i am so tired
(not exhausted, but weary) with sixty-three lists that keep me from doing what i need to do i want to do i was made to do. i am frustrated with these sixty-three emotions that overcome me, haunt me, hang me, but are not peace are not joy are not productivity are not satisfaction with what I was made to do (to be). i am buried beneath regret and doubt yesterday and tomorrow push and pull coffee and alcohol (all the same damn enemies, of each other, of my soul). some days (most days) death can not come soon enough my son’s fingers trace my lines like the yellow daffodils that line the dirty interstates sunlit silhouettes cast across morning walls across forest trails across his face and i touch his delicate skin wondering if these dancing specks of light are our candlelit glimpse across a a smoky room searching for the very face of God. i need him even when i am angry (with him) every breath is pollution in my lungs and every hope is framed in broken glass every smile is a reminder of love that will one day let go and every tear is fire on this aging human skin. i am bored with sixty-three simple minds and i am scornful of sixty-three churches that waste their words and waste my time i am lost among sixty-three wrong turns and i am sad and sober after sixty-three glasses of the king’s wine that never numb the pain never fill the emptiness never unravel the disconnect between this reality and home. i just want to go home but instead there are sixty-three doors without keys.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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