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free verse

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I started on top of the world;
I was healthy and hopeful and full of life,
Staring at the shine off the water,
Thinking, “How far will I go?”
So, I went. 

I took a trip to other waters;
I was smiling and dancing and taking chances,
Looking forward into the mysterious sometime when,
Hoping, “Maybe this is it.”
So, I leapt.

I left, and I leapt.
And my body plunged into that vast, endless crevice.
Shadows aflight, they tore at the sight of who I had become –
Flesh torn apart, warped, non-distinguishable.

I plunged, and I writhed.
I fought as I could until I settled into complacency.
Daggers drawn, they sunk their villainy into my core –
My soul did sore, bits of me scattered and jagged.

Words matter.
They always have.
And when you shout and scream and continue to taunt,
When you label and diminish and discern your own prejudices within a person who had spent years struggling, fighting, and longing to be whole –
When you hate,
You teach a person to hate their own sense of self.

I started on top of the world;
When I hit the bottom,
I was relieved to find unfamiliar waters.
Now, I’m secure in these fresh waters,
Safe, safe from you and your taunting.

It Sits Well With Me.

free verse

“Do you ever think of leaving?”

“All the time, Beauty, but there’s something about the thrill of never taking the step to make a change. You get addicted to the pain.”

“You were once a strong young man.”

“Once – I almost remember him – me, that is, before I let Reluctance set in.”

“What, are you changing your name, too?. . .”

“Fear. It sits well with me.”

My Every Move

free verse

A gray that consumes me –

A breaking, a snapping, no cracking, no sound –

Pressure within, a boiling point with no spill-over –

A rust on the inside that sheds like a tear –

A burning sensation that has lasted a year. . .

 

I can’t feel much, but it’s all overwhelming.

It’s less like a swimming and more like a drowning.

Why did I leave? Why did I leave?

Over and over again, I keep asking,

And it’s less like a scream.

 

Whispers of hatred fill this space.

And all I can do is sit here in silence.

I sweat. I fear. I don’t know why.

I have a sneaking suspicion the Enemy is here,

But that’s it; that’s all. It’s all I can say. . .

 

If I said anymore, my muscles would ache.

So, I sit. I wait.

And I wait. . .

My mouth may not be moving, but I’ve

Had this conversation ten times.

If I opened my mouth, it’d sound like a whine.

 

I run. I flee. I can’t get away.

I drink. I smoke. I wear a frown.

But once I get out, I’m still in shell-shock.

Don’t hope. Don’t dream. Don’t trust in a lock.

Maybe someday you’ll see –

 

Maybe you’ll see why my shoulders slump.

You’ll probably understand why I step away.

You might get why I’ve stopped –

I’ve stopped everything, and yet I don’t drop.

It’s because they’re watching my every move.

Alpha’s Journal: Part 8

What am I doing?

And now for the final installment of poetry, written by anonymous Joshua Alpha from Georgia — could be anyone, really:

“What am I doing?

And where am I going?

I bet these questions are asked every day.

I’m doing my best,

And I know my best is worthy.

And I know my worst gets thirsty,

And I give in.

But I’ll keep my faith.

I’ll stay drunk on love.

Just wait.

I can’t wait. . .

But I guess I’ll have to. . .

So I will.

I will.”

There you have it, folks. But in all reality, these posts have taught me quite a bit, mainly that you never really know when you’re going to stumble across someone else’s scribbles. It’s kind of fun to look into the mind of another person, someone you just don’t know.

Alpha’s Journal: Part 7

How can one confuse light for darkness?

Once again, I need to reiterate that this is not my journal, meaning I did not pick up smoking, if anyone happens to stumble across this blog entry. This poem is from a journal that recently and quite mysteriously showed up in my life.

 

“Every time I smoke I reflect.

The only reflection I see is you.

Mirrors show you what’s behind you,

And I guess I’m stuck in this looking glass.

 

I exhale with hope and exhale in the present.

Faith is a hell of a burden.

No guarantee, No proof, Just believe.

It’s a hard thing to have unless you can feel it. 

Emotions are physical even when not physically present.

Gift. A blessing and a curse.”

 

[Boy, this poem is more confusing than anything. Hell does not pertain to faith; Hell has all to do with fear — a twisted faith deriving from all things not of God. And faith does not have anything to with our power, our will, our feelings; they are a gift of grace by God Himself (when we submit our wills to His purpose), and everyone struggles with faith because we cannot manifest it for ourselves, within ourselves.

“Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God.”

Again, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.”

We all have some growth to do. But it’s important not to confuse punishment (i.e. fear) with love (i.e. faith).]

Alpha’s Journal: Part 6

Here or there.

Here we go again, another anonymous poem:

“I wish I could say

What I want to say,

But you’d never hear it

When you’re so far away.

So I’ll write and sing

And pray every night

Until the day you

Hear that you’re the songs I write.

Why can’t we be where we want,

Right by each others’ side?

Everyone else seems to have a problem, 

But they’re wrong if they think we’ve kissed

For the last time.

Here or there,

I know you’re my little lady.

I’m not crazy.”