We are all imperfect;
this we should remember
above other lessons.
When others’ actions and words
drive you to fear or anger,
still your heart and stay your hand.
For we all began in the mud
and to the mud we’ll all return,
dirtier for the journey.
Happiness is for the drunkards
and the other bacchanals.
My sadness may shadow me:
lurking in the corners of my mind
and the edges of my days.
But my despair defines me:
in searching for meaning in the world
against a belief that there is none.
And my pain pushes me:
demanding I challenge myself
(if only to rise from the floor).
And my grief grounds me:
in knowing that whatever I must face
I’ve faced worse, and lived.
Happiness is for the innocent,
grief is for the gods.
Domestic duties:
quiet battles waged between
order and chaos.
We are born
as a fragile, sticky mess:
selfish,
whiny,
manipulative…
My, how things have changed…
As I look forward
there are times when I wonder,
“What’s the fucking point?”
I measure your age
by the divets of dry tears
left on your wet face.
Long sighs this morning
and deep furrows
and bags below my eyes
that will, in time, lay me down low.
I fade into the background,
fold into the seat cushions,
and echo between whispers
unsure if I’m unneeded,
perhaps even unwanted,
or just simply unknown.
The springtime rainstorm
suddenly blankets the world
with a white curtain.
In the depths of the night
where there’s no end in sight
spark your own flame
inside your fragile frame
and be another’s light.
A (wise) man of two faces 