Silent

Your hand reaches out
Taking hold of my throat
Closing, closing
Choking the goodness from my lungs

Seeping, sweeping onto the floor
Crumpling down
Down I go
Losing consciousness

For a moment,
Taking me by surprise
Your words hit me
This time

Like they haven’t before
Revealing the stain of pain behind my eyes

But this is my job
To listen
To not hurt, to not react

So I deaden my eyes
Forcing a smile

Not giving myself away

Photo Credit: Jeremy Wilburn via Compfight cc

Why I don’t Write

Do I write for fun?
Or when the power of words hit me?
Do I write to process, to understand
The beauty of things that surround?

Would I write if energy was freely given,
Flowing to me in a continuous
And purifying rain of words?

If the bones in my hand didn’t ache
As I typed
And my heavy head wasn’t throbbing
From buried pain?

If my day wasn’t congested with
Chores and human frailties
Could I produce
A brilliant new world?

Or would I still sit here, wilting
Creativity dripping down the
Sides of my face
Not knowing how to come back from all this madness?

Photo Credit: Wouter de Bruijn via Compfight cc

Ache

To be continually confined,
Scratching at the high walls of my
Cell until my fingers
Bleed, with no one listening to my
Whimpers except the moon.

She’s the only one who never
Gave up – on me –
Continued to shine on –
Despite all I’ve done

I keep desperate hold on that thought
As I lay down each night to sleep –
Holding my blanket of moonbeams
As I dream of all that
Could have been.

Photo credit:
DigitalBlasphemy.com

Run

She came to my door
Broken and shamed
Last night to explain
The unexplainable
How she rose above
The light until
She reached the
Darkness of
Your might.
It could
Be easy to
Pretend
But you
Know
That’s
Not
What
She’ll
Do.

photo credit: digitalblasphemy.com