I should not take the blame Two steps forward, ten steps back, No matter the path, the light is black. I try, I try, with all my might, But shadows follow in the night.
Do not misplace the scars you bear, Or cast your judgments, sharp and bare, Upon a soul that’s not to blame, For all the hurt, for all the shame.
With silent walls and seeds of doubt. You bring the feast but leave me cold, A story left largely untold.
“Don’t speak,” you say, “Don’t let me in,” As if my presence is a sin. You say I shouldn’t be involved, The mystery of me—never solved.
An afterthought, drifting alone, The furthest distance I have known. The tears fall soft, the heart beats slow, Caught in a wind I did not blow.
You hate me—the echo rings so clear, A constant hum for all to hear. You hate me, hate me, in the dark, Leaving behind this jagged mark.
Humans possess remarkable minds, navigating the complexities of good and bad, shaping our world through our choices. We hold the unique ability to transform adversity into opportunity, a testament to our capacity for thought, creation, and evolution. Though fleeting in the grand scheme of the universe, these remarkable minds empower us to grow as individuals and leave a lasting legacy on our species. As I approach 50 (a milestone soon to arrive), time’s swift passage becomes increasingly apparent. This realization underscores the fleeting nature of our existence within the vast expanse of galaxies, universes, and history itself. Yet, a profound question emerges: even as mere specks in the cosmos, why are we endowed with such remarkable minds? Perhaps the purpose of these minds lies not just in shaping this life, but in something grander. The yearning for something more, the very question of our place in the universe, is a testament to the power of our minds. Could these minds be a hint of a greater existence, a potential that extends beyond our fleeting lives? So I leave you with this verse, Psalm 139:13-14 says, “For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well” There is more to this life.
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The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
The silent, turning tide of life Has stretched the maps we knew, The seasons shifted, ground gave way, The ties between us drew
Slowly apart, a creeping drift. Demands attention, energy, Like water through the sand, Leaching the solid ground of time.
There was a time, not long ago, We were each other’s stay, The anchors holding fast and sure In storm of early day. We held the secrets, deep and bright, The wisdom time had wrought, Our days marked by the shared, full laugh, The tapestry we caught—
Before the world turned bright to cold. I feel the sharp ache of the miss, The ease we used to share, Where we could simply be, no need For any word or care. That ease is gone; the quiet now, The profound, long silence cast, Has tragically become the sound Our relationship held fast. When air grows thin with struggle’s breath, I seek those mirrored faces still.
I’m reaching back through the gray blur The passing years have made, Refusing that demanding life Will keep the things that fade. The miles that stand between us now Are lines on charts that lie, Meaningless compared to the depth Our history lifts high. Our memories, no fading echoes— But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.
With will and concentrated hand, I clear the tangled brush, Desperate to find the path again Beyond the isolating hush. A clear, resounding call I send
Into the lonely void. My friends, I want you now to know: I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed. I want us back—the kind of bond That bends but will not break, No matter what the wind may bring. It is the time our circle wakes.
The words, sharp and unwarranted, slice through the fragile shell I built. Tiny, invisible blades, their power immense, carving my heart into scattered, irreparable pieces.
My carefully constructed dreams, ambitious plans, vital goals— all crumble before this onslaught, a lifetime of building reduced to dust. My essence, fractured, lies on the cold floor.
Why do these ephemeral sounds, mere vibrations in the air, hurt so? Why grant them such devastating power, to tear the fabric of our being, to leave us utterly immobilized?
With a deep, shuddering breath, I rise. Muscles protest, heavy with despair. I kneel, picking mangled, bleeding pieces from the unforgiving floor, cradling the remnants, a silent cry.
I try, with feverish intensity, to mend— reaching for glue, tape, harsh staples. But none of them hold. The cracks are too deep, the breaks too fundamental. A heart shattered by words cannot be fixed by physical objects
Again, the haunting question returns: Why do I give words this power? Why allow such deep, lingering pain?
Yet, the act of kneeling has shifted something. I stand up, not whole, but resilient. I place my broken, but still beating, heart back into my chest, and with a final act of defiance, I dust myself off.
The reality remains: Words possess the power to tear us down, to reduce us to rubble, weapons that wound the soul.
But words are not solely destruction. They possess the capacity to restore. A single, well-placed phrase— of kindness, encouragement, or understanding— can be the foundation upon which we rebuild.
Love, in its purest expression, is the ultimate healing force, articulated through sincere, positive words, what ultimately saves us all.
Words can tear you down. Words can also lift you up.
Choose your words with the highest intention. Strive always to lift a spirit, to reinforce worth, to acknowledge a presence.
Never fail to be kind. Kindness is the shield against the world’s harsh words, the balm for its inflicted injuries.
Remember this immutable truth: Words are a powerful, double-edged sword. They can drag someone into the deepest pit of despair, or elevate them to heights of strength and hope.
Use this profound tool with meticulous care. Wield your words to heal, to encourage, and to restore.
The silence stretches, wide and deep, a space Where my small ‘hello’ falls without a trace. I check my phone, a habit worn and true, A faint, false hope that maybe it’s from you.
The thread of connection, I’m the one who weaves, The constant opener, the one who believes That if I pause, if I just let it be, The silence would grow to infinity.
I map the distance, gauge the growing gap, And I’m the one who always has to ta Upon the glass, the careful, gentle nudge, To prove our bond isn’t built on a grudge.
I know your news, the triumphs and the strife, Because I ask about your life. I hold the mirror, catching all the light, And listen late into the lonely night.
But oh, dear friend, a quiet, simple plea Sometimes I wonder, do you think of me? When the dark shadows start to close me in, And my own battle is where I begin…
I wish just once, without a prompting word, The unexpected check-in would be heard. To see a message, a small, unsolicited sign, “Are you okay? How are things on your line?”
To feel the warmth of being sought and seen, And know I’m valued, not just a machine For comfort given, always on the call. I long to know I matter after all.
The black phone rests, a silence made of glass, A direct line across the choking air. My fingers yearn to seize its cool, smooth mass, To dial the number etched beyond compare. A fleeting urge to break the constant drone, To trade my heart’s loud drumming for a voice unknown.
Or I could message, try to weave a careful plea, A sequence of small signs, an emoji’s face. To message more, to bridge the digital sea, But leaden weight holds me within this space. I am a prisoner in my own inertia’s thrall, Unable to bridge the gap from thought to call.
My restless hands climb to my weary head, To twirl a strand of blonde around a finger’s tip. A pull, a slow release, a mark of tender red, Until the coil is tight upon my lip. A meaningless ritual, a physical display, Of all the mental turmoil that will not fade away
Inside, the engine roars, though I appear so still, My heart a frantic drummer beating out alarm. The air is thin, a breath against my panicked will, A visceral, exhausting, full-body harm. Yet, still life carries on, the sun’s indifferent track,
Oblivious to the silent crisis holding back. And so, I do not call. The paralysis has won, Against the simple, human wish to just connect. I hate the phone for what it has become, A terrifying chance of being now rejected
The pressure of potential, the awkwardness that lies, Reflected in the fear within my anxious eyes. I lift my hand again, to message in the night, But corrosive thoughts poison the touch before it lands: I am a bother, a shadow, an intrusive blight, A need that only inconveniences hands.
A self-imposed boundary, a powerful, deep chill, That freezes my desire and holds my actions still. This cease-less fight, the heart that pounds and strains, The hand that freezes on the tool for grace— The manufactured boundary of “being a pain”— This is the cage, the isolating space.
Anxiety’s invisible lock, a final, cruel decree, To watch the phone lie unused, and never to be free.
