Sound proof
Can you understand the horror
Of shouting into a night
That returns nothing
Not even your own words.
Can you understand the horror
Of shouting into a night
That returns nothing
Not even your own words.
Imagine time
with heavy hands
that crush and mar.
Imagine time
with healing hands
smoothing out our scars.
Miracles are the result of hard work,
no matter what anyone tells you.
But I sincerely hope they don’t,
like a magician’s trick
when we know the method,
lose their shine with their secret.
“No wonder you don’t smile much,”
they said regarding my sadness.
I shook my head and said,
“No - it’s a wonder I smile at all.”
Every time I talk with her,
I fall in love again.
Every time it doesn’t work
hurts just like the first.
These endless days continue onward,
like waves flowing out into the sea
only to become dull, gray echoes
lost within the ocean.
The hands on the clock reach for me,
slowly making their way to my throat
and even as I flee their inescapable grip
I hear the closing “Click. Click. Click.” of their boot heels.
My days are a damned torrent of tomorrows,
a neverending nightmare in which novelty
is the only saving respite -
yet it erodes as well…
I want to make these moments mean something -
to regain the vigor of my youthful days
when I was a God in my back yard
and every day was a gift to be unwrapped.
I want to blow away the dust gathered on my heart,
sweep out the cobwebs collected in my soul,
and banish the stifling and stagnant air
so I can breathe again.
This life is mine and mine alone.
I refuse to spend my time running away.
Living is something that must be seized
and this is the moment I awaken from my daze.
I’m really tired of your apologies.
I’m tired of sitting there wondering if you’re coming back.
I’m tired of feeling foolish for waiting to see if you’ll return.
I’m tired of telling myself “five more minutes”.
I’m tired of saying that more than once or twice an evening.
I’m tired of feeling like I have to reach out every time I want to talk to you.
I’m tired of feeling like some of our conversations are just you punching your “time card” for the week.
I’m tired of feeling lonelier after our talks than before.
I’m tired of wanting us to be back to where we used to be because I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one who wants that.
I’m tired of feeling like I wasted an evening by giving you my full attention while we try to talk.
I’m tired of hoping. I’m so very, very tired.
Little people line my cup
dancing on tiny waves
only to drown on my lips.
The once was a wind
that blew through my heart,
whistling on its merry way.
But one day my tears dried up
and my heart became arid and desolate.
Neither sand nor sky stirred
and the wind stilled to empty gusts.
Little lost boy on the eye of the world
whispers prayers to unknown gods
and when he asks “Why?”
the night offers only reflection.
“It’s never good enough,”
the voices whisper
in sinister symphony.
“Just give up,”
the night sings to me
in the silence between sobs.
Sweeping up the dust
and emptying it into boxes
alongside trophies and wedding pictures,
memorabilia and regalia.
Ah, my love…
A seed, planted in fertile soil,
grows roots and reaches for the heavens,
swells with knowledge,
and dispenses wisdom.
