Author Archives: Michael Patricks

About Michael Patricks

Insurance is what I do. Writing is my passion.

From the Shadows

This is just the first part of the first chapter of the novel titled above but it has been created into a short story and is currently in competition here in Florida. 

Ephesians 6:12 “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against the Spiritual wickedness in high places.”

So many years ago, a lifetime ago, I was just a stupid kid, like every other kid in the world. I had no clue what the world was like. I did not know I lived literally in a hell on earth. I did not know how my life was soon to change and that what I saw could never be unseen. However before that fateful day I was like every other boy. I went to school. I played ball with my friends. I tried to make out with girls and see how far I could go. God, I still remember this one girl’s cherry lipstick. At thirteen I marveled at how girls developed so much faster than boys.

Oh yeah, I still went to church, every Sunday with no exceptions. Every Sunday I was in the fifth pew from the front on the right side next to one of the stained glass windows. St. Catherine’s had the most beautiful windows for a simple church. Each window was three paneled and each window told a story from the life of St. Catherine of Siena. It is mostly a blur to me now but I know that they started at the front left by the altar rail and progressed around the church. There were three panels however that would haunt me forever.

There was one window that scared me when I walked by and I quickened my pace on the way to my pew or on my way out of church. As all Catholics were or at least at the time when I was confirmed, we were taught by scary nuns. I had an in with the nun in charge because she was a friend of the family but she still scared everyone else. ‘In those days’, God that makes me sound old now, Bishops came to each church as opposed to everyone going to the cathedral to be confirmed together. It was nice to have your confirmation in your own church.

I must admit though that sometimes I lost myself in prayer at church and those were good times. I had older siblings so I knew what was expected of me on the day of my Confirmation. I wore a red cassock that did its best to choke me and it went down to just above my polished shoes. On top of the red cassock was a white surplice that made me look like a member of the Vienna’s boy choir at Christmas time. I do not remember much about the mass, being anointed with the oils or the receipt of the Holy Spirit. I don’t remember where my parents sat though I know it was not with me. I know my confirmation name was John, not for any devout reason other than my brother John took my name to be his so I liked him and thought it was appropriate that I would take his also.

I stress all these things so you understand the boy I was on that day and the days before. The only thing I remember is where I sat. I was four rows from the back, right next to that window that scared me.

I wasn’t the only one to be afraid. The three panels showed a time in Catherine’s life when she lived in fear. The panel on the right was a beautiful rendition of Christ on the cross raised above a personal altar. In the middle panel was Catherine; her hands raised outstretched to her Lord in petition, kneeling on the ground. Her eyes looking behind her in fear to the third panel……. the one on the left.

There in all his wickedness stood the devil in that third panel. His appearance was a secular one with pointy ears, the angular face ending with a sharp beard upon his chin. He was of human form, dressed all in green. He could have passed simply as an evil looking man if not for the horns and the giant bat-shaped wings that were larger and wider than his body. It was not difficult to understand why Catherine fled for her life and put Godly fear in my heart. It might surprise some that a stained glass window of Lucifer would be so prevalent in a Catholic church. I do not have an answer to that query. I continued to kneel half in prayer and half in fear of the image to my right.

At the end of my mass the Bishop proceeded down the main aisle and out the front stairs of the church. He passed each row of young men and women who at the beginning were just catechumen to later walk as the adult faithful. Row after row got up and proceeded until they got to my row. I continued to kneel in my trance of praying devoutly and in turn staring at the window.

Perhaps he had become real to me at that moment. The faithful were four rows behind me before I was shaken out of my stupor. I finally got up from the pew and followed the stragglers to the vestibule of the church. All five doors to the church were open, one to the left, one to the right and the three in the middle. The bishop was in the middle of it all, glad-handing and providing photo opportunities with anyone that was interested.

I took the door to the left knowing my parents would already be outside and we would take our pictures only as a family without the bishop. I was blinded by the midday sun high in the May sky. I put my left hand above my eyes to regain a modicum of vision as I slowly walked down the stairs. The world around me was filled with noises and the flashing of cameras. Just a few feet away from the last step stood my parents, my sister and my grandparents. My left foot hit solid ground and my right foot lingered on the last step of the church, a last string to my past life and later some would argue my sanity.

When my foot left the hallowed ground of St. Catherine it was as if the blind could see, those struck with infirmity were healed and those who were considered insane had their minds restored. At least as I grew older that is how I would look back, to realize I started to finally see the world. For now as the veil was torn I saw a cursed world for what it truly was.

I was surrounded by hundreds of people and instead of seeing these people in their Sunday finest instead I saw creatures of the most horrific description attaching themselves to most of the people. Perhaps “attaching” is not the right word. For these beings were not corporal in the true sense. They flowed in and out of people but in one way they were “attached” for each person seemed to have their own individual monsters whether groups great or small. The phantoms did not jump from one person to another but remained with their host.

Through all the chaos and horror I was able to see glimpses of the human soul, that immortal vessel. Each of these creatures were cutting through their victims to get to the soul. All this I saw in the first microsecond and after this I looked around frantically going in every direction, trying to come to terms with this new reality. I became unsteady on my feet and I realized that I had forgotten to breathe. I exhaled in the loudest scream imaginable.

I tried to catch myself and my sister came to my aid but I recoiled in horror for the things I would later know in my life as demons were crawling on her outside and within. When I recoiled I fell back, landing back on the stairs of the church. At that very moment everything I just had witnessed disappeared. The world was back to the way it had always been, the normal life I had known. Perhaps it had all just been a waking dream, a horrible waking dream.

Perhaps I would have believed it, if not for the faces all around me staring at me, as if I had escaped an asylum and not just walked out of a church. Though surrounded by the condescending looks and the shaking of heads I was too afraid to be embarrassed. No matter how much I tried to make myself believe it was a dream, a hallucination, an illusion, the one thing I knew to the very bottom of my core, perhaps my soul was that the demons I saw were real. It was with tears streaming down my face that this of all things created my faith.

I looked away from the other parishioners who were already resuming the tedium of their conversations and back to those five people I had loved all my life. My sister had been at the front of the group to greet me. So it was only her and her demons that I saw within my family briefly before. Oh my God what if they were on my parents? What if they were on my grandparents? Were they on everyone including myself?

“Patrick, are you alright?” It was my mom who reached me first. It was so strange that I did not think they would. I thought I would need to leave these steps again to go to them, to confront the fear that once I left the steps all the horrors would return.   My sister was there too. She was by my side, my sister again. I would not forget, no matter how I tried to block the vision of the flowing creatures all upon her. My dad was there too, stern but loving in his own way. I never doubted his love, just as I from that point never doubted the knowledge of demons upon the earth. My dad was a man of the world but a man more suited for being on his knees, rosary in hand and his lips slowly moving with the prayers. His faith was as private as was the man. All I saw was the look of concern on his face and I was embarrassed because he did not care about the gawking of onlookers but only of my thoughts and fears. My grandparents’ faces had the same looks of concern.

Soon we were joined by a sixth. Sister Lawrence, the instructor of my confirmation and friend, hurried over as best as her feeble legs could move.

“Patrick, I heard your scream.” She put my hand into her arthritic ones, the skin so cool to the touch. Without me realizing it she once more guided me off the stairs of my sanctuary. With her reassurance I walked out into what I knew now was the real world again. I will give myself some credit for this time I did not scream. My knees buckled slightly as all the images came flooding back towards me. My sister was there again with a darkened soul infested with the things, worse than any disease imaginable. I was able to see my parents out in this world and I saw no demons upon them but inside their souls were the slightest of grey edges.

I looked towards Sister Lawrence in her nun’s habit, refusing to cow-tow to the reforms of the sixties, and upon her I saw no demons. Inside her I saw a white soul, one that must not have been touched by the thousands of demons now inhabiting just this small conclave of people. The tears streamed down my face, drop by drop falling from the sides of my chin.

Her hands with those horribly swollen knuckles came up to my face in a sign of comfort and to wipe my tears.

“Why?” I begged and she knew. It was an understanding not necessarily of the knowledge of what I had seen for I saw her head did not move, her eyes did not dart from this person to that person but rather an understanding in some way within our souls there was a commonality, a link.

“I do not know. I just know that the gifts are rare and as time has passed they have become rarer still.” She answered with sympathy.

“Gift?!” I mocked, half weeping and half chuckling.

“Pain, confusion and despair but a gift nonetheless. I cannot know what your gift is but I know the mark.” She sighed, “I have helped thousands of children become confirmed and I have seen the mark less than the digits on these gnarled hands.”

“Why you?” She continued, “I do not know the answer. Does it make you better than others? No. Does it make you holier? Certainly not!” With that I heard just the slightest brogue of her birthplace. “Is it a cross? Sadly, yes. How heavy that cross will be I have no idea and for years to come neither will you. There will be times when you will be tested and there will be times when you will fall but you will rise up and you will sometimes catch the glimpse of understanding and find a little peace. I cannot give you more than this. You cannot hide behind the walls of the church. You are a man of the world and your gift is to be used in the world.”

And into the world I went, surrounded by people who loved me and countless demons determined to destroy all.

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Bottom of the Hole

Grace can take you down the rabbit hole
The Sandman can take you to the kingdom of Sleep
But the sheep jumping over the fence cannot help you
Nor can Little Bo Peep
You sit there in a recliner
Drinking your life away
Your only friends Captain Morgan and two ice cubes
Keep you there all night and day
You lost your wife and kids
And you’re about to lose your home
You tried twelve steps and tripped over number two
And now you’re all alone
You tried on God and shrinks
As if they were a pair of pants
You tried to stop and the withdrawal
With your skin crawling, covered in ants
The headaches make you sick
And always pound
As pointless as a deaf man
Who cannot hear a sound
You have not showered
Or bathed in days
You look to the left at the black metallic thing
Upon which your eyes continue to gaze
Not the remote for pointless change
Of each mind numbing showing at which you scoff
But the shiny purchase from a pawnshop
With its safety off
You swallow down the rest of your friend…

“One Face Two Nations” The Tenth in the “Innocent Children” Series

One Face Two Nations

“Twenty-seven times twenty-seven, please.” The young teacher at the front of the room asked her class. “Whoever works it out first, please raise your hand.”

I immediately raised my hand.

“Yes, Yuke” strangely the teacher sighed.

“729, Ms. Jones”. I eagerly responded.

“Yes Yuke, but I want you to work out the problem on paper. That is only fair to your classmates.”

“Yes, Ms. Jones.” I responded sheepishly. My classmates gave me dirty looks. I was used to it. I knew from the minute I stepped into a classroom that I was different than the other kids. They looked more like my mom and dad. The boys used to pull the sides of their eyes out to make their round eyes more like mine and laugh. The girls were meaner. Girls are always meaner. They would sit in their little packs and either snicker to each other or ignore me completely. Sometimes they would speak gibberish pretending they were speaking Chinese because I came from China. Most of all though it was silence and dirty looks.

The dirty looks have been there my whole life at least as long as I can remember. My mom and dad brought me home and my house is filled with love but these are not my first parents and not my first home.

I still remember my first home and remember my first mom and dad. My new mom and dad would later tell me some of my background, the name of the city, the name of the province. They told me the story I wanted to here, the lie, maybe they didn’t know the truth. I was a girl so I was a disappointment from my birth. I heard the words later and the tears would stream down my face and I felt a stone in my chest that always hurt. I guess my birth parents loved me. They say parents always love their children. My mom would show me love sometimes with a hug or a pat but my father never did. My father ignored me. I was not what he wanted.

I was there for four years and then everyone was excited because my mommy was going to have a baby but they kept it quiet too. Only the closest of friends and family knew my mommy was going to have another baby. Everyone kept whispering prayers asking for a boy. I knew by then what a boy was and I knew I was not one. When I heard those words I wanted to be a boy.

The day came and my mother gave birth to a boy. I saw the joy in my father’s eyes and I saw the relief on my mother’s face. It was as if she had saved herself when she gave the boy to my father. All I heard in those first days was the crying of my brother. Forgive me but I hated him. He cried and kept them up all night and he got love and smiles. I was well behaved and did my best in everything and my parents wouldn’t look me in my eyes anymore. When my mother would go out shopping I no longer went with her. She would take my brother and my first home became my first prison.

It did not last long. A couple of months later a man came to our door.  Even at that young age, I could tell he did not look right. His suit was too shiny and too big for his small frame as if he wanted to appear larger. His hair was greasy but my parents seemed pleased to see him. My mother offered him tea and he declined saying that he had several more stops to go to before the end of the day.

“Stops?” I thought to myself. He then took out a packet of bills with our leader, Mao on them with the number 100 on them. I was so proud that I could recognize the number 100 at my age. He gave them to my dad. My mom did not show any emotion but left the room to tend to my little brother. My dad walked over to me and I thought I was going to get a hug but instead he grabbed my arm and brought me to this man.

My dad said matter-of-factly, “Her name is Yuke”

The greasy man replied, “What a pretty name for a pretty little girl. Come with me little one. I will bring you to a new place.” He grabbed my arm and started walking me out of the door of our apartment. I cried as my dad stood there. I cried for the man that had ignored me my whole life and did nothing to stop this as he counted out the Yuan. They were a pink color, such a pretty color. I cried for my mother who walked out of the room without even saying goodbye. I even cried for my little brother. I was never going to see him grow up. All my crying did was wake up my brother and we cried in unison. My dad pointed towards the door and ushered the man and me out. When he closed the door, my dad had no expression. My first world, my first home was gone forever.

The man continued to keep a firm grasp of my arm as he pulled me towards the stairs. He cooed, “Don’t worry little one. You will end up in a nicer place, a place across the ocean where a new mommy and daddy will love you.” His voice sounded as if it crawled with lies. Only later would I find out he was telling me the truth.

However that did not happen right away. I was first brought to a white building. It was filled with kids just like me. We were all girls. Some were babies the age of my brother, some were my age and some were far older than me. I did not see the older kids long. They went away as quickly as they came in.

I was five by now but I was put to bed in the crib of baby. I had no pillow and one small blanket to keep me warm. There were only two times I left the crib. Two times a day we would be taken out. Once we would be marched off to a room with long tables. We would stand in line and be given disgusting food and a glass of milk made from a powder.   Once we were done we were brought back to our cribs.

The other time was when we were brought to the front lobby and people with round faces and round eyes with light skin would stand in front of us. We were dressed up in outfits I had never worn before and ordered to stand up straight, look pretty and do not speak someone unless someone spoke to us. They would look at each of us. Some had love and worry for each of us in those round eyes but others just walked down the line and without stopping would point to the prettiest one and hand the greasy man or this fat woman money but this time the bills were green in color. I remembered back to going to market with my mom and watch as she went through the fruit lifting each one and looking it over. Sometimes she would put the pieces of fruit down and other times she would put them in the cart. I felt like a piece of fruit.

One day a woman about the age of my mother or a little older knelt down in front of me. She looked at me and I saw in her eyes something I had never seen before me. I saw love and want. Before she said any words to me I wanted to be with her. She brushed the hair out of my eyes and looked at me in a way I never was looked at before, not in my home and not in this place where kids were barely cared for. She said something to me but I did not understand the words. The tone was soft and loving.

The man came over as the woman stood up. They exchanged words and the man turned to me and said, “She will be back for you.” I did not see any exchange of bills, either green or pink. She gave me one last look and waved goodbye to me.   I did not want her to leave. I did not want to stay there anymore.

Each day she was gone was horrible. I would cry and when you cry in a place like that no one comes to help you. You simply are ignored. I was no longer taken out to be seen by other people. I thought my crying had gotten me in trouble. I was scared because weeks went by without seeing the woman with love in her eyes. I wanted to be taken back out to be seen by other grown-ups if she was not coming back to me, for me.   Then I felt guilty as if I was misbehaving, not to the greasy man or his fat wife but to the woman from across the sea.

Just when I was giving up.

Given up on being away from this place.

Away from the gruel and chalky milk.

Just when I was giving up on the woman who gave the man no money.

Just when I was giving up on being part of a family, a real family; one where I was loved like my little brother was loved.

Strange things began to happen. The man would give me more food. It was still gross. I was allowed to walk around the rooms and not stay in my crib. I would only go a little way when my legs would get so tired. They hurt but I never wanted to go back into the crib. Of course I had to sleep there so there was no choice. They took my sheet, blanket and even mattress and brought new ones for my bed. The fat one took me to a tub and scrubbed my skin raw. The water was so cold but I didn’t care. I had not had a bath since I left my first home. My hair was washed so many times I thought my hair was going to drown. When I got out I was put into new clothes.

However the biggest change was my skin did not itch. My skin under my hair did not feel like it was moving underneath my hands as I scratched. I had seen the little bugs before, the black ones and the white ones. I knew they were what caused me to scratch. I fought a losing war of killing the little things. There were so many and there were places I could not reach and that was the worst of it all. Now they were gone. My little brain understood this was why I got the bath, why I got the new clothes and the new bedding.

I just did not know why this was being all done.

The next morning as the other children were taken to the long tables, the greasy man grabbed my arm and brought me to the front where I used to be shown with the other children. I saw a man there. He was wearing a white shirt and black pants just like my father had. My heart betrayed me. I thought my father had missed me after all. He came back for me.

The man turned around and I realized this was not my father. I didn’t realize the stone had left my chest for that brief second when I thought it was my father until it landed back on me again. He was a round eyed man with a little gray in his hair and I realized he was taller than my father and much taller than the greasy man. It was so strange to see him. He had hair on his face, under his nose and around his mouth to his chin. I had never seen hair on a man’s face before. Strangest of all were his eyes they were blue. They were the color of the sky and they looked so familiar to me. I realized as he bent down whose eyes they were. Behind the man stood the round eyed woman of love. Her eyes were brown like mine but their eyes were the same. He looked at me with the same love and want.

I knew then. I just knew. I was never going back to my crib. I was never going back to the gruel and powdered milk. I was never going to have to itch and kill little things. I was going with them. No matter where they went I was going to be with them. The stone was gone from my chest, blown away with love as if it was the weight of a feather. The woman ran over to me and hugged me lifting me in the air. I did not know what to think. I was breathless and not because I was being squeezed too tight. I couldn’t breathe as the man stroked my hair and arm. I was breathless because for my whole life no one showed me in those few seconds what I now felt. I was loved. I was wanted. Maybe more importantly I loved and I wanted.

The beautiful woman spoke to me in Chinese with a funny accent that I barely understood. She looked at the man and said, “Zhè shì nǐ de bàba”. (This is your daddy). Then she said with the biggest smile ever, “Wǒ de māmā” (I am mommy).

I cried in their arms. I cried because of all the hurt I knew when I was smaller. I did not know how much it hurt until I was in their arms. I did not know that I would be hurt by others as I got older but then all I heard were soothing whispers as they embraced me. I felt something that no hurt would ever take away, not the ones of the past or now. I said the words first in the land of my birth, “Wǒ de jiā” and then theirs, “I am home”.

Love is a Drug-2015

Love is a Drug- 2015

I got my first taste of it at fourteen

And the first taste is always free

And instantly was hooked

I could not get enough of it

Drug after drug, girl after girl

Each time more dangerous than the last

No drug was ever enough

 

I would smoke this love

Sniff this love

Take little papers with happy faces

Shrooms of love

Pop any pill I could get my hands on

I would steal other people’s drugs

No drug was ever enough

 

I would drop one drug for another

And try going back to other drugs I had spurned.

When I couldn’t get those drugs

I would spiral and haunt those drugs

My friends would introduce me to other drugs

No drug was enough

 

 

I would spend thousands on these drugs

I would get so high on these drugs

But after the first taste, no taste was quite like the first

I kept trying to hold onto this drug or that

But when I was offered a new drug I grabbed it

No drug was ever enough

 

I went into rehab to end my addiction.

I spoke to priests, talkers, anyone who would listen

The more I talked, the more I was miserable

The more I wanted the next drug

I tournaquated my heart and pumped it full of the drug

No drug was never enough

 

I hit bottom.

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t work

I couldn’t eat and all my thoughts were about drugs

They found me in a corner begging for a fix

Drugs don’t want you then

Then the drugs would crush

 

I went through withdrawal

The drugs itching me inside and out.

They say you can get off any drug

I waited and waited

And as soon as I was better, they came back to me

But no drug was ever enough

 

Everyone wants a happy ending

When you are an addict

There are no such things

Love is spiteful and play the same games you do

You might find the perfect drug

But then the other love is an addict too

Because no drug is ever enough.

“A Voice in the Wilderness” The Ninth in the “Innocent Children” Series

I am a girl of twelve.

I am not a Christian.

I am not a Jew.

I am not a Muslim, either Shiite or Sunni.

But I believe in God, your god.

I believe in Adam. I believe in all the angels.

No one had ever heard of my people.

No one had ever heard our story before.

We have tried to live to ourselves for 6,763 years.

We were different so you punished us.

We were different so you cleansed us from “your” land.

We were different so you killed us and scattered us to the four corners of the earth.

But we are so much the same as you.

I am a twelve year old girl, same as so many twelve year old girls.

Why am I different? I belong to the Yazidi people.

We are a small people living in small villages, keeping to ourselves.

But because we believe in one being different than you,

An angel by the name of Tuwusi Melek, our peacock Angel,

Your murdered us as devil worshippers for over a thousand years.

We just wanted to be left alone, doing no harm to anyone else.

The Turks wanted us to be followers of Islam and when we would not bend our backs we were purged from Syria during the days of the Ottomans. They killed us by the hundreds.

The Turks were not alone.

Though we belonged to the Kurdish people they thought we were not Kurdish enough and our belief in the angel Tuwusi Melek too strange and since he was not in their Book, we must be worshippers of the devil. So again by the hundreds they killed us.

And now as we try to survive a new people have come against us. They killed us by the thousands.

They came into our village.

They murdered my grandfather.

It was my grandfather who shared the stories of the persecution of our people.

It was my grandfather who told us the stories and why we are proud to be Yazidi.

I am a girl of twelve of Yazidi people.

You still don’t know me.

You now only know those who killed grandfather.

They killed my mother and father too.

You only know the monster that caused my brothers and cousins to flee to the mountains.

You only know those who took my sister and me away to their camps.

You only know because I am here to tell you my sister was raped and married off to a monster.

I just want to be twelve again.

I fled from those monsters. I fled upon the rocky earth to the safety of the mountains my feet torn and bleeding.

I kept running because if they caught me they would do worse than rape me.

No one cared about my people when we were attacked by the Turks.

No one cared about my people when the Syrians forced us out of their country.

No one cared about my people when the Kurds attacked us and tried to destroy our culture.

Only when a new group came, a group considered worse than Al Qaeda did anyone care.

A people who lived thousands of miles away cared, not because of my people dying by the thousands but because this group beheaded a couple men from their country.

I am a twelve year old girl.

Now the old men look at me with suspicion, thinking perhaps what happened to my sister happened to me.

The old women in the mountains looked and ensured that I remained untouched.

The old men still look at me with disgust or avert their eyes.

The boys my age…they do not look at me at all.

Why do you hate us?

Why do you attack us?

Why do you destroy what is different?

Why do you destroy what is strange?

Why do you destroy what is unknown?

Why can’t we be left alone?

Why can’t I just be an ordinary twelve year old girl?

When I reached the safety of the mountain passes I heard the stories. Our village was lucky.

Other villages were completely wiped out, lost forever to history.

Men, women, children and babies all butchered.

The babies were pulled out of their mothers’ arms and beheaded in front of them before the women were killed.

Why?

Why do things like this happen?

Why does no one do anything?

I walk around the mountains to get away from the eyes of those who are supposed to love me.

I am escorted by my brothers or cousins or other kin.

They claim to be afraid that I will be stolen away again.

My thoughts thrust me back to that day.

I remember my mother dying and my father shot trying to save her.

I remember my grandfather dying, too slow to flee and dying like a sheep for the slaughter.

I remember being dragged away.

I remember my sister’s screams from the tent next to mine.

They claim to be so righteous, men of God. What God would permit his people to commit such horrors?

The thoughts keep coming back again and again.

At night I can’t sleep because I am there again being pawed at by that old man with his dirty hands.

His eyes and hands so preoccupied that he does not see me grab the fiery piece of wood from the fire pit. My hands burn, blistering with the agony. I do not care as I smash the wood against the man’s head. I drop the burning wood onto the rugs of the tent as I flee. I hear the man’s screams as he and the tent go up in fire.

I hear the screams of the other men as they chase me.

This is the history of our people. A history of death and slaughter, not of our own creation.

In the past we have been put to the sword and in modern times they line up our fathers and shoot in them in the head.

I am twelve years old. I love God. I love my family and I love peace.

We are dying and not just my father and mother but our entire people.

And yet the world stands by and shakes their fist in outrage at the death of a few while we die by the thousands.

I just want to be twelve.

A simple twelve.

An innocent twelve.

Just twelve.

She is a Drug (2014)

It is a drug.

I need it.

I think about it, in every waking moment.

 

I need it coursing through my veins.

I feel hollow without it.

It is a drug and I don’t want anyone else to touch it.

 

It is my drug.

Mine!

Mine!

No it isn’t.

 

I gave it up.

And when I wanted to feel it again,

it had moved on.

 

Now the drug is scared of me,

can’t handle my emotions,

my crashes,

my needs for it.

 

In the end the drug and I want to be.

And we dance,

but I am a loser at the end of the end of the day.

 

And I just realized that even if I had the drug,

I wouldn’t be able to hold onto the drug.

I would push it away.

 

The drug is finally onto my games.

And knows my veins are not special,

at least not special enough to keep this phantom alive.

 

But it is a drug and I will never be the same.

The drug will always be part of me.

And while it kills me it also keeps me alive.

 

Maybe one day I will be better.

Maybe one day I will be the man,

the drug needs me to be.

And while I push,

And while I pull,

And while I crave her,

more than anything I have ever craved she is lost to me.

 

I am told to relax.

I am told to breathe.

I am told to chill…and I can’t breathe.

 

And so I am in an endless struggle with myself,

a struggle I am losing.

I know one day I will push her away forever.

 

So I know the end of this story.

I know the tears on the page.

I know the end of the story.

I will be called weak.

I will be called selfish.

 

And I know I will not hurt,

And I know I will be in peace,

And maybe in the next life,

The drug will be mine.

And maybe then the tears and blood will stop.

 

 

 

 

Love (2014)

Love is when you ache on the inside

Love is when you could be next to each other

And yet the gap is too wide

 

Love is looking up at the stars

And realizing how far they are away

And how close you are

 

Love is falling asleep

And never wanting the morning to come

Knowing that you will ruin it all

 

Love is all about the little things

The little differences

And the little smiles of knowing

 

Love is passion

Passion is indescribable

But you know both and are never in doubt

 

Love is a light

No matter what the darkness brings

The smallest of light overpowers any darkness

 

 

Love is regret

Knowing that you wish life was different

But parts you would never want to change

 

Love is a tree

It can whether any storm

Its roots are planted in the soul

 

Love is strength

Love is belief

Love is Love