I pull my drapes closed in the evening.
At night I ponder at what is out there in this wilderness.
I dreamt of a pack of wolves right outside, they lunged at me when I dared to peak.
My friend told me not to fear them, but to run with them.
I look at my tarot card I pulled for the day: a reverse knight of cups.
It told me that I am sulky, moody and jealous.
The readings are always right.
But acknowledging the fact doesn’t change much.
I sit with my grief, the year has been difficult.
‘It will get better,’ they say.
Well when? Because I’ve been waiting and giving, giving, giving and still nothing.
I pray, meditate, workout, ask—no beg, for change.
My heart churn’s when I look at you, so happy, successful and doubt you ever think of me.
But now I am glad you are succeeding, proud that you’ve gained more success than you ever would have in Texas.
You didn’t even remember me in high school,
Now I doubt I even cross your mind now.
All the precious moments that meant so much to me, what did they ever mean to you?
Tag: sadness
How Much Longer Now Until the Final Fall of Rome
My friend Scott has this place up North,
Real nice property.
Three cabins in the woods with a creek moving endlessly with time.
We’d venture up as soon as able, to escape society, be with nature, visit with people at the local bar that thought like us, shoot guns, arrows and drink beer.
We’d often wonder why no one else dared to make the journey out.
All those lonely people in the cities working themselves to the bone, petrified and unable to feel.
We’d talk about women, the dog days, politics, the government, when the end will come and how we managed our psychotic selves.
I’d look up at the stars barefoot at night wondering when the aliens would take me or when God would come and destroy the world for our atrocities.
The others cannot see, they don’t read, write, think, just cope with their miserable lives and tell themselves, “it’s going to be alright.”
Or, “the less I know the better.”
I’ve been out of work for over a half year, can’t pay taxes, bills, loans, rent.
They’ve criminalized being poor,
But I was always criminal.
You Don’t Live Until You’re Ready to Die
I sit on the bench by the creek we once enjoyed.
As the flies, ants & mosquitos eat at my dying flesh.
They drink my tainted alcohol ridden blood.
I look over at the cabins we once shared.
I envision your Great Dane Darla enjoying herself as she frolics about.
You shot your handgun for the first time and
Would shoot the ground as the target was maybe 6ft from you.
I groaned in disdain.
Like a storm trooper trying to shoot the enemy.
A reference you wouldn’t understand.
You couldn’t hit it if you walked up point blank.
I dreamt of you here last night.
Your coworkers took me on a plane to see you
Far off in some land, maybe Europe.
You were beautifully decorated in makeup,
Hardly recognizable.
We both cried at the pain of loss.
There was no rekindling anything,
Just sitting in the defeat of something that would never be.
I wonder why I still think of you.