I lack.

I’m beyond confused,
And feel I’m twelve steps back.
Clarity, clean lines,
Is something that I lack.

Lays hearts.

When you fear a fear,
That makes no sense,
But it still sits there,
Cold and dense.
You turn away,
But it come back in parts.
You can’t escape,
What lays heavy in hearts.

Tired eyes.

Sucking air into lungs.
Closing tired eyes.
Life can hit you hard,
So much your will, it fries.
Focus on your heart,
Your purpose and your goal.
Who knows? Maybe one day,
She pull find you’ve become whole.

Still cannot.

A journey I had not expected.
Signs leave me confused.
I am not sure of what I’m seeing,
What crutches are being used?
I keep on, keeping on.
Eyes open, holding thought.
My heart is bruised, battered,
But it still cannot be bought.  

To take.

Regardless of your efforts,
There can always be a mistake,
And that my earnest soul,
Is the hardest thing to take.

The blight.

Afeared of any action,
That might make things worse,
Makes this period,
A blight and then a curse.

Mental fiddle.

When you’re hit between the eyes,
And are still very much reeling.
Dig in deep,
You can drown in what you’re feeling.
I am hit between the eyes,
And in winded in the middle.
Is this something to focus on?
Or just a mental fiddle?

Focused.

Like scales falling from my eyes,
I am drawn.  Hypnotised.
I am challenged, I am drawn on.
I am focused on the one.

That sphere.

“Bare with me?”, she’d said,
When she meant, ‘Can you wait,
Without that look of judgment,
Without that look of hate?’
“Bare with me.”, she said.
She was repeating to be clear,
That neither of them was happy,
In that moment, in that sphere.  

Yet still.

State the obvious,
Rub it in.
Do it with,
A facetious grin.
State the obvious,
Show your hand.
Yes, I’m wobbling,
Yet still here I stand.

Forever.

Amidst the fire,
This burning shell,
The broken soul,
And mind as well,
You my heart,
Are the gift, the treasure.
I pray that we have,
Forever.

Have become.

Deep breath.  In. Out.
Here we go once more.
Pull myself up,
From the damaged floor.
Deep breath.  In. Out.
Wish for something more,
But this message is in repeat,
And I have become a bore.

This door.

Too tired for all of this.
Yet it keeps on coming.
It’s that point in a song,
When the guitarist keeps on strumming.
I am desperate for the words,
The key change, something more.
I am waiting, but not patient.
I want to shut this door.

That look.

I see the look,
Could meet yours in return,
But what would be the point?
There’s nothing to earn.
I see the look,
And I close my eyes.
I’ll see that look,
When one of us dies.

Dirvish whirl.

‘Brock’ned’ as my grandma would say.
Thankful, still, I very day.  
Blessed with the beauty of my girl,
Though the rest of it is a dirvish whirl.

Stung.

I don’t feel fully formed for this.
I still feel far too young.
I try my best continually,
But how your words have stung.