“You are meant for more,” he’d say,
Voice like iron striking flint, sparking something I still chase
“The wise shall sit with kings,” she’d declare,
as if the throne was already measured for my shoulders.
But now
That “more” hangs like smoke I can’t grab
A dream that flickers just beyond my reach
And the wise? I can’t find wisdom in my own cracked mirror
Empty chairs
A room gone hollow and accusing
Their absence a slow blade turning
Why the hell did they leave so soon?
I’ve been robbed.
Robbed clean.
“You are not enough.”
“You will always be mediocre, average at best.”
The voices slither up from the basement of my skull
Old cassette tape hissing, stuck on repeat
An enemy curled fetal inside the ribs,
patient, venomous
Waiting for the moment my guard drops
to claw out every half formed dream
Feed it to the same darkness that swallowed them.
Most nights I sit at their graveside bonfire
Staring into the only warmth left that answers back
Sparks claw upward, frantic
Small orange screams swallowed by the black vault of sky
A nightly telegram to anyone still listening
To the indifferent moon
To God if He ever bothered to tune in
Whispers dressed as hope
Thin
Frail
Still trying.
Cemeteries carry a strange courtesy, though
A hush that doesn’t judge
A stillness that almost forgives
The grass doesn’t care about your failures;
The headstones don’t grade your grief
There’s a cold kindness in the quiet
The way dirt and marble
slowly force the screaming days
into something smaller
Something you can almost hold
without bleeding.
Chaotic tranquil.
A celebrated marathon champion outruns fame, addiction, and grief—until death becomes the only finish line.
