Too Worn Out

Too Worn Out


Incessantly insisting ‘keep the peace’

and dry my useless tears,

forgetting that I bear

a pain beyond my years.


‘Wake up and smell the weeds’

tomorrow isn’t promised

nor is later,

to be honest.


Holding hope in my hand

until it escapes through these fingers

like sand.

Simply a shell lingers.


Cardinals chirp atop trees.

Brown twigs,

without leaves sway

in a dry rainforest.


I’d rather be blind

than watch a leman break,

coming away a lifeless

grey soul to take.


Regardless of the glory,

despite the sweet taste of the sun,

Another victim of the system.

Simply a lesson learned.


For Paul Lawrence Dunbar

Dream #7


It’s hot as hell and humid too.

Is it ok not to be okay?

Should I believe you?

I threw the signal in the air and waited

by the beach for the hero.

What good will a selective savior

do for someone in my condition?

I crave consistence.

Yet I listen to my conscious.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The tide rises with the disappointment

I attempt to hide.

It’s two o’clock.

Where did he go?

Where is the hero?!

Turtles nesting, bringing life.

My mind is racing, my body resting.

Time to refocus.

Hoping for the hero is hopeless.

I suck it up,

digging my hands in the sand.

Sitting in thought stirring it up

like sugar in the bottom of sweet tea.

The tide has arrived.

I’m ankles deep in it.

Is this how insanity feels?

Maybe the hero stopped believing.

Is he on the other side of this ocean grieving?

Perhaps the hero grew tired of being great,

and lost all his magic.

Or he ignored my sign,

and saved someone else…

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

7:52 or eight to you.

I may starve waiting to be fed.

Could this be my epiphany?

I’m done believing.

Sometimes hope isn’t enough.

Now is the time to depend on me.