Survive

Survive

 

Walking this confused world as a map-less traveler

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

 

That battered soul; what protects that?

 

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

 

What am I after my name?

 

 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

 

All they do is try to keep the pain away

 

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?