We always chose different paths with respect to having children. I had none and you had five. It was aok until after dad died. Then, according to you and your husband, I had no responsibility towards anyone but me. You labeled me selfish. My counter was that I knew I couldn’t responsibly care for a child, and I knew it. You mocked me. You did admit that if you had your last two first, you wouldn’t have had your first three.

Your husband died and left you with five kids. It was and is devastating. Everyone pulled together for you, because we are family. I was still somehow less, not in my mind, but by your words.

Fast forward to last Sunday. Mom fell and hit her head. You were with your boyfriend when it happened. You made it clear that mom’s accident disrupted your plans. When her CT scan read clear, you resumed your vacation and let her take care of your fourth and fifth. When they disrespected her and she tried to call you, you avoided her calls, and said you were sleeping. It is beyond me how you let your 80 year old mom be disrespected by your kids while you slept.

When mom told me that, I was prepared to throw your words back to your face. You are an absentee parent. Your kids are 17 and 14. I have so much to say, but the words remain unspoken, for now.

a day in the life

Image Credit: OnConference.com

The restroom smelled of acrid decay, mostly emanating from the pools in the corner, and I instinctively stopped at the sink to wash my hands.  I could feel the stink of the place on my flesh.  When I looked up, the wizard in the mirror said, “The trick is to believe you are where you want to be.”  I blinked and he was gone.

I long blinked again and then held my tired lids closed and imagined the smell of sea spray filling my nose while the crash and roar of the tides echoed in the distance.  I wasn’t surprised to find myself in the same dingy bathroom when I opened my eyes.  I could see where I wanted to be.  I could hear it and smell it.  However, I never truly believed I was there.

The level of faith and trust required to truly believe in something had never come easy to me.  My mind worshipped logic and my heart beat to the rhythm of mathematics.  One of the yellowed iridescent bulbs over the sink flickered in response to my distracted lingering and I turned off the faucet and carefully stepped away in search of a towel to dry my hands.  The wizard winked at me from the air blower by the door.

I wiped my hands on my pant legs to avoid that germ fest and used my back to push open the door.  I considered the cost of the shirt I was wearing and briefly debated burning it rather than throwing in my washing machine when I got home.  Sound reasoning, however, swayed me quickly to the side of soap turned to sounds through mechanical agitation.

The hallway was lined in copies and bad knock-offs of famous paintings and I shook my head in disgust at the ruse of our dying culture.  It reeked of desperation to fake high society rather than own the truth of our reality.  The wizard stepped in to replace the screamer and whispered, “The trick is to believe you are what you want to be.”  I ignored him and carried on down the hall.

I walked purposefully, holding eye contact with those I passed, and projecting confidence and an exuberance for the mundane rituals of our pointless lives.  Again, though, I was not immediately successful or happy.  I knew what it meant to be both.  I knew what it took.  However, I did not believe I was worthy of either.

The office smelled of futile decay.  A sea of cubicles, awash with wasted life, drifted with the tides of change.  Eyes shifted above glowing screens to mark my progress across the floor.  I could hear their thoughts, a cacophony of pleas for freedom, and the weight of their cries slowed my steps.  Laughter, cruel and low, caused me to turn and see the wizard staring at me from a nearby computer monitor.

I hated him.  His mocking promises and half-truths had haunted me since I first began to understand what it meant to be a contributing member of society and the shiny gloss of a child’s dream of adulthood quickly wore away.  I knew he was a figment of my stifled imagination, logically, and I would never be free of him, but his demand for faith was something I could never supply.

The Arrow Of Hypocrisy

The crush is back with a vengeance.
It originates in the brain and travels to the heart where not so gentle hands squeeze with the intent of creating unbearable pain.


My walls are at an unprecedented high.
I grind my teeth, clench my jaw and still manage to scream “Why?”

But I know.

Climbers of my walls are nearing the top.
When will they stop?
When will they fall?

With one, we have shared our trips
to Hell and back.
His eyes filled with sorrow and mine with tears.

I expected to hear the splash of him falling into my moat of tears, but he didn’t.
I never expected he’d stay through the years, but he did.

He’s saved my life without even trying.
Without even knowing, he’s kept me from dying.

I will never tell him.

With the other I hold my own
and trust;
I must.

I still wait for the splash.

I think about those
who have fallen
under the weight
of their lies,
drowning the sounds
from their cries.

Important is such an arbitrary term.

Occasionally, I give in to anger.
I draw the arrow with the same name from my quiver.
Through the peep-hole I aim with bulls-eye precision, and take pride in my decision.

To my surprise, this time, the arrow missed.
It boomeranged and loudly hissed its way back to me.
Before it punctures my pupil with bulls-eye precision, I see its name has changed to Hypocrisy.

The crush grins with delight as I writhe in agony from the smite.

Then I calm and realize.
Who am I to criticize if they intentionally or inadvertently pulverize my hurts?
It isn’t my place to put verdicts into vials
and to judge
without knowing
their trials.

I’ve made my own
climbs and falls.
I’ve scaled the heights
of others’ walls.

I’ve turned my back
in their times of need.
I’ve fallen into their moats
and began to proceed my climb.

Their walls are higher now.

As I apologize,
tears roll down my face.

I don’t expect to receive a response.

Image Credit: Unknown

and rage

Image Credit: Huffington Post

Coo sweetness and love to the toddler,
Strapped so carefully into his seat,
And rage,
Against the driver,
Who dared to share your street.

Our hypocrisy is plain for all to see,
While on the painted blacktop,
And rage,
But then, casually,
Sing lullabies until the next stop.

So look in your rearview next time,
And see your eyes there,
And rage,
At your own crime,
Then relax and set aside your cares.

ready your pikes

I’m just a jester,
Don’t you see?
I don’t dare fester,
We can agree,
On subjects weighty,
For too long,
That would be wrong.

I’m just a jester,
Are you not entertained?
I’m not a master,
But I juggle unrestrained,
Nothing gained,
As these chainsaws fall,
Let’s have a ball.

I’m just a jester,
If you like silly?
Flip-flopping faster,
In hypocrisy,
Than I claim to be,
For I’m a shadow,
Of words and crow.

I’m just a jester,
Despite what you think.
The only matter,
I’ll fully take to the brink,
Before I can sink,
Is one measured in likes.
Ready your pikes.