An Old Prose
I am four weeks on site, and feel like, “ An Old Prose” now.
I am navigating better, and have learned to use at least the basic functions, which for me is a major accomplishment, as I abhor technology. I am a book guy at heart, and still love the hefty-solidness of a good book on an evening porch, the book with its rich smell of leather, and aged paper.
But I must admit, with theProse site, I am again Summer’s child, running along a darkened tree-line, jar in hand, snatching as the flies light, this one gold, that one violet. I set the jar on my stand at bedtime, watching it wink and glow its light against ignorance, its stories and rhymes a sing-song lullaby. I sleep peacefully, knowing that our youth is served, and not turned entirely to gaming, and violence.
And my room grows perpetually brighter, as every night I find new flies, with new colors, and brighter bulbs. And when I remove the lid to add the new, the old flies stay, happy that their lights are seen, and confidant that I will be a good steward to the causes they shine upon.
Even as I sleep, lights are winking, the brightness building, my dreams sweet in their safe assuring glow.
I can finally see “the light” at the end of the fiber-optic tunnel, and it is not a train, it is a glow-fly, a glow-fly illuminating the most human of emotions. I now take heart in being an “Old Prose” in a New World.
I awake with the lights tinkling at my bedside, and I reach for the tablet to catch you.
I thank you for writing, and I thank you for reading.
Rise and Shine
Each day that
I open my eyes
have the ability
to see the sun
to stand, to walk or run
to hear music
to sing or dance alone
another opportunity to be
who I want to be,
who I dream to be,
to do something differently,
follow another path,
make better choices,
by simply being joyful
is another day
to rejoice in what is
and what can be,
rather than crying
for what is
and what is not...yet.
A morning breeze knocked and entered, same old, same old.
I decided shutting my eyes again, same old, same old.
Replenished senses, discontented feeling, frustrated perceptions.
My eyes all loose, keeping it shut had ceased.
My body motion etched with scripted progress.
Same old, same old habits telling me,
I don’t even live a life at all.
Same old, same old routines making white noises,
As if it was a natural questioning babel murmuring that —
I had such a futile hollow existence.
All I just do and only took was a strained sigh,
I wonder if breathing is some tool that I still own,
was it a tool?
I suppose, seeking a reply from it,
was similar to taking a branch from a tree.
I was gone from being static —
when I felt the warm forenoon sun drawing on my figure,
through the sheer curtain that veils the window.
steeply evoking and inscribing marks of my own stale nature.
Worn pile of garments and crumpled papers —
scattered around me, as if it took a slumber with me.
I took the towel from the headboard —
shooting for the waters,
I wandered off over these shabby duvets scattered on the ground.
It was a long, lazy shower I wanted —
where I was all bare with my mediocre body and thoughts,
touching everything of it with the rushing waters and my palms.
It was a long, lazy shower I wanted —
that might stroke my mind, caress my soul, and fondle my heart.
but it turned out the contrary.
It was a long, hysteric shower,
I whimpered in desolation,
moaned from a sensual sensation,
then I sobbed, weeping in frustration of knowing —
I attempted to swallow myself in oblivion,
when I’ll never even get a taste of it, only to choke in despair.
Up In The Morning
First off, I have no plans or aspirations to want to give up living life though I have no control on when I will die, I wake up to each day with a resolve to get the most out of each hour I can. Be it writing (mostly), cooking, playing games, paying bills, shopping; whatever it is. I take the time to work it the best for me. Where somewhere along the way I might have five minutes or an hour to sit back and do nothing more than relax and be grateful I did make it through another day.
Is every day perfect? Not hardly, but what might be perfect to me may not be perfect to another. Such are the ways of life. I still try to find the unexplained answer to an age old question though ... what is my purpose for being alive? I've yet to find it and perhaps, not meant to; but I look for the answer just the same.
Right now, I have all I need just for me. I wake up, eat, walk, talk, and write. Now and then talk to a wandering neighbor, have my Scrabble Sunday with a few friends and the rest of the time it's just me in my solitary quiet, and for me, it works. I'm not anti-social or anything (if I were, first off I wouldn't be here), but I really don't go out of my way to "make" friends. Almost sounds like a science project. "Think I'll make me a friend today!" said with a sly, mouth-watering evil grin.
Fact is, a couple weeks ago I was asked if I would ever get married again by one of my Scrabble buddies. I said, "All depends. First, I'd have to go looking, and looking takes up a lot of time and I'm not one for that story where the princess had to kiss a thousand frogs to find her prince. I have time but not that much time. So, we'll see."
Meantime, I mostly kick back, relax and enjoy how I live. Some things you just never want to rush.
Besides the day I believe life isn't worth living is the day I give up on myself and that'll never happen.
What gets me up
I don’t know.
My body runs on automatic.
Go through the motions if only to make everyone think I’m okay.
What defines okay?
For me okay means I get up in the morning.
For my mom and dad it means I don’t feel bad.
Or I don’t cut.
But I have a different definition.
If I’m okay, I will get out of bed in the morning.
I never lie when I say I’m okay
I just bend the truth.
What gets me up when I know I only face pain?
What gets me up when I can’t?
Except for my automatic programming.
"I don't know,
what you live for—"
and my jaw
to the floor;
w/ my heart
in tow like an
from its beating throne;
so true it was that, that—
upon the soul
down the plank;
further and further
down the shore—
as it were
for the things
to be sure.
The second hand of time
Awakens me to life
“There’s nothing more to live for”
In my ear, whispers the lie
The face of Father Time
His hands upon the clock
Reminds, my time is fleeing
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
I’m one heartbeat away
From passing through the veil
The alarm rings in my mind
Am I ready for heaven or hell?
I’ve life, a gift, to live for
Every breath to cherish
The winding key is out of reach
Someday, soon, I’ll perish
The Usual Push
Sometimes it's the unwanted sun across my face,
or the inexplicable need to catch a bus.
Could be the smell of made breakfast
or hunger, gurgling up a fuss.
Often its the power of routine
or the simple wail of an alarm,
but usually those menial little things
remind me why I've hung on for so long.