And when you're

barely breathing

dressed in starlight

are you... still grateful

for this life,

this Life

the life you're

wearing out

side in

the one

that lets you

make-

believe

and take the good

and the bad in

and leaven it,

into a person

floating, in space

between the almost

dead and risen?

12.19.2024

Listen... challenge @dctezcan

I miss the void

that you have filled with the loveliness of your presence.

I miss the responsibility to loneliness

Versus the upkeep of loyalty

and I miss the empty smirks and meaningless flirting

versus the threat of

lifelong ownership.

I’d miss you too, if you were

to fade.

But the void would welcome me with open arms and flowers

Just the same as you.

I know how it feels to be judged—to carry the weight of eyes that only see your faults, to suffocate under assumptions that strip away your truth. I know how it feels to gasp for breath, yearning for someone to truly listen, only to be met with silence or dismissal. I know how it feels to not be understood, to speak a language no one seems willing to learn.

Sometimes, I wish things could be different. I wish I could rewind time—to the day before it all began, to the hour or even the minute before judgment became my shadow. Those moments, though fleeting, felt lighter than the heaviness I carry now. How I wish I wasn’t the one chosen to bear this weight.

I’ve often thought of myself as the black sheep among the rest, the one who stands apart—not because of choice, but because of circumstance. Perhaps I’m the indifferent one, the one who doesn’t quite fit the mold. And yet, this difference makes me a target, a canvas for misunderstanding and misplaced blame.

When I say I know how it feels, I mean it with every fiber of my being. But what I wish most is for you to truly understand. If only you could step into my shoes, even for a moment. Yet, I know that’s impossible. Your feet are either too big or too small, and no matter how hard you try or how earnestly you claim to understand, you never will. You may empathize, but you can never fully know what it’s like to walk my path, to bear my pain.

It’s frustrating when people say, “I get it,” because they don’t. They can’t. My struggles are mine alone, as unique as the print of my sole. And though I’ve longed for someone to fill these shoes, to share this burden, I’ve come to realize that it’s not about them walking in my shoes. It’s about them standing beside me, offering support as I walk my path.

Perhaps one day, someone will truly see me—not as a black sheep or an outsider, but as a person with a story worth understanding. Until then, I will keep walking, even if the shoes feel too heavy and the road too lonely. Because, in the end, this path is mine, and only I can walk it.

Today I washed

gods mouth out

of all the words

he spat

and the blood

poured down

the drain

with chrome

and fang

to corrode the

ocean depth

molecules hold madness

memories hold regret

the depth of space

holds moments

that I wish

I could forget

the widow

raven

with its

crooked claw

perched tight

on rotted wood

turned its eye

to the

sparrow

time

and dove

straight into

the moon

Mirrors are made

of liquid

these portals to

the truth

find your eyes

and tell no lies

your reflection

bends the root

There's a fire settling on my shoulder blades, cracking under the weight of the white sky.

And there hasn't been a city yet where we haven't met.

We're on this bloodless highway sprawling like tentacles of thoughts forming out your mouth

every word is a delicacy,

even here in the desert…

Where an ocean labored to fashion life out of its sand

eaten up by the sun upon the take of a first breath.

And I'm left trying to turn this heat into a single sun ray, tuck it deep inside my eye for later…

Holding onto petals of flowers I've murdered to press inside a book…

So later we can know this again like we did today.

Been some time since I've posted on my own profile and not as Prose., but I wanted to post something from here and tag some writers, because I want to start getting back to my own shit. I need to write more, or just plain out start writing again. Prose. is a labor of love, so that's great, but no matter what, I need to write. Realized today I haven't even posted to my own channel in ages, and it worked out, because I didn't want to post my work on The Prose. Channel, because I like to keep that for the writers aside from me, and my voice and big, fat face on the channel is enough from me, without reading my own work, too. Holy fuck, I couldn't even watch that...

Been on this gnarly but satisfying carnivore diet the last couple of months or just less, and yesterday was an all-Hell-breaks-loose day. Beer, whiskey, bread, name it... paying the fiddler now. I'm sure he's thrilled. He's an asshole.

As myself, I want to thank you for being on Prose., and for being so generous with the work you give to it. Every day I read something great on here. So much talent in one place, and I think back to when it was just an idea stemming from another hangover, in the heat of a Texas afternoon, where I happened to find myself in that particular moment in time. Looking at Prose. now, it's very humbling, and I am grateful to you.

Alright, enough mushy feelings and shit. Here's a link to my own channel and some poems from here, but also appearing in a book of mine, set to release in the near future.

Thanks again.

-Jeff.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKw-vodNOMU

My soul is a black hole

sucking in all light,

all that is good.

I’ve become a festering wound

full of darkness and hatred.

Hatred for my ex,

for all the women who won’t fuck me,

for all the men who are fucking them.

I’m anger and hatred and bitterness

and there’s no relief, no solace,

not even a distraction.

Just me staring at the ceiling

lying on my couch,

listening to the mice

scurrying on the filthy floor,

screaming at the sky,

screaming at the world,

screaming at God.

I got a girl right here who doesn't like Star Wars. She hasn't seen any Terminator movies. She didn't like Disneyland, despises video games, won't play board games, and isn't fond of chocolate. She doesn't like playing cards, isn't a fan of football... come to think of it, she doesn't really seem interested in baseball, basketball, or hockey either. She doesn't like jewelry. She thinks flowers are a stupid gift because they just die; and fake flower are even worse because they don't die. She's not into shopping or getting her hair done. She didn't get the "maternal" gene, so she doesn't like babies. It's a hard sell trying to get her to watch a movie made before 2013, and there only three films she's seen more than once. She doesn't keep greeting cards any longer than it takes to read them. A European vacation is a hard no. Her first boyfriend gave her a '68 Camaro... and she sold it.

Even she loves dogs.

My grin is so wide and I laugh at your jokes

You would never know inside that I feel so broke.

Dancing and singing, and having such fun

But inside I feel like I need to run

I put on a brave face for all of my fam

but my heart and my soul feel so damned.

You say I am happy, funny, and not shy

but inside I feel that I should just die.

Where did they go? Mother's red eyes and Father's rueful glance –

under harsh lights, their helpless looks harken broken romance.

Life's dream ebbs

like silken webs,

gone as if by chance.

What is this place? No life or touch, old sets of memories –

gossamer echoes of times long past, sweet host of reveries...

But all before

I knew the score

of my life's treasury.

Time does not pass. It's come to rest. No sun or darkened sky –

watch the moments, both joy and shame, and all fool's hope gone by.

I am outside.

I am apart.

No effort here to try.

Emotions come and then expire, but envy lingers here –

jealous of he who lived my life and never knew to care.

He stood inside,

with angst and pride,

and let love disappear.

I can't abide. I cannot look. Exhaustion. Endless pain –

imprisoned death, unmoved so long that I forget his name.

I only hate

his laggard youth.

Ignorance, you are my shame.