Since when did my apartment door become
the lid to my coffin?

A small studio apartment made sense
for a divorcee to reconstruct himself,
but eight years later, my lack of real progress
constricts hope, belief, faith.

Thing is, when I moved in,
I recognized this building as a place
where people got stuck
doing nothing meaningful with their time on earth;
a crack in society.
I swore I wouldn’t become one of them,
but then I looked up and couldn’t see the sun the same way.
I was getting buried by life.

The advice
don’t compare yourself to other people
or you’ll never be happy,
becomes impossible to follow
when everyone around you is finding love,
dating, getting married,
having kids, buying houses,
new cars, extravagant trips,
having every dream fulfilled.
I could be satisfied with just one of those things.

And I wish that God
would take care of the kind
the same way He coddles the wicked.
He never saves me from the fall;
just makes sure I don’t die from it.

When it comes to sins of omission,
our Man Upstairs is the greatest offender
(somebody has to judge Him)
and I wish Jesus would for once
practice what He preached.

I want somebody, just one person,
my Samaritan,
to look out for me in the same way
I look out for the world.
Or maybe I’m flawed for caring.

Problem is, life
is hard to love
when you’ve come to hate the place
you call home.
Can we do it over?

To be able to invite people into my space
without fearing what it looks like behind these walls.
To be vulnerable again.

After helping so many people catch fire with life again 
I just want, for once, for the phoenix-flame to touch me again.

But that’s what makes poetry so good
because it’s teaching me how to not hold back,
not just in the written word but daily life,
standing up for myself, asserting myself,
even when bleakness is the only inspiration I’m given.
I matter, what I am experiencing matters
because I’m not the only who feels this way.

In truth, I might still be slightly better off
because my words, written for myself,
can also be written to them.
Maybe I can still open my own dying spirit up
enough to save another’s life.
Therapy in some form.