I learned the horrors of prescience at the very moment I discovered I was gifted with it.

She was a childhood friend, a year younger. There happened to be a pause in our rambunctious play, a pause just long enough, and our play just close enough, that we accidentally found ourselves looking into one another’s eyes. Being children, the staring itself became the game; exploring each other’s souls inside them, daring ourselves to venture deeper while at the same time being revealed. We passed that point where one laughs to hide their discomfort, or looks away, and we continued even longer, her winded breath so close that I could feel it on my chin, and on my moistened lips. It was then that I saw who she really and truly was, and she me. And it was then that I knew.

“You are going to die.” I whispered.

“I know.”

“What will you do?”

She answered the only way a child could answer when the question is so fearsome as death. “Hide.”

When I left her that day I never saw my childhood friend again.

“Robert?” My mother called from the foyer. “Alicia’s parents can’t find her. Do you know where she is?”

“No Momma,” I lied.

But it did find her, even where we had so carefully hidden her; inside that big old trunk down in her basement, covered between the musty old clothes and things, the heavy cedar top closed and latched.

There’d been death in my friend’s eyes that day. There is no hiding from that.

404 an error found

like all the roads before

I'm hitting the ground

when tired:

how do you run?

patch up the hurt

like all the times before

give up on being first

when lost:

how do you return?

en route 303

202

101

to zero

404 can not be found

i torched the highway

it's the ground

whereupon I now can stand

en route 303

a new road, another try

on and on it goes

times fly

i can't find the road for me

maybe some dreams aren't meant to be

Existence must mean more than suffering.

My phone died. Now I'm alive.

Stop it! No answers, just listen.

The more I journal and blog on this website, at first it was an easy way to get every thought and the heaviness in my heart out onto paper...

Now, my gratitude and perspective has changed a bit. To be able to share what others are going through too, it changes things. Whether it is life changes, grief, loss, heartbreak, mental health struggles or whatever it may be.. it opens a whole new world to know for 1) I am not alone and 2) anyone can relate in some way, shape or form.

Instead of holding that pain inside and weighing yourself down from what you can’t carry.... give your pain a purpose.

“Whatever pain you can’t get rid of, make it your creative offering”

I am learning-

You are more than your grief that you hold. You are more than your brokenness and your past. You are more than your pain.

The messy parts of you, the deepest secrets you hide and the sadness you hold....make it into your own creative offering.

Create a purpose for your Pain.

I spy with my watchful eye,

the tulips and jonquils and wild violet’s

saying

”Spring is Sprung!”

The Robin red breast searches for a meal, and the swallows have come to bless my home.

All while the cheery Cardinal tells

us every day to be “Cheerful Cheerful Cheerful!”

Isn't that a lovely way to wake up to and greet the day?

Caution!

Cage contains a Bad Proser!

This creature joined the site to write

(so he may never get around to reading yours).

The beast only “likes” what he likes,

only comments when there is really something there

(but if something clicks he may stalk your entire back catalog,

in search of more treasures),

reposts once in a blue freakin’ moon,

never creates a challenge (doesn’t know why not),

loathes anguish and self-pity posts, yet…

despite all this he is mostly harmless, if a little loud,

so just ignore.

(If you are so kind hearted that you still feel compelled to feed him,

he enjoys peach cobbler, black coffee, and a happy puppy tale.)

i was itching to crawl out of my skin

the pulsing sting radiated across my back

there was no escape from the searing pain, no relief

feeling trapped in my own body, i simply had to push through the torment

muffling my cries, i took deeper and deeper breaths

until i could pretend it didn't hurt anymore

until i could act like everything was normal

but that lump in my throat was thick and hard

no swallowing allowed, when there are hooks in your back

when you've been set on fire and left to burn

so when i finally retreated from the gaze of unwelcome eyes

i let myself cry

amongst the pain and the terror and the hopelessness,

this was my greatest relief

if a man

cat-calls you

and only whispers it

so you can't hear it

did he make a sound?

it only happens on the street

car engines revving loud

women not turning around

I wonder

how these men see themselves

if they know

their words fall flat on the ground

or if there's some special club

where they discuss

how to make each whistle

more meaningful and profound