Dear....

i wish I knew how to do better for You.
How to make sure You're happy and proud.
To be able to be as good as You expect -
as good as You're used to.

i am still learning,
mistakes will be made -
it's a part of humanity -
though i feel You feel i ought to
Be above the failures of human nature.

my Mind is broken -
You said You were aware and
that it was alright,
though the feeling i get is
How much You hate the brokenness;
that the trauma and mess isn't
worth Your care.

the failings i make are those of
Unintent, yet You act as though
Intent showed her face for each -
i'll repeat - -
Never would i make them when Intent is near.

i am dragging myself through Sluggish Black,
making Changes i Never thought
i could -
albeThem necessary, They hurt.
i still will make Them.

You steal my heart more and
more each day, i know not why -
i told You i wouldn't go, i like
You, Her....Us -
yet i seem unable to
return the Heart Steals.
Is it me?  have i done all wrong?

Tell me, how do i do better?
how do i not hurt You?
Help me understand how to be someone
You can be proud of -
someone worth Your care and time.

The Battle in my Head

There are moments where it feels as though everything moves in a Sluggish Black.
Moments like these are when the illness begins its creeping take-over,
where insomnia shows Her ugly face,
when the body aches set in once more and
the Bitch screams louder than the Logic; when the mind becomes an Asylum.

The time between these moments and the "normal" parts of my life seems to be longer with each instance.  And even lesser, outwardly, at least, since leaving the home I shared with the Felon.
I wish I could say those moments has dissipated completely, but, alas, I've hit in the beginning stages again.

Breathing becomes a chore, a constant need to remind my Lungs.
The racing thoughts, as disruptive as a swarm of Winged Keys, invade every corner,
They tear through the Happy and Beauty
and giggle as They watch Confidence hit bottom once more.

These are the moments when I need help,
someone to care, to keep me from drowning -
but
To ask something of this caliber when the Money comes to exist
from my responsibility to care for Her?
Unacceptable.
The Care is genuine, however, it feels wrong to need it when Care is my job to give.

It's not my place to fall into the Sluggish Black -
I cannot be Selfish while She is under my Care.

I will write, I will breathe -
Let the moments fight for Air in my mind,
let the Hurt and Tears bleed White and Black -

No means NO!

It isn't a casual invitation to try and change my mind.
No means no.
It isn't me playing hard to get or a chance for you to prove yourself.
No means no.

No means "back off!" not to grab my wrists and try to press your tongue down my throat.
It means I actually want to watch the movie, not watch the ceiling tiles waiting for you to be done.
No means no.

Society says,
"You should've fought back!"
"Why didn't you scream for help?"
"You can't change your mind once he's all excited like that!"

Fuck society!

My body is not a plaything for boys who can't control theirs!

The first time, you asked over and over; a zillion times I said "no!"
A light touch on my arm, another question.
No.
You pull my face toward yours, a kiss, another question.
No.

Silence.

A grope on my breast, your hand sliding down toward my thigh; I push it away saying "no" once more.
Over and over in similar manners the question was raised and amswered with no, until.....no became tired.
I became tired.
A whispered yes escaped my lips while my mind and body still screamed no.
I got my nerve back just before, pushed, said "no, I changed my mind, no!"
You told me it was too late.
You told me it'd feel good.

I watched the ceiling tiles, waiting for you to be done.

No means no.

When I said that, it wasn't a game for you to try to win.
No meant no.
You took my voice that day; how dare you?
I have the right to say "no", to say "yes", then to say "no" again!

Society told me,
"You shouldn't have worn those clothes."
"You walked alone a block and a half, it's your own fault!"

If shorts and a hoodie can cause catcalls from a lone taxi man, then never let your women out of the house!
I should be able to wear what I please without the fear of someone whistling at the way my ass looks while walking to my car!
I should be able to walk a parking lots length without being blocked my a taxi, a man grabbing me, asking for "at least a kiss, baby, just one."

No means no.

If I say "no", respect what I say and back off!
Don't creep closer with tantalizing whispers ("come on baby, it'll feel good" "it won't hurt, you'll like it" "you're so sexy, lemme show you" "don't you love me baby") that send warning shivers up and down my spine!
Don't tell me I'm a bitch when I say "no" and I mean it.

One in five women end up in these situations, where men take "no" as an invitation to "go ahead, come on in, really!"

"'Woe is me' they cry," society says, "it's just another call for attention."
You think we like the attention this drags to our lives? No!
The constant reminder that we can't walk in our favorite city anymore without flashbacks of the night with the taxi man.
The never ending need to check behind us to ease the fear we're being followed.
The paranoia of a man performing a PAP because we won't be safe and he'll take advantage while we're lying in the stirrups.
Yes, we long for this attention, it warms our souls.

No means no!

Get your heads out of your asses, America! Check the facts! Don't write us off as "another statistic with a bad attitude!"
Teach your boys that "no" is not a boundary to push or a game of 'hard to get' to win.
Teach them that no means NO!

A Year Today

I remember you as a
babysitter, painting our nails
and romping around outside.
Teaching me to somersault,
cartwheel and do handstands.

I remember mud pies and
tree forts in Lapeer. 3 Ninjas
and late night snacks on
the living room floor on a
massive blanket pile.

I remember your first
basketball belly, how excited
you were. The first time
I got to hold the baby and seeing
that huge smile on your face.

I remember when you called
from jail and asked us to pick
you up that first time
after too hard a party night.

I remember the day we came
to get Trinity after the fight -
he bashed you with a chair
till you stabbed his hand.
Baby Trinity screaming in
her carseat the whole time.

I remember taking you to rehab
that first time....and the fifth.
When you said you were done
with that life, Marines boot camp
came next. That started to
shape you into the woman you became.

I remember how you took me aside
when my parents thought I was in
trouble and told me not to make
the mistakes you did. I believed you.

I believed you when you said
you'd changed, that you'd left that
life behind.
No more drugs,
No more abuse taken,
No more lies,
No more running,
No more neglect.

How could you lie to me?
To all of us?

I believed you.
We all believed you.

I remember the last time
I saw you - Ciara's birthday.
Anxious from the work day,
I fed and napped with the baby
and sent you out to mingle.
We talked for a while before,
but I wish it was longer.

What I'd give for just one more minute with you.

I remember when that call came;
It was 1:52pm. While we sat smoking
and talking in his laundry room,
my phone started
ringing - text, text - ringing, ringing - text.
I said I'd get it later, but it didn't stop.

I answered.

"Andrea's dead."

Those words hit me like a
shrapnel grenade to the chest.
Maybe a sick prank? No...no.
My heart sank as I fell to the floor.
Gone....how could you be gone?

When I was told how you left us,
I couldn't process at first....
then I lost it. I was so angry.
The toxicology? All those drugs again?
The knife? How could you?!

You left 5 siblings, 6 adopted one's,
7 children, parents, and a husband!

You left us and you didn't care.
You didn't think about the consequences
you'd leave in your absence, the
mess we'd have to take care of.

I miss you to the point where
I hate you, at times.
Your number still stares at me,
unable to be deleted.
I miss you.
I love you.
My big sister - Andrea.

Lost Words

the Whirlwind, ever stirring
Unwanted words and Thoughts
never Caring to slow or
see the Pain it leaves In
Its wake -

Why should It?
What would It change?
Would It care, would It reassert Itself
somewhere else?

No.

it never ceases - not Completely -
Its pulse slows to
nearly Dead, but Never does
It fail to Breathe

violent Tornados spin
Faster
faster
always faster -
Sometimes the Words get lost,
can't grab Them to
Save me - They're out of my Control -
lost for now,
Lost forever?

how can I stop It?
When is it Time to Lose?
Why is It so hard to grab Onto
the Pieces?

let me Go - stop the Whirling
Let me Find the Words to speak Again.

Broken

Falling deeper down -
feeling Restless now
- Can't you see the Chameleon is
playing Tricks again

wide Open eyes
yea i'm Stronger Inside -
this World wants a Game, i'll
Put on a real good Show
just Try and hold Me back and
i Promise you Will Burn

i'm Numb to all the Casualties
lying at my Feet
Here i go Again -
Inside my Fears are catalyzed
- i'm not safe
but somehow I know, I am better now
Better now
Chained -

I Have A Dream

Every time I see the way words fall across a page and the how one can have such a way with them to make them express every feeling, color, and good or bad moment, it just increases my desire to bend words to my will.  Writing allows me to have control over any situation that I write about even if I have no control over anything in my life.  
A writer is able to bring death, life, joy, sadness, to his (or her) characters in fictitious writing and in poetry, one can use words to be able to describe colors, scenery, every situation, and the world itself.   The colors that fly across the page, the nature that comes alive, the words, they just soar throughout one’s mind and create a beautiful masterpiece once they’ve landed.  
When I’m writing I can make my world come alive and clear it of everything that is unwelcome.  I want to be able to share this ability with others; I want to be one of the great writers of my time.

     
A great writer with just one simple word can make a person fall to his knees as pain swells in his chest or rise to his feet with an over-flowing euphoria.  One word can cause a nation to make a long-lasting decision it will soon come to regret or one that could save millions.  
The bridges of relationships are built up and burned down with words; lives are saved with just a word, this nation, our universe, was founded and brought to life with a few simple words. 

     
Think about it: if we didn’t have creative control of the words we say and how we use them, where would we be?  If we didn’t have the free will to speak how we choose to, write what and how we please, what would it be like?  
As Americans, we have this freedom and we all take it for granted.  There are other nations, other countries, which do not have this freedom, they don’t have the power of free speech and to write what they like.  Some of them do not even have the freedom to write at all, many are bound to a life of silence or death will come to them and/or their loved ones.  
Americans do not have to worry about this.  We can say what we want to, to whomever, and we can write without penalty. 

     
My dream is to see that every nation, every country, state, and peninsula is able to have this freedom.  The freedom to speak, the freedom to write and be creative should not be hidden from any human being. 

     
My dream is to see every child become fully adept in writing, whether as a profession or just for themselves, but no one should be deprived of such a wonderful privilege. 

     
I long for the day when freedom of speech - in words both spoken and written - is fully free and people are no longer prosecuted, punished, for speaking their minds or writing down the words placed on their hearts.

Untitled

Acid rain and Lightening
Ripping across my Body -
teardrops Burn like Ice and Fire,
gentle Summer breezes - Alive
tonight - my Heart in Silence Be
Forgotten Memory - Restless sleep

Breakdown

You know how sometimes you just feel like bursting into tears and you have no idea why?  You know that feeling you get where you're just so depressed that you want to stop trying?  That feeling where you feel so weak and unworthy that you're afraid to try to stand up?

That's the breaking point.  It's where the breakdown's gonna happen.

You can't stop it.

You can't run from it.

I've suffered through the pain of my own breakdown in the past - two, in fact - and I can honestly tell you that it's hell to get through, but that I wouldn't have made it through alive if it weren't for certain friends.  My friends were (and are) wonderful and way more patient and kind than I deserved, but I'm forever grateful for what they did for me.  

The journey through may seem to be unbearable, but I can promise you that once you reach the other side, there will be a change.  A change for the better and a change in *you.*  It will be worth it.

"....the pain ain't gonna last forever...."  - Mandisa 'Stonger'

And though that simple phrase is, I agree, such a cliche, the message it speaks is profound and rings ever true.  I know it feels like pain is all you have, but it's not.  It will never be all you have.  I won't tell you that it will one day leave and you'll be pain-free, but I will say that as time goes on and you take the time to allow yourself to heal, it will lessen.  And once it lessen's, you'll begin to be able to stand again and soon you'll be taking baby steps and learning to walk and run once more.  

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."  - Eleanor Roosevelt

This First Lady hit the nail on the head with this one; what a wise woman.  No one can make you feel unworthy, unwanted, unloved, inferior, etc., unless *you* allow them to or *you* give them permission to do so.
I mean, think about how many women are in (or have been in) relationships where they're treated so wrongly and then they [the women], as a result, feel inferior, unworthy of love and a good man (or woman!), they feel like they're not beautiful; ladies, you are all of those things and so much more!  I know it's difficult to think about it in that situation and it's even more so to break away from it, but  - though it may not feel like it in the moment - *you* are allowing yourself to feel that way and you are allowing that man to treat you like that.
Be an Eleanor!  Stand up for yourself!  Take a stand and make a change.

To sum things up: Breakdown's will happen, but it's how you handle them that makes all the difference.  Let someone in enough to help you heal; allow the pain to lessen so you can enjoy the adventure [life] you're in.  Wake up and let out your inner Eleanor!  Let yourself shine and if there's people in your life who can't handle that, well, then they know where the door is and they can just leave.

How will you take a stand?
How will you handle your breakdown?
How will you make a change?

Until our next encounter,
Lauren

Government From The Eyes of A Poet

Inspired from The Completed Works of Emily Dickinson by Emily Dickinson

Hell hath told no tale as poised – debated – shot –

as the House and his affiliates

They were Fire to our fertile lands –

We ran – Frigid and fleet

to one with Milk and Honey, a Hallowed name –

“Secrets” is a daily word

buried under the magic Prison Capital

We blush for requisition be –

Senate’s Balls of Gold fall – Bastards

of Act or Accident, we have become Pregnable

A Phoebe – born in filth – clad in stolen wealth

the Death of our Country Be

Philosophy of Writing - 2013

            This past year has been hell, in most things, to get through, but I did it.  And you know what?  As I went through each situation, I found that my writing was the only thing holding me together, the only thing keeping me tied to the post of life.  It has challenged me in ways I never imagined, but it’s also caused me to grow into the poet I am today and, for that reason, I’m grateful to all that’s been thrown my way. 

            My philosophy of writing is constantly changing.  It changes as I find new methods to try my hand at, new authors and their ideas and/or habits – it will never cease to change for if it does, I will be dead. 

            Each writer has her (or his) own thoughts on their work of focus and that’s what makes us all so unique.  If we all followed each other like sheep follow the shepherd, the world of poetry, the world of writing, would soon cease to exist.  Then where would we be?  We would be useless creatures. 

Without individually having a philosophy to improve and nurture, we are nothing more than the average bear.  With it, we are invincible.  We are unstoppable.

            Think about these questions.  How many times have you felt like you were drowning in the weight of your own life?  How often have you considered giving up and forgetting about all your dreams and goals because it was “just too hard to fulfill them”?  It is seen, from my eyes at least, that all too often do writers struggle with these very questions and too often does the fire and passion fizzle out because of the pressure. 

BUT, to those of us who persevere, bravo.

We are the fighters.  We will win. 

I will fight for my passion and for my writing until the day I pass from this world to the next.  You cannot stop me – I will be as a Kansas tornado; everything that stands in my way will be ripped from its roots and tossed aside.  Sometimes fighting for this is the hardest thing ever, sometimes I get little to zero support from my family, but I know that this is what I was meant to do and, hard as it may be, I WILL continue to pursue this.  This is my love, my life – it’s my everything.

            Though my life is ever-changing, sometimes for the worst, writing is what I cling to to keep me strong.  My philosophy is this: If you find your strength is also where your heart is, nurture that fire, let it fester and grow.  And burn anyone who looks to dim your fire or, God-forbid, put it out.

The Woman Who Drinks Hearts

She hunts down her meals, intoxicates them with the vanilla bean scent of her Aveeno covered skin.  The invitation overwhelms their senses; they can’t keep away.  She moves sensually through a hidden, red-silk laced corridor with small lights setting the mood along the way.  Following her every move, they round a corner and fall head-on into several barred metal contraptions.  She glides around each one, breathing in the scent they emit.  From the air, it seems, she produces a small strip of cowhide and cracks it once – the noise resonates throughout the open concrete room.  In the far corner, there’s a round bed drenched in velvet blood and white satin feather downs.  Each man, in turn, gets a teaser before the darkest of them is released.  He’s led over to the dimly lit bed and she begins. 

She touches his smooth, mocha skin, caresses his muscled chest and slowly drags the gentle brown cowhide down his body – from his chin to the top of his precious cargo.  Crawling back up, she sets her body down, passionately presses her lips to his and seductively allows her tongue to dance with his.  His cargo soon pressed against her leg. 

It’s time.

Taking his face in her hands, she leans in and whispers against his lips, “You’ve been so compliant tonight.  I thank you.” 

            Her poisoned kisses have left him paralyzed beneath her.  She smiles as his face sinks into itself, stretching the skin to look like thin creeping vines across a building’s side.  She reaches for his chest and, swift as a hummingbird, plunges her hand inside and grabs his heart.  Pulling it out for him to see, she sets her lips to the left ventricle and sucks his soul through it.  Her own heart swells with pleasure as his eyes slide into his brain.  For good.

Finding Love in Arms

They met at Wong Chi’s, the local bar down on 49^th street near the old, abandoned outhouse.

She was clearly distraught.  Her auburn-copper hair fell in twists, catching the light reflected off of the cherry-red floor.  On her hip he noticed the bulge –

                            a gun.

“What kind of woman carries a gun?”

She smiled.

“One on the run,” she said.

“Whiskey,” she nodded to the bartender.

Whiskey?  What a woman….*sigh,* he thought.

They sat on stools dressed in red and white checkers and talked long into the night.  He asked her why.  She broke a deal.  Some men want her dead.  His daughter drowned two years before Ming, his wife, got cancer.  Ming died last year in the tulip garden.  He wiped a tear.  She bled out her story of the twisted web she was in.  Without warning, she lost her hardened exterior.

A woman crying.  With a beer.  And a gun.

He wasn’t sure what to say.  He fumbled for words.  “I love you,” he said. 

His face turned crimson.  He started to leave, but her touch stopped him cold.

She moved to face him, brought her smooth, vanilla skin to his warm cheek and whispered against his lips, “I love you, too.”

Unexpected Joy

I found this quote in the front cover of 'The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore,' and I couldn't stop thinking about it.  Just the way it was worded intrigued me so and I found myself writing.  I initially wrote this for my ACW Portfolio, but I think it deserves a place here - on my blog.  I truly hope you all, my readers, enjoy this short piece and please, don't be shy about posting an opinion or thought.  c:

“Laughter sparkles like a splash of water in sunlight” – Anonymous

To walk a Thousand Days – fortunate

eyes Glimmer with Lust

For the Crystal pool to taint its

never-ending heated Light – the touch

of A Child’s titter to Be

the Ripple found in the Sunlight

Untitled

“Inspired from Poems by Maya Angelou”

With skin like dawn

The scullery maids create a love child

From the Black-White truth of

The lip-wise owners living

in the broken air spread across their massive properties

The fruit and grains witness

The blooming horror

of the staining on the shoes

Of the grown

Rubbing the nakedness of the child’s bursting balloon belly

Whilst thick scars lay across their backs

and their tiny hands calloused

from the weight of a thousand white men

Untitled

“Inspired from Play Button Poems by Liz Robbins”

Be exposed,

              you

       weight of error

fused to the reddened child

          like Jesus on his crucifix

                       in October

         

          Tricks of smoke drip

                       off my tongue to land

       between

                       Juno’s spread legs

               

                behind the drooped laundry line

          her pockmarked mum

                       frozen in silent warmth

Our generation

              the last of the guitar bodies

       lay on colored tissue

                                  bloodied

                   by the gut-ropes hidden by

   the purple twinge we call

                                Dear Darkness

Golgatha

        Pure flesh,
life-sustaining breath,
       scarlet liquid,
ring of thorns adorned;
     Selfless love proclaiming,
"Forgive them - I am here!"
    Angry lights flash,
mighty claps roar high above;
    a mother's tears
                   ring out,
    a Father's body shakes -
       He's scorned His Son,
       A Son
                  dying
          for His Beloved
                                   Bride.

The Unrelenting Memory....

This particular post is yet another one that is very personal.  The poem within was excruciating to write and I've struggled with posting it here, publicly, ever since I finished writing it.  And, after a lot of inner debating, I've decided to share it with you all. 

I know there are millions of women who've dealt with this very thing and I know how hard it is to shed light on it, but I know that as I've talked about it more and more, I've learned how to handle the pain differently.  I've realized that it's nothing to be ashamed of and, thank God, I've found a man who loves me despite what's happened.  He sees me no differently than if it hadn't happened at all and that is something I'll always hold onto when I'm fighting back the thoughts that "I'm not worth it," and "it was my fault," etc.

(Wow, I did NOT take into account how difficult writing the rest of this post would be....my hands are so shaky right now....lol.)

Ladies, let me tell you something:  There is NO MAN on EARTH who can make you feel worthless, inferior, ugly, 'not the right size or body shape,' or anything else - they can try all they like, but the real reason they succeed is because WE LET THEM.  I am not the best example of following this, but it's something I work very hard to do everyday, but (in reference to my very first post on this blog) if we take the time, daily, to look in the mirror and tell ourselves that we're beautiful, loved, and worth every second we have life.
I struggle with this as well, but God didn't and DOESN'T make mistakes.

So....I'll let y'all get on with the rest of the post now.  I'm sure more on this topic will come in the future, but for now; enjoy.  

And, without further ado....

What Should Have Happened That Night....

'His eyes...I fear they're speaking me into silence,' she thought.

The white-washed walls dripping with paint impersonating fresh blood,

the eerie bay window breathing loudly into the large dining hall,

and the waxed tears falling from a thousand touchable stars.

"Silence cannot be spoken, yet with the eyes it can be known," he mused aloud.

At once, her mouth shut.

A baby fly buzzed away, having narrowly escaped being trapped behind the woman’s lips.

Like a frozen body of water cracking under the pressure of below zero temperatures, his heart was nothing more than a chunk of splintered ice.

His eyes spit silence while his hands ran down her body.

"You want to protest, yes?" he said.

She nodded.

Her screams of silent objection reached no one, but she flailed and kicked.

He collapsed and, helpless to grab her again, writhed upon the cold black marble floor as she turned and ran away.

The topic should be rather clear to my readers, however, if you'd like clarification, you need only to ask and I will reply as best as I can.  Anyone may post a comment directly on the post itself or, for more personal questions or whatnot, please feel free to email me at: lk4music@gmail.com.

Vulnerability

It's not something I've shared with many people, but I've been seeing a counselor and she gave me homework after our second session together.  She asked me to write about vulnerability and how it made me feel, what I thought about it, and everything in-between.
At first, I thought she was nuts and so I skipped it.  (It helped that I legitimately forgot about it, though.)  However, after the third session she assigned me the same homework assignment from the week before as well as another one.

Today I met with her again and this time, I had both of the assignments finished and ready for her.  I wasn't happy about doing the first one, but I did.  It took me about eight minutes to write about vulnerability and the inspiration, believe it or not, hatched from my hate of it.  Ironically...

As much as I hate the way it makes me feel, I have to admit that it wasn't all that bad to write about it.  Maybe it will help someone else have the courage to open up and write about it themselves or, at least, maybe some who will read this will be able to relate to what I've written.  Anywho, it's worth a shot, right?  Here goes.... 

Vulnerability

It is everything I hate,
but all that I long for.

It is the feeling I despise,
but the one that I desire.

It is everything worth loathing,
but everything worth owning.

It is the part of my soul
I wish to be free
yet my fear of the destruction it can bring
binds my heart from setting it free.

The walls built up against it
are unimaginable
and
impenetrable.

It is hate,
It is love,
It is unworthy,
It is worthy,
It is longed for and desired,
It is shut out and feared.

It is life.
It is death.

It is vulnerability.

Now, I hope my readers understand - those who know me and read this, at least - that this is not an easy subject for me to speak about, let alone write about and share with you all.

With that said, helping others grow and see that they're not alone in whatever situation they may be facing is a growing (burning) passion of mine and it is because of that that I am able to share this tonight.  As uncomfortable as it may be still, I want to see the youth and young adults of this world pull away from their pain, grow stronger, find wisdom and light in their dark places, and eventually be able to help others through similar situations.

Remember: Vulnerability is what *you* make of it.  It is a haunting emotion, but it can serve a helpful purpose if it's opened to the right person at the right time.  I have never, personally, experienced the good it can bring, but I've watched a few close friends experience it/them.  I still await my chance to see good come of allowing oneself to be vulnerable, but I know that in order to have good relationships and, eventually, a good marriage, I need to begin to open up and let it behave as a good emotion instead of solely an evil one.
Try being vulnerable with your boyfriend or girlfriend or your spouse/significant other.
Try it with someone you trust and I can guarantee that it will strengthen your trust of each other - if that person is "the one."
Try to allow yourself the privilege to grow and become the woman, or man, you want to be in this life.

Until out next encounter,
Lauren

His Hazel Eyes

His dark hazel eyes
Burn red as his fingers slide
Amidst his thick black locks.


Broken from within he
Falls into a fading reality;
He gropes for air but it slips
Through his hands as he screams.


Quietly bleeding from
The swollen wounds left
Scrawled upon his back,
He lays there doubled over from
The pain he knows, yet wills to leave.


Through the waterfalls
Falling down his face
He sees his mirrored self.
A glazed over face and sunken eyes
Greet him through the reflection.


Fear overtakes him and
He crumples to his knees.
He feels like he's slowly
Dying from the pain


His tormentor heaps upon him, but
He will not break even though his
Hazel eyes are snuffed of the twinkle within.


I wrote this for a good friend of mine during a night when he called me and he was so far gone that I could barely reach him.  It was as if every word I spoke fell on rotten earth and spoiled before its roots could grab hold of the life pulsing deep within the dirt.
Nothing I said made it through to him.
I was helpless...
I watched him fall and there was nothing I could do about it.

There's only been two people I've met who can read people as well as I can, if not better, and he is one of them.  The worst part of being able to read people is seeing the hurt, feeling it, and knowing just how bad they're hurting, but not being able to fix it.
When he was going through all of this, my heart hurt so badly, but all I could do was pray and hope that was enough of a rope to yank him out of his 6-foot hole.

Eventually, it was.  That and a good listening ear and a lot of firm advice.

I don't know that he ever fully understood just how far his pain had buried him, but I can tell you that he's still trapped behind some things.  He's a stubborn man though.  He's vulnerable and makes himself open to others relatively easy, but he's stubborn and too defensive for an "outsider" to enter enough to help remove the rubble from his chest.
Now, his girlfriend just happens to be my sister and she's not as good at reading the underlying layers of people as I or a couple of his other friends are - which is unfortunate because I feel like she would be able to get through to him when the rest of us clearly cannot.

Cj, I hope you read this and I want you to know that no matter what happens, I'm always going to be your "big sister" and I will always be here for you.  You're very dear to my heart.  You are a good man and I'm grateful that my sister has you in her life and I'm glad that I get to be a part of it as well.
I love you, Cj.

Until our next encounter,
Lauren