The Final Dance

Touch, touch, touch. Tickle, tickle, tickle. I think about you as a random thought. I see you in pictures that pass by my mind, in my book of memories that haven't faded away through age or time. I'm waiting to have enough strength. I put almost everything and anything in the way of facing you head on. Why is it that I just can't conquer you?

It's a mere memory and moments in time long gone. I haven't head a nightmare in such a long time. I suppose I may be thinking that all of the scattered thoughts and moments may surface into my dream world. But I don't yet sense that this is what stops me. It's more of a complete unwillingness to even look in your direction.

Is this my Achilles heal?

I am glad of the items in life that take up my time. Whether work or family, it filters through my thinking and absorbs any trace of you in my current todays. Can I handle writing you all down? Am I ready to face the bewitching hour? Every time I think of you, I am instantly around 14 years-old.

I'm angry at you. I wear this on my face. Not a moment in your presence denies the emotion that wells to the surface spewing over succinctly when there is no one else around. You dismiss me as nothing. You make me ill. I wish you had never been created. And how awful is that since you are a child of God.

In His eyes you are His beloved. To me, you are a thug and a punk and a human who uses his instruments of strength and location to conquer others. You are a vile creature. I so want to call you out before the world and announce your real intentions. I want the world to flog you with contempt and glares of indignation. Please stand still long enough so society can swat you down like a fly. It brings a wry smile to my lips just thinking of this.

I will have my time with you. Whether in my thoughts, in my words I pen, you will not escape your actions. And, in truth you will face your accuser. You and I will have one final sparring match before the blow to wipe you from existence. And I shall dine, satisfied and full, without you as part of any future, present or past. It will be a glorious day of satisfaction.

I Want I'M TIRED To Die!

Photo by Hélène Desplechin

Not a moment transpires that gives me a breath of salvation from angst and despair!

I am tired of wishing my life away and tired of all of the tears. I'm sick of wondering why things are and wanting someone to make things better. Why do I have to succumb to such daggers of anguish that tear at my soul and leave me without any possibility of experiencing a moment of peace of love or anything of substance that might seem to supply food to my soul?

It never ends. I get just so far and then - STOP! I am knocked down and pummeled by society's neglect of its own, leaving those without protection to wither and die inside.

It's sick isn't it? How is such complacency possible? How is this allowed? Can no one think it possible to move toward someone in despair? But then again, the truth is how could I ever allow such truth to be recognized? This life is not for the weak. The weak are eaten by the strong.

Such sick and twisted behavior is not only tolerated but encouraged by America's dream to have everything. I am not even alive anymore! If I scream and yell it makes no change. No one cares! No one cares at all! I can't stand the way we talk to each other and the way I have to be silent!

Like a pet waiting to be put down, here is the time passing away. I loathe and despise yesterday and can't seem to find my today. It's stuck somewhere in the middle of possibility and hope and lost forever from my dreams.

I can't handle something that others find so easy to weave in their lives. Bouquets are all around others. I am amongst the thorns. And still no one comes to help me find my way out from the pricks that let crimson fall to the ground.

I want "I'm tired" to die! It's over! You're hated. You're no longer wanted. Now, how does it feel? Does it make your heart bleed?

The bile in my throat is all made for you. It's raining down to swell and surface and cause you every discomfort and despicable ache there is to imagine. And I have imagined often of ending your life.

I have fantasized about your demise. You have taken the beauty in air and blinded the sky. And if I could, I would cause you to die a thousand times always, if there could be a way. I would make you suffer the tortures of eternity, all in one day.

You won't seem to leave me or tell me goodbye. So it's up to me to strip you of the pleasure to sense your ability to conquer all who breathe you in without knowing. You will never know peace as long as I live. Why should you have a thread of joy when you dehydrate my soul from its opportunity to soar.

There will come a day when thought takes you hostage. I will laugh through bittersweet water flooding my face. It's time for "I'm Tired" to die! Step up and claim your prize of sanity all gone. You'll get nothing from me or from my life again.

You're dead to me always. And though you may try to seep back under my skin, I won't give you the privilege of knowing that you will win anything from me but the sweat, blood and tears you have impregnated me with year after year.

You're dead, scraped and burned and cast away high! I hand you your death certificate to hold the truth of your demise!