Survive
The stars cannot
provide that guide−
Those points of
light shine endlessly down, dying as they come
And the roof above
my head shelters me only from the weather outside not from the storm within
Apologies for a
wasted life—too many things not done or done too short
Things unfinished,
stacked like so many dusty boxes in the corner no one wants to see
Dreams are like
butterfly wings; they are so fragile…
You can touch them,
but not too hard or too much
Like the dying star
the butterfly cannot survive…
They lose all their
magic, and are not what they were before
It is true “From dust we come and dust we do
return”
Do our actions make
us, or do our thoughts?
Intentions do not
matter in this false world of men. They bend down with the storm.
People listen, but
only to themselves, because they too are lost in their own sameness
The pain of not
being enough
The pain of existing
and not living
The pain of
surviving
Voices from nowhere-
they call to me. They whisper secrets I cannot speak nor do I want to.
Each day the dust of
yesterday falls off of my worn body. Each day less falls away. It builds like a
monument to all those words unspoken.
Of deeds not done
Of wrongs not
righted
Of paths that went
too far
Dirty and brown and
yet mostly unseen, the heaviest things we carry around day by day are hidden
inside.
Are we all ugly
inside? Do we need to be to survive? We learn to hide it, but it is there
Can you see it?
Or are you just
surviving? Am I?
