I miss her so, and I desperately want to be back in her arms.
Life never works the way one plans or wants it to;
It makes its own plans.
To just be friends, better in theory than practiced,
Will not be what I want.
I lie awake and alone, in bed, and dream of her
Lying next to me, cuddling me. I can see her there sometimes,
And I weep joyfully. Then my eyes are open, again.
Some pasts we long to and hold them tight, some we
Don't even acknowledge, and then
Others, we see them, and comprehend them, but rarely
Bring them out of the basement.
The basement. I am still frightened to go to some
Corners in that dark underground abyss.
Why have I not honestly dusted down here and
Let my creatures come out for a picnic?
Why can't we be honest? Why do we keep so much pain
Stuffed in boxes down stairs? Why can't we share them?
Because the social norms claim it not polite; to never
Open them and always keep them hidden because others
Don't want to see the nastiness.
Just let them fester into a mental illness.
Life will never let these monsters be thrown by the wayside,
And shipped to a dump.
Even though they are thrown away,
They still are.
Where is the Speaker of the Truth? Where is the Voice of Wisdom? Where is the Knower of All?
That ole hermit who can teach us what to do.
If this is progressing, why do I still feel like crap?
