Hundreds of friends on social sites but the sight-seeing I do is always alone.
Scenic routes to nowhere.
Breath taking views that always prelude
breath taking falls.
Pride is a faulty fence that won’t hold under your weight.
I leaned in to rest and got too comfortable.
And I have been trying to dig myself out since.
I hate myself for it.
Because questions only give birth to more questions.
Conversations turn into more conversations.
Everyone is SURE of everything, which is really nothing.
Daring to dig deep but deep thinking doesn’t pay the bills.
Talk really IS cheap.
I prefer writing poems lately instead.
I like the indirect way it guts my soul.
It holds me under the faucet, like a fish.
Spilling cold water, blood and secrets.
Baited and hooked.
Filet of fresh foolishness.
Piercing the knife through my belly and up toward that trouble making throat where my voice always escapes me.
Running thumbs up my spine to clear all the waste, (just like you taught me) because no one else is gonna do it.
The sharp blade of reality will scrape the scales and dirt that burden you,
but it never really clears it all.
It only accumulates to add character and flavor.
Wrapped in garlic butter and foil and thrown to the fire to become something worthy of the fight.