I lie awake,
once again losing the winding race against my thoughts,
when grandpa’s old clock breaks the wicked silence, striking midnight,
disowning the hour in boldly apathetic song,
and I wonder if it is just in a house of dying,
that one becomes so aware of clocks



I have been wake-walking in a worn-out tired that’s perpetually nauseous,
ravenous for something, but not hungry, exactly,
raw in a way that takes me by surprise and frustrates me;
the most trivial things are the last straw,
and there seem to be so many lasts

I have learned it’s not possible to wake up on the wrong side of the bed when you never really slept,
when there was no restful sleep,
just the tiny spaces between the cyclical blips of a never-ending SOS

and no matter what face I put on,
I am not greener on the other side,
I cannot find the sweet, restorative spot,
and too many days it feels like life is a zero sum game –
you only win until you lose again

I have been here before,
in a place that was a slow slide into conscious unconsciousness,
and the difference this time is that I know where I am,
I know who I am as I rest my head on the warm side of the pillow,
because I don’t have the energy to flip it,
and the flipping is never fast enough, anyway,
is it?

time isn’t on my side, which is funny,
because time is the only thing that matters,
isn’t it?

and I just keep asking myself:
what would be the point of living,
if we didn’t allow time to change us?
if we didn’t realize that time is the purest form of love on this earth?

Little Things

I don’t wanna talk about the little things;
I have too many things to say
and not enough energy to say them

it seems so futile,
speaking in this hypothetical past present,
the tense of lost chances,
while these Groundhog Days days go on and on,
sticky and thick like syrup

I don’t want to talk about the little things,
so I hang on to shards of hope,
turning them over and over until my mind is smooth

-image via Tumblr, original source unknown


the words blurred into one another,
every yellowed page like the one before,
every phrase becoming more foreign,
each syllable more severe

so, I walked away;
I sank into the wordless sea,
sight distorted,
down to where the light
was but a glimmer up above,
where the cold encased me,
a soothing balm against the burning
of the sun

I sank into the wordless sea,
enamored by the consuming silence,
by the thrum of my own heart,
a metronome for the endless swaying

I sank into the wordless sea,
but I was not drowning

I heard the sound of my own voice

-artwork via Pinterest, by Jael Segura; written in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie First Line Friday, where the first line is provided, and you must devise the rest


her heart was hand hewn,
a butchered block of aged wood –
cracked and dry

it no longer beat;
it only pained her,
its weight a foggy barrier,
keeping distance or closing in –
she wasn’t sure which

all she knew was that it hurt,
its splinters scraping against its walls,
gnashing at the soft tissue,
tearing through

and flooding her chest with dust

-image via Pixabay


the walls are closing in,
they’re closing in,
and my elbows are buckling
against their weight,
the balls of my feet are raw
from the force of pushing back
against them,
my head is one thumping pulse
of pain after another,
a constant, unwelcome rhythm,
a reminder that I’m still rigid in the
fight against it

but, I’m tired,
I’m tired of the fighting,
and lately I’ve been catching
glimpses of the truth
in random, slicing throbs
behind my eyes

I see myself,
somehow on both sides
of the walls,
simultaneously helping in the closing in,
and desperately fighting against it

after all this time,
after all this fighting,
the knowing and the unknowing,
the accepting and the cracking open
of my core –
what if I’m still the wall itself?

oh, God – what if I am the fight?

-image via Pixabay

Weary Bones, a Quadrille 

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 the slap-flapping of valves
   working overtime,
     ‘cuz they’re leaking

I feel the slowing tempo
 of waves receding,
   the acquiescence
     of my spirit weeping

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 but I can’t give in –

my soul’s still seeking

-image via Tumblr, source unknown; written as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s Quadrille prompt

Storm’s Eye

oh, divine, insidious pull
help me please, my soul is full

my shallow roots are tattered and splintered
my tired heart has been battered and wintered

your cradled strings strangely unbind me
and your wistful cloud holds some mystical key

I’ve try to stay grounded, but the din is too heady
I’m already rising, I think I’m ready

into storm’s eye, allow me to fly
will it unwind me?
I’m willing to try

do I get to return?
or should I say goodbye?

*written as part of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge 104