Walk, Talk and Breathe.

Friends that refuse to respect of me,
the smallest of ways that I ask to be,
excused from their own stupidity,
yet – they choose to abuse,
and they find these things funny…
A family turned to the judge and jury,
no hand extended in my times of need,
the after-burn of that first, initial sting,
the day I noticed they were on an opposing team…
Others play the friendly role all too regularly,
to the point it’s obvious there’s no true identity,
behind any of the faces in the places close to me,
just life-sized puppets that walk, talk and breathe…

Hum In The Air.

Traveling swiftly,
along in between,
the shuffling feet,
dropping and lifting,
to static frequencies,
over the threshold,
off of the streets,
into the bustling,
and humming,
of a million machines,
fostering,
the very needs,
of broken human beings…
over the sounds,
of the technology,
tubes and dressings,
Hallmark blessings,
I hear her breathing,
ever-steadily,
in the darkness,
over the chorus,
of the ticks, clacks,
hisses and beeps,
she breathes her way,
through the night,
thankfully,
to see another day,
that she’d preferably,
rather not even see,
which is sadly telling,
told by the many injuries,
outside and within,
the broken bones and skin,
all of the gods damned,
technologies and,
cures known to man,
won’t change anything,
the hand,
she’s been given,
the Hell,
that she must live in…
this was once my baby,
and she will,
always be,
worth so much more,
than what she perceives,
as reality,
no hope anymore,
of something in store,
hidden from the sight of me,
I hold my breath in,
unintentionally,
if I fail to register,
rhythmic machines,
over it all,
the patients in the halls,
the button to call…
the sound I faintly hear,
here and there,
along a stream-flow,
of the hospital air,
it’s dull and low,
but a sound I know,
all too well,
it’s the rewound,
haunting sound,
high-pitched,
helium,
voice to the face,
of my baby,
saying things like,
“Mommy please help me.”

Painfully Red.

The very sun on my skin hurts to absorb,

the lids,

inside both of my dried out eyes,

like gravel,

the blood in my veins feels painfully red,

a curse,

a vastness before me –

a combustible finality –

the end,

the beginning,

the entirety.

Writhe.

“We are destined and designed to bear our pain with us, hugging it tight to our bellies like the young Spartan thief hiding a wolf cub so it can eat away our insides.”
– Dan Simmons, Hyperion

Pain is a peculiarly archaic human concept;
it’s been around
since the first organic flesh bled out;
its grip clutches us all at some point in our lives,
it can make you sing or dance or cry,
pain’s sharpest pierces so fierce
it’ll make your body wrack and writhe,
drop any one of us to the floor
in the blink of a Magician’s eye;
it is the curling and foam
of a wave that never breaks
Pain has no face – no recognizability;
no matter your social status chatter
at the end of everyone’s day, every day
Pain is the master that easily dominates,
that empties our hearts,
of the things that we so stupidly take –
for granted, oh for Chrissake…
our health is all we got from the start;
once that goes, and the pain creeps in
to your heart, mind, spirit, and also your skin
there’s no way to escape it, then…
Pain has clung to the sole of your shoe
and slithered its way in;
to cripple your body and warp your mind,
until the darkness surrounds you
no light left inside,
your only option to continue to survive –
is to suffer through and find a way to,
appreciate the days that you got left to be alive.