops you That fire that used to burn so bright that it  Scorched you Sometimes it’s not about staying alive It’s about not dying, Because you can’t Because you’re too strong of a flame to be Quenched Because sometimes you can’t do anything  but BURN

The Fault dear Brutus

  I reach up to the stars that feel so close In the dark they writhe hanging Their edges blur and boast With the black night surrounding enclosing Spread and smattered on the canvas Painted by random dot by dot But designed each are his The god who makes me feel like shiz šŸ˜‚

Flies, Worms , Apples

September 25, 2019 Why does this keep happening? It’s a disease and they’re dropping like flies. One by one by one. The lies are like worms slinking into the apple that is the heart, flies and worms infesting the world and our bodies. Why? And through the midst of it all You are there, tears falling from your face as you watch your children’s hearts get eaten alive with the worms. Destruction of the body mind and soul. So often it’s only the body on earth but this destroys all. But then again when the body is destroyed the mind and heart is so often also affected. And when my ear hears this my selfish heart turns not to your face but to my own. Giving the answer to my question above. Why? Because we our a selfish race turned away from you. Kill the worms, restore the heart we ask of you. We lose ourselves in the suffering, drowning in it and fail to see your mercies and grace that are above the water. So easy to see and grasp but blurred by the silky comfortable waters that drown us in

Pool Games

There was a game my dad used to play with me at the pool when I was younger. I would start to swim towards him and he would back away every time I got close until we were in the deep end. He obviously thought it was great fun but I hated it. The struggle against the water, threatening to fill my gasping lungs, safety at my fingertips but never attainable. Helplessness. My grasping arms clutching nothing but water again and again and again. That same feeling drowns me. wrapping me in its embrace muscles failing as my body tries to gasp for breath life into its lungs. But the surface escapes limp grabbing hands again and again