I was nothing more than excuses,
a great big ball of disappointment
which she tried desperately to employ.
At the bottom of it, I was fragile and weak.
In the pits of despair I looked to love,
but could not fully know love without
loving myself, which by terms of engagement
were cut like beautiful red ribbons from her hair.
Give me death, I’d beg.
Give me peace, I’d scream,
unaware that there was any difference between.
Still she’d try, day in and day out, pushing forward
like an endless train car of hopeful desire.
We’d even escape together too
with nothing but the wind to guide our path
and the rise and fall of the sun to persuade us forward.
Knee deep in the escape of journey we’d prevail,
until of course the final push where and when
like a wrecking ball of fate our souls would wither
in the crest of the sun upon the blind horizon.
Even now, I still turn my sights inward
reminded of her beauty and strength,
channeling it outward where I can walk
head turned high among the many shapeless eyes
who know nothing of my past, care nothing of my future
who’d rather see me not than to judge.
Yet still I turn to the East in longing.
And like all those many times before I know
even if we were to change(our minds) we couldn’t.
Though my count of crows is high
I know that one day it will be but one.
Until then I’ll keep this in my breast pocket
along with my sunglasses, where I reach for them sometimes
when my heart is heavy
where I can’t bear to look away
where I gaze into the distant clearing
and watch grasshopper spring
from golden stalk to golden stalk
blissful in the quiet light.
Words Of An Average White Male 