Tired

I’m tired. I’m not, really, but it’s much more acceptable to say you’re tired than to say that you’re angry and upset and you don’t know why.

I’m tired. I’m not, not really, but it’s so much easier to say you’re tired than to say that you’re feeling prickly and sharp and you don’t know why.

I’m tired. I’m not supposed to be, because I got almost seven hours of sleep last night. But my goal is eight or nine, and the seven hours I got weren’t good. I can’t remember the last time I woke up feeling refreshed.

I’m tired. I’m not, really, but it’s much safer to say you’re tired than to say that you’re feeling jagged and raw and you don’t want to talk about it because you can’t handle hearing, “Suck it up, buttercup,” or, “Figure it out and get over it,” one more time.

I am running on empty, and I’m tired of it.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

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Stuck

The world keeps turning,
And I keep on spinning in
Circles, wondering

If the world has passed
Me by – if my life has passed
Me by. But the world

Keeps on turning, and
I keep on spinning, wand’ring
As I wonder what

Happened to the girl
I used to be, and how I
Became the woman

I am. And the world
Keeps turning, and still I am
Spinning, wondering.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Three Little Lines

Three lines. Just three li’l
Lines, and the world could end. Just
Three little lines, and

A new world is born.
A lot can happen in three
Little lines. It’s the

Circle of life – a
Beginning, a middle, an
End. Birth, life, death. So

Much can happen in
So little space, so little
Time. Three lines aren’t much,

But they’re all we’ve got.
What will you do with your time,
Your space, your three lines?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Riverstone

I am a stone in
The river, ever desp’rate
To hold back the tide.

I am a stone in
The river, helpless to stop
The rising water.

I am a stone in
The river; water flows round me
As though I’m not here.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Burial

I bury things.

When I was little, I was obsessed with finding buried treasure. Even though I live in a landlocked state and grew up a good forty minutes by car from the nearest large river, I was certain that a trove of pirate treasure lay buried beneath the sidewalk mere blocks from home. After all, there were bootprints in the concrete. What better way to mark the spot than with bootprints that ordinary passersby would take for some construction worker’s careless mistake?

I loved time capsules back then, too. They were my own variation of buried pirate’s treasure. I’m fairly certain that, somewhere in my old backyard, maybe a foot or so down (because I’d have been too tired to dig any further), there lies a tin or ten of memories. And if my dad still lived in the house I grew up in, it would be a lot of fun to go digging things up back there, just to see what I could find. To see what I’ve forgotten.

But he doesn’t.

I buried him, too. Because along with things, I bury people.

I remember when I was five and my grandfather died. My parents drove the two hours (give or take) to my dad’s hometown to attend the funeral, but left my sister and me at home because we were so little. I was furious. We hadn’t known the man – he and my dad were not close – but in my five-year-old mind, that didn’t matter. I should have been there.

There once existed a picture of my grandfather pushing me in a stroller, though. Or maybe that was my uncle, and the picture exists only in my mind because I loved it when my dad would tell me the story about my uncle pushing me in the stroller.

I buried a niece, too. I was seven then. I cried and cried and cried when she slipped softly into a better realm. I buried a schoolmate, a great-grandmother, a friend’s little brother. I buried friendships and relationships and my mother.

I buried them with resignation and heartache and immense, unfathomable grief. I buried them with soil and flowers and kind words, the sort that reassure those who hear them. Because I bury words and feelings, too.

I bury words, way down deep, till they come surging forth, angry waves upon the shore. I shove them down, bottle them up, try to keep them contained. I bury feelings deeper still, till they come seeping out, magma leaking through my cracks. I bury words unsaid next to the words I’ve said, but they tend to bubble up within me. Their memory burns me, so I bury them deeper, so far down that I forget their existence.

That is, until I can’t. Because eventually, those words and those feelings that I thought were buried come shooting back to the surface, fireworks in a dark sky, lighting the way to a different place. A better place. A place of new beginnings.

You see, I also bury seeds. I bury them without looking, sometimes without knowing. The things I bury in pain or in anger sometimes become seeds of hope with a little time and patience. Hope is a powerful thing; it cannot be contained. No matter how dark the night, the sun always rises, and hope with it.

What things do you bury?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Silence

Suffocating in
Its silence, the fog descends
Upon the prairie.

Suffocating in
Silence, I wonder how long
The fog will remain.

Suffocating in
Silence. Alone. The fog is
My sole companion.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Distractions

Am I coming, or
Am I going? Hard to say.
Not that it matters.

Constant distraction
Keeps me spinning, off-balance.
Keeps me from thinking.

Am I coming, or
Am I going? Who can say?
It doesn’t matter.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

Dis/Connect

Always connected,
Yet never affected. By
Anything. Ever.

Ever connected,
Never affected – there must
Be a better way.

Always connected,
Yet never affected: such
A life has no point.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.