Coffee simulates the synaptic response
you typically get
out of sleeping enough,
I tend to like
caffeine jolted fires
warming my bones from within
especially when my soul is cold
from the outside in.
When all you can hope to do is breathe, but your lungs are coated in dusty exhaustion which sleep cannot cease, it seems self-sabotage is the only relief– on the way to salvation. The subconscious knows what we cannot begin to admit. If admittance were deemed an admirable feat perhaps becoming a being with meaning would be worth it. What is “worth” in the grand scheme of things? A preconceived notion society intervenes in to determine the depth of a person. Our pain is only allowed to go skin deep, anything deeper gets swept under a political rug until dust bunny demons come out to haunt us. Mental illness cannot be fixed until we are each given the right to embrace it.
I cannot tame the rage I irrationally make.
Doom and gloom are my favorite fate
an escape from reality when I am caught up–
what is there to do, but wait?
For an end to a means, or even destiny
to accumulate in one long moment
that might demonstrate existential importance,
maybe that’s what I’m waiting for–
an epiphany to explain what it means to be,
a truth that comes from the consequence of being
rather than seeming to see enlightenment.
A revolution that revolves around social conscious–
the act of caring past the current moment,
perhaps, that is what we need.
Clothes are piled two feet up off the floor, there is no walking, but for tripping to get out the door. A tin door on a tin trailer that has rust holes where a bathroom floor should have been, despite it never having had running water. Plywood, placed on twin beds, frames what used to be a bathroom, fashioned into a dank den for an inept mother. Instead of a mattress and blankets, a curled up ball of little girl sleeps on a built-in couch that has cushions, but no stuffing, covered in clothes that need another washing. Oil lamps shatter easily, as a pit bull’s tail ecstatically knocks against left open drawers that those clothes will not be put away in. Votives with painted Marias litter a counter covered in crusted dishes, layered with a coat of dust that turns to mud when wetted. Broken windows frame bloody fist holes that were made by hands that ache to take innocence; now, damp redwood air steals warmth from a propane tank heater. Emaciation comes quickly when mothers forget they have children, lost on benders with boyfriends on weekends that have long since turned into months. Bungee cord locks are made for breaking; they cannot keep burglars from burglaring, nor strangers from strangling. Meth head mentalities are shifted; there is no sense in quitting, effort that could be directed in living is left to giving a well lived life up.