My First Experience With Survival

It was the summer of 72,

just beyond the previous winter,

I would stay home,

amongst my school friends,

chums, the guys I hung with

all school year.

 

Yet I didn’t know them,

because the 12 summers before,

when I began to remember,

around the age of four,

I’d spent elsewhere

in a different world,

a time zone whose style

didn’t match up

with the hometown crowd.

 

It was there I lost him,

imagine the imbalance in my mind,

a good friend

labeled my survivor guilt one time,

and I haven’t been able

to look past that ever since.

She gave a freedom

to realize life has reasons

and they’re not always mine.

 

So it is then that I reflect upon,

when today, I can barely breathe at all.

Isolated Storm Clouds

See them and imagine the future,

an ominous purple haze of opportunity,

for it is the chaos of our lives,

allows change to overcome the static.

 

Seek a society of forgiveness,

the travels of pain sometime hidden,

yet the exposure to the elements

often a truly ominous test resilient.

 

When washed ashore in crude oil,

stains did seem to be eternal,

with each soaking, the mind,

nearly gave up on finding shelter.

 

It is in the addict’s eye

the storm will always remain,

it depends only upon a realization

that life contains sweet horizons.

 

We would only give attention

to the happiness we dwell upon,

a city scape, an ocean view,

a soft breeze in a given milieu.

 

The deep and threatening wall

of circumstance that will prevail

is only Nature’s manner of suggestion

we all would know to typically fall.

Deep Scars

Always when truth allows,

there is a certain peace,

while in the throes, not readily,

long afterward.

The idea of healing,

perhaps a salve, a wrapping,

the comforting

of a bruised ego,

shall never share the same leverage,

as the damaging nature of

victimizing the human condition,

for personal gain,

personal growth,

personally I’d rather have been

ordained.

Guilt

Powerful anecdote

to pleasure

Makes one decide

one’s reality; another’s tragedy.

How many ways will we wind

our hearts around a memory?

How does that man

keep walking

when I can’t even

cross the road without

reacting

to a set of eyes watching me;

those eyes that I haven’t any business knowing

their true purpose,

beyond helping steady gait while crossing paths.