Words for humans

Days that just break away from what is experienced

I don’t have it in me but some how I rise

Disconnection from head to heart and from soul to body

There are days I live here in the limbo

No instructions on how to navigate back to the surface

Sometimes the road doesn’t meet the path that you were meant to be on

But why would this make you turn around and back track

Nobody ever promised the path would all be road

Sometimes we have to walk, or run, or jump, or climb

Maybe swim

The convenience of being human is versatility

But you can’t let go

Of the fucking wheel.

I want you to hurt, still

To feel the envy hot and heavy

Sitting on your chest while I

Am the one conducting your entire

World without even so much as

A care to actually understand the situation that I am

Puppeteering from my cellphone

I want you too, to be unable to take a breath in

Without sobbing, or let a breath out without aching

I know it’s a terrible thing to wish on someone

But when I try to clear my mind, you linger

You still linger

When I am too still

I want you to hurt, still.

Do you ever feel like you can actually feel the negative energy of people thinking and speaking harsh things about you?

To me, it feels like my chest is heavy, and I have a small wince from what feels like gut punches that don’t effect my skin, but every thing deeper can feel it, and it’s right at the solar complex.

And there’s a small buzzing a bit above and behind my temples, but my temples themselves just feel tight.

I can concentrate on a mantra and make it go away, but I can also tune back into it.

And there’s a heavy sadness that, for me, lays it’s self under my eyes, and across the back of my shoulders.

And the taste of disappointment coats my mouth. . .

I guess it’s time to get a drink.

I hope when

my soul leaves the earth

and my body is returned

you’ll remember me

and bathe in the things

that made me laugh

the very hardest

like watching

The office.

Screaming loudly with ungodly amounts of invisible agony clinging to the edges of the wal-mart sack that we were convinced was such a safe and sturdy net only to find that the reality is that the sack is caught in the fickle sticks at the top of a tree and we the contents were just lucky enough to be fed so full of social static electricity that we are now stuck to the plastic folds that make up the corners.

I walked through the welcoming threshold of a home that smelled of nostalgia, love, and dark humor.

I stood in a kitchen that was meant for serious food. The kind that creates a luxurious bath of flavor over your tounge, and leaves you with a subconscious smile of satisfaction.

I sat on the kind of back porch that you only see on the television screen. Where laughter was thicker than the smoke. Where small talk was banned, because this was a place only fit for real conversation.

I fell into a smile. A smile that was warm, meaningful, and ornery all at the same damn time.

Taking care of this man was not the easiest thing I’ve done. He made sure of it. There was no mystery to how he felt or what he wanted… or didn’t want.

Curse words and thrown objects were just a part of life. Fits were had. Faces were made. Glass doors were shattered.

And each day I was ready to go back.

Because there was no mystery about who he loved

…

I hung my head on the outside of the threshold of a home. I laid my hand on the closed door, and wept. Then, I said goodbye.

I walked through the doors of a funeral home that smelled of love, nostalgia, and dark humor.

I stood in a room full of people. The kind of people that can fill your soul with a good memory, and breathe life back into loss.

I sat and watched the widow sweetly deliver no small talk, but a beautiful quilt of words that wrapped itself around each mourner.

I fell into a family. A family that is warm, meaningful, and ornery all at the same damn time.

I have been denied mercy.

While choking on snot and

gasping through sobs.

My mistake was having faith that

I was begging to someone who

was capable of providing mercy.

I’m so sorry

You have breast cancer

But your breasts are still

Producing milk

So, I will send you to

The pharmacy

Instead of a mastectomy

That way, you can still pump

And produce

“But won’t my milk be tainted?”

It won’t change the taste

In the mouths of babes

And their stomachs will

feel full

There was a time when my fields had dried and my chains all rusted. Dirt would creep up my body, like moss.

I filled my tub up with poison oak and bleach. Let myself soak a while. Just until the water turned pink.

I was a drought in the middle of grow season. Even the thin whispy clouds avoided the cast of my throe.

Feathers would come back on the skin of the bird, and I held her down, gripped the pliers in my calloused hand, and plucked them each back out, slowly.

I knew the crops were not dead, yet. I could feel them struggling to find light, beneath my thick blanket of calamity, sewn together with vengeance.

A dry day in May, one single yellowish- green stem poked itself up high enough to see the sun. I glared at it with confusion.

Almost faster than their legs could keep up, my two little chicks ran to the stem to investigate. I watched.

“There’s nothing to keep it alive here, ya hear?!”

I followed with heavy feet as the chicks fled downhill into the distance. What young, naive little chicks.

When I see them coming back towards me, I am blinded by the reflection of the sun.

It is not until they pass by me to lead the way home, that I see how ignorant I have been.

The water cascades from the spout of the watering can, showering the stem with the nourishment I couldn’t provide.