If I Were a Writer

If I were a writer

I’d dredge up the dirt

The stuff that stifles dreams

And makes everyone cringe,

The grit that scours my heart.

I’d lay my soul bare

Grieve publicly

Take the blame.

Instead, I’m just a wannabe

Writing about nothing that matters

Where no one gets hurt.

Especially not me.

Statue of Sorrow by T.J. Fowler

Practice Made Perfect

He began preparing for her death years before the actual event; his shocked expression;

A hand clasped to his chest. Practiced repeatedly asking what had happened followed

By a stumbling pause. When the time came, though, he found himself genuinely grieved;

Motions more than mere pantomimes of loss. Maybe, he thought, I’d actually loved her.

Reflecting on this he realized he’d never fully appreciated her. Their home became mausoleum-like,

Every photo of her, just her, now papered the walls. His own visage cut away, often raggedly.

His guilt lurked in every corner, yet no one ever looked. Rehearsal had been his undoing.

innocence lost

it took just seconds;
innocence slipped through fingers
too quickly to catch.

  
why should she feel shame
while he walked away unscathed?
and no one intervened.

 
suffer the children
to come unto him, she read
did that include her?

 

I know this is a heavier topic than I usually cover, but we must start noticing and taking action against those who victimize our children. 

Silence

Life forces us every day
to do one thing:
Breathe.

In a hospital room I sat
watching Mother
Breathe.

I closed my eyes for just minutes,
sleeping.

Silence
Woke me. Her life slipped
away while I still
Breathed.

For years I felt a deep
guilt for having slept,
Breathing

While Mother’s life
ceased with one final
Breath.

I should have been
awake for her, attentive,

Breathing
For her, perhaps,

instead I awoke to only
Silence.

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