In reverse 

we go.

Unless you know some other way.

It’s how I’ve lived my life.

Mired in my mistakes.

It must be painful to watch.

I was merely born like this.

I’m apt to take the long way around

even when the path at my feet is the shortest.

The words were as haggard as the speaker,
drunken and pathetic.
How long were they hidden on your tongue,
just waiting for a malicious reveal?

True words bring out true colors.
But I see you in black and white.
A transparent mask on your face
with a mouth full of lies,
each with a splinter that sticks to my skin.
I expected more of you, I did, from my own kin.

And shouldn’t we all expect more?
But to share that is to be unfair.
So expectation dissolves into enabling.
And enabling leads us here.

To the words that sting,
each one deeper, indeed.
But each word says more about you
than they do about me.

I discovered a wall today.
It exists only in my mind.
I found it at the dead end of memory lane,
hiding in plain sight.

My long term had always been an open map,
pathways to places of the past.
But this quick jog of the memory
has my feet feeling trapped.

I’m troubled by its mere presence,
this wall camouflaged in mirror paint.
Its reflective nature hides a black hole
of which light cannot escape.

Is its purpose to tempt me or protect me?
An era’s worth of memories erased.
The good ones gone just to bury the bad.
The darkness overtook what little light I had.

The birds fly around so freely, 
careless of the struggles feet below. 
The stress, the decay, the pain.

And perhaps what hurts the most 
is realizing how few of us are ever free. 
We always owe someone something.

Mortgage, rent, loan. 
Slowly, we drown. 
And most of those we owe are also in the deep. 

Obligation. 
It’s unsustainable. 
How long can we survive? 

And off go the birds, 
free as the skies.

Time.
It’s losing its luster
it’s gone.

I can’t believe
how quick
sand falls.
It’s done.

They had so long to go,
those hands up on the wall.
Fast, they spin around,
faster than

I’d like to know
if we can ever get it back.
Travel through the very thing
we now lack.

I wonder where they go,
the seconds of the day.
Memories may fade,
but they never go away.

He clutches it tight.

The walls paper thin, but no light is let in.

Buried inside, its secrets sit entrapped and out of view.

Easy to carry around, not a struggle for you.

On the outside, its appearance remains the same.

Same color, same face.

All seems well.

But its wings are sealed shut,

only opened to fill with what you conceal.

The weight thickens. It can no longer fly.

You can hardly hold what’s inside.

Your grip starts to abandon your lifeless hands.

The final descent of it all begins.

The wings unravel.

The secrets escape.

It crashes to the ground.

Destroyed and crumbled, flattened.

A box when closed let’s in no light.

It felt like the days melted together,
like the way the fire burned through people’s lives.
Like broken hearts forced to connect,
bonded by the will to survive.

Dizzy, I leave a week that felt like a month.
I question why we are surrounded by luck when others are crushed by despair.

The air so thick, it makes it hard to breathe.
A night darkened by evil makes it hard to see.

Where can we even go from here?
What’s the point of moving on?
Some questions never find their answers
no matter how much time moves along.

A clock is a funny way to tell time because it’s always the same.
But sometimes time moves slow, turning hours into days.
Sometimes time moves fast, reminding us not to lose our way.

Why is it that something other than the best of us can so easily get the best of us?
The ability to do so is so much better when we are able to squeeze any good from it.
The ease of which we can take it, turn it, give it back in its most horrific form — it’s something.

Why is it that the best of us can so easily turn into the worst of what we can be?
It’s sadness. It’s pain. It’s possessive.
It’s because we let ourselves. It’s the easy thing to do.

But how often should we judge anything by the ease of which it comes?
Perhaps, it is the difficulty we should prize.
Grasping at the challenge, the gleaming, tauntingly visible obstacle.
Shouldn’t that be the motive?
To take and twist any of the bad into something beautiful on the other end.

And maybe spread a pinch of even a memory of sunshine onto a poor soul who needs something to remember.
Perhaps maybe that can help light a path for wherever they were headed to begin with.
After all, the ease of which we can turn a smooth surface into a jagged, stone-filled quest
can be kept a guided trail by the mere decision to hold back judgment on anything we would hate to be judged for.

Lucky enough to know that I know nothing of the moment.
What that must feel like.
The thoughts that bounce around her mind.

I know nothing of the process,
the words to come up with,
hoping hers will stand out.
Hers will make them want to hand out.

That moment when the pen cap’s removed,
the sudden scent of permanent ink that could erase
something she hopes is temporary.

She felt the felt tip touch the surface,
all she could afford or find.
She’s lost any sense of entitlement now
as she picks up the sign.

I know nothing of what it takes to walk the distance,
a mere prayer in her hands,
to plant feet in a place so many had likely failed before,
but she hopes she’ll be different.

Hopes.
Dashed with every car,
driven by eyes that move the other direction
as they painstakingly wait out the seconds for the OK to move on.

They are lucky enough to know nothing of the moment.
What that must feel like.
The thoughts that bounce around her mind.