Jaded Path

Walking this path a purpose without direction.
I see to a future in each direction I turn.
Step upon step into multiple futures.
My bearings are focused on nothing and forward.
Each foot precariously yet systematically placed upon each ledge.
The path narrows here and widens there.
Insecure footings marked by hasty retreat.
Must move forward.
Wincing at the pain of each fall.
Must move forward.

A sturdy precipice and I gather my thoughts.
Directions overlay maps of internal destination.
Worn shoes barely comfort each stride upon broken choices.
A quick retreat again and down the next path.
This maze is my life.
An overgrown hedge hacked into trails of fear.
Must move forward.
Burning muscles pushed beyond their limit.
Must move forward.

This jaded path laid out before me must not control me.
I cannot allow the noise of destiny to cloud my judgment.
Nor the rumble of acceptable norms to defeat my purpose.
There is no destiny.
Only destination and achievement.
These paths are mine alone to follow.
Must move forward.
Life becomes lived with the passing of each step.
Must move forward.

There is no past to support my return.
To back-step each history brings no new days.
That path is done.
Somewhere up ahead lies that precious goal.
Destinations unknown but with purpose I proceed.
A goal with no set direction but forward.
Must move forward.
Burning all my energy until I can move no more.
Must move forward.

A Seed of Hope

Endless miles of hot asphalt race only inches beneath her. This journey has become all too familiar as she blankly scans the road ahead. The trips back to her parents home each weekend only followed by the same blank canvas before classes start each Monday.

“How long must I do this?” She whispers to the empty seat beside her.

Cracks and hastily planted repairs in the road counting down the miles. She opens the window to awaken her senses. This drive, this repetition that numbs her mind as she struggles to stay awake at the wheel. Thoughts are her only companion along these mindless stretches as even the radio’s blaring madness too fades into background noise.

She stops along a long isolated corridor. The pine forests frame the roads like deeply carved aqueducts where only metal and concrete flow. It is spring and mediocre patches of wildflowers fight the weeds and weekly industrial mowers for a stand of their own.

A lone whit daisy has impaled itself into the broken edges of the roadside. It’s only companions, indescript plastic wrappers and crumbled infrastructure from a tenuous, fragile barrier. Just enough protection for it to take root.

“How long must I do this?” She whispers again.

Her voice falls along the roadside as she pours the last bit of melted ice and moisture from a giant convince store fountain drink around this hopeful yet doomed spark of life. Her gaze surveys the local patches of daisies bunched together living freely and open just outside the shadows of their lanky pine guardians.

Her eyes return to her lone companion at the edge of oblivion wondering how such a beautiful thing could survive and blossom outside of its siblings’ safe haven of meadow-like grasses, weeds and illegible “do not mow” signs. She thinks to herself as if ready to ask the daisy out loud.

“What are you doing here?”

The silence in her mind is only broken by the silence of no answer. Her gaze blurs as she raises her head to the blue on blue sky. Her focus turns to nothing of consequence as she ponders the bravery and utter determination of this lone flower. Her only thought as she turns slowly to return to her drive are of her own life.

“I wish I was a flower.”

She starts the car and quickly disappears into the distance.


A lone red flower towers over a sea of yellow ground cover.
The distant howl of a wolf breaks the symphony of neighborhood dogs.
The sharp green eyes of an oasis peer out of the desert.
Wildly twisting, green vines engulf a lone towering pine.

The battered stop sign at a crossroads miles from civilization.

A single shell, in tact and bleached by the sea and the sun washes in the sand.
The rainbow spinnaker billowing in the breeze of white on white sails.
The rudely, arrogant cry of summer storm siren.
Long, silent stretches of feather clouds in a otherwise cloudless sky.

The introverted child sits watching in a corner of a boisterous playground.

A strikingly beautiful woman lies in the street, blood pooling beneath her motionless body.
The moment of recognition in the eyes of a faded memory.
The softly weeping mother giving birth on a city bus.
Intact columns of charred stone rise from the ashes of yesterday.

Here I am, Unique and not. I stand among you open and proud. For I am all these things and none at all. Strikingly different in who I am, yet everyday mundane and largely unseen in a world filled with all that is different.

Second Spring

Scattered about and disorganized
Thoughts clinging to each other as they pass
A topped off glass swells over
The liquid emotions spilling out around the overburdened vessel
These are my life’s savings

Order and chaos an unmade bed
Falling in and out of lucid skies a comforting breeze comes
Warmth wraps around skin
The infants blanket gently catching every drop of spilled thought
These are my life’s memories

Gently stacked and freshly picked
Budding goals and ripened dreams refresh the open cupboard
Change is coming
The second spring brings new hope to a passing life
This is my life’s dream

Soon I will climb into this skin for the very last time knowing life does not end it begins again and again.

In To This

In to this we find beauty
We smell life surrounding
Faded pictures and softened stones
Our souls drift between worlds of our making
Restful dreams that bare new thoughts
Heightened senses awakened by the dance
Restless hearts crash in the distance
The cries of past lives molding on our plate
This present
This future

In to this we plunge unguided
Walls within walls
A maze of unlocked doors
Memories grasping to be heard
Emotions drawing blood as they escape
A calm settles in over the night
The waves of possibilities shaping our lives
Well hung pictures adorn the facades
Battered innocence peeks out form behind heavy curtains
Eyes meet hearts to burn away the fog

In to this we forge our lives

Open Wounds

Open Wounds
Open Wounds
The words roll off the page like acid from her lips.
Burning new pain in wounds unhealed.
Everything that was is a lie.
The secrets held fast long overdue.
Delivered and planted with the skills of a heartless killer.

An open heart looking for forgiveness and understanding.
Only to find scorched earth and flames where once there was love.
But what love was this that seemed so real?
Dissolute and cast aside like waste from her bowels.

This love was a lie.
This life was a lie.
This truth was a lie.
This bond was a lie.

Doors left open waiting for even a faint taste of love.
Love not the same but still love assumed true.
Folly are these thoughts.
And false are these memories.

She draws the blade from behind her.
The blinding light of memories shielding it from view.
In a moment, a flicker of time uncountable to the life together that was.
She thrusts the sharpened blade deeper than life itself…

Pulling an unsuspecting and ailing heart from it’s nest.
Beating, beating still in the palm of her hand.
The heart drains of life.
The heart drains of love.

Until it beats no more.

Lost at Sea

Lost at SeaSomewhere between the yesterdays, todays and tomorrows I have become lost. It seems as though only yesterday everything was so beautiful and perfect. But again like the endless tides, I have lost my way as the waters withdraw. The search for self, confidence and wholeness washed away again. Stranded on a bar surrounded my a billion fluid paths. And then the tide rises again to find me standing out too far to swim home. There is no turning back. There is no desire to turn back. I do not have the strength or the will to swim so far against the tide.

So I let it wash me further and further. Each recession I find my feet tenuously planted in the now. My mind grasping on to hope. My eyes seeing out to the horizon. Standing so tall above the sea of change I can see a horizon. The distance eluding me, but still so far away. The tears come and the tide returns again. My head barely above the surface. Each breath is guarded and unsure. It may be a while before I can breathe again, when the waves come to swallow me and pull me further down this fluid path.

The waves come. They always do. My horizon lost to the towering menace that threatens to take away my lungs. I manage to keep some strength. Tired and beaten with every set. My only horizon is coming at me again and again. Faint glimpses in the distance as each wave crests. I feel my feet no longer touch the bottom. I am in deep water. I am in an element from which I was born, but cannot survive. Unless…

Unless I can keep swimming, treading water, occasionally sinking to the bottom to rest my weary arms, legs…soul. Hoping I never go so deep that my lungs will burst and the surface will never come. It is so dark near the bottom. It lonely and cold. And there is no one to save me if I falter.

Beacon of HopeFaint glimpses of light between the swells warm my resolve through the burning in my eyes. I do not want to fail. I want to keep swimming along this path and resting with each falling of the tide until I can go no more. It’s all I can do. It is surviving.

I am only surviving. I ask myself with the approach of each tide, how do I go on? Should I even try. So many others have made it across this vast ocean landing in the new world. Discovering life as they have never known before. I have no compass. I have lost all maps. I follow my star in hopes it will guide me to that new land. Hoping… that when I stop and sink below the cold darkness that I will return to the surface to find my star. Hoping it is the right star.

Fear sets in thoughts of the star only leading me further out to sea. I am so tired. I am becoming disoriented. My arms and legs are so tired. Like weights of unwanted emotion and despair they struggle to keep me afloat. I must not lose focus. I must continue to breath. The tide will leave me on a bar again soon. I have to keep that thought.

And there is always the hope, dim, so very dim at times through the fog day and night. The hope that my star will turn into a beacon on that distant shore I have traveled so long and so far to reach.

But now I am still Lost at Sea.