Showers

of tears flowing down the drain but there is no washing away of heartache and sorrows and anger.


The grime on the spirit is sticky, made up of tiny specks of pain clumped together...their pain and mine. They do not respond to scrubbing, they respond to response. Yours and theirs. Tangled and without boundaries. Running together rather like the snowflake becoming a ball...and no one dances at this ball, throws permitted and encouraged.


Where is the beat of the dance, the grace and abandon of the dancer? Given away/thrown away? Breaking down into particles and Gorilla glue won't do its thing. Make it sticky and sloppy...at times, I'd settle for S & S.

The light within withered, no rekindling. Kindle, that we could read what's coming, how it ends? Foolish thought to desire knowledge of possible multitudes of minnows of mania ...crazy ride on a broken vessel by a broken human who doesn't care if there is a spectacular crash...insurance companies do not pay for planned crashes, only the unexpected
bringing murmurs of sympathy to the left-behinds
Cash, too. Eases their lives while yours fades into muddled memories/delusions/sour reality morphs into it wasn't so frigging awful. 

What Fun...

..it was to ride in a one-horse...nah, here in the South, we just ride the horse and it ain't through snow that falls to the ground.

Nemo Mos Inhonesto Mihi

Loosely translated from Latin; In Chains but Still Free.

The chains of the past can and do imprison us. Stifle our motivation to move…move in any direction, any direction. Forward, backward, sideways, no ways will I move from this comfortable spot even though it hurts like hell to stay here. I be afraid to take steps; forget baby steps, I’m often into snail slides. Inch forward and usually leave a bit of slime…so I can find my way “home.”