Zoloft Baby
my father acts like
he wants to fix things
i try to be nocturnal,
where there are no words,
the image terrifies.
my father acts like
he wants to fix things
i try to be nocturnal,
where there are no words,
the image terrifies.
rain’s starting now.
Surrounded by knowledge,
He guides all those who walk through his doors
To the answers they seek.
He watches the young and the old
As they laugh together over comedies,
Cry over the tragedies,
Shout over the twists and cliff-hangers.
He knows each of their struggles
And adds advice when asked
But he cannot find the answer
To the one question he most wants to understand:
How to not be alone.
When someone sees pictures of me
in girl mode
for the first time,
the reaction is always the same.
“You look so happy,” they say
with delighted surprise,
as if I move through my daily life
like Eeyore.
I understand it though.
When I look and feel like my true self,
I have an undeniable glow.
I like to think
that if my family
knew my potential
for a more joyful life,
they would do whatever it takes
to help me get there.
They think I’m fine,
wearing boring boy clothes,
working a job I hate,
pretending every day.
If I try to protest,
their reaction will be,
“But you look so happy.”
So naive…
to think purpose
would arrive like thunder.
To expect a voice from the clouds.
A burning horizon.
A moment so undeniable
that no man could mistake it.
It emerged quietly.
Not in what I lacked,
but in the things I already carried.
A body that still answered when called.
Strength that had survived years of neglect.
A mind restless enough to question,
curious enough to learn,
stubborn enough to keep searching
long after comfort begged me to stop.
Decades of blessings I ignored.
Taking these gifts for granted
as if they belonged to me.
My health.
My drive.
My abilities.
My interests.
The only thing I lacked
was gratitude.
That subtle vacancy is
undoubtedly the reason for my decline.
Because these blessings were never mine.
And I certainly don’t get to keep them.
They were entrusted.
Placed into my hands for a season,
with the expectation that one day…
I would be held accountable
for what became of them.
That thought settled into my chest
like a weight I could not put down.
Some men are given much.
Some are given little.
Every man is given something.
And I began wondering:
what happens when a gift is hidden?
When potential is buried
beneath excuses,
fear,
distractions,
or the comfortable lie
that there will always be more time.
I started seeing evidence everywhere.
Every lesson I learned about the body.
Every book that pulled me deeper.
Every conversation about discipline.
Every struggle with food.
Every victory over it.
Every person who asked a question
that I somehow knew how to answer.
And my enthusiasm to rise
hours before the rest of the city,
just to prove that I was worth something.
Pieces.
Fragments.
Clues.
A trail I had been walking for years
without realizing where it led.
A picture emerged.
Not a dream.
Not an ambition.
A responsibility.
A calling.
A realization that maybe I wasn’t learning these things
simply for myself.
The pieces suddenly didn’t look random.
Maybe the fascination wasn’t accidental.
Maybe the struggle was training.
Maybe the victories were preparation.
Maybe the knowledge was never meant
to sit on a shelf inside my head.
Maybe it was meant to be multiplied.
The more I lean into it,
the stronger it becomes.
Like a fire discovering oxygen.
Like a seed finally breaking through soil.
What once felt like an interest
now feels like an assignment.
What once felt optional
now feels necessary.
And for the first time,
I am beginning to understand
that purpose is not always about
becoming something new.
Sometimes it is simply uncovering
what was placed inside you from the beginning.
The thought both inspires me
and terrifies me.
Because if this is true,
then I am no longer asking
whether I am capable.
I am asking whether I am willing.
Willing to build.
Willing to sacrifice.
Willing to grow into the man required
to carry what has been placed before me.
The world sees health and fitness.
I see something much deeper.
I see an opportunity
to take what was entrusted to me
and return it multiplied.
To refuse the safety of burial.
To reject the comfort of hiding.
To build.
Success is never guaranteed.
But failure doesn’t have to be wasted.
When my years are counted,
and my last breath flows,
I want it known that what was given to me
did not remain as it was found.
It grew.
It served.
It mattered.
And because of that,
so did I.
<span;>The woman in the barbie pink pinnifore was there to help people rise.
<span;>I was there to pass on with good intent, my wedding dress.
<span;>But. THEY got rules. In <span;>the Catholic charity shop.<span;> She wasn’ allowed to accept a divorced lady’s wedding dress.
<span;>Cause THEY got rules.
<span;>I stare hard. Breathe heavily; then fake brightly manage “oh, guess its a pale prom dress after all”.
<span;>Her mask cracked, she checked around like she was committing a crime, but her hand grazed mine and she took that dress.
<span;>And I blink in gratitude, but mild disbelief.
<span;>Cause both ladies know that young couples need great dresses and my problems are not in that dress.
<span;>Pray for the dress. And for that Charity shop. Cause the RULE is wrong.
Just write…
Infinite pages,
Infinite thoughts,
But now, pen to paper,
I become lost
Just write…
My face, expressive
As words, wordy
Treds led to Botox,
Seal up my 30’s
Dedicated to all my fellow LexPoMo writers this one’s yours too . . .
Dear Love what would you have me know today?
You are beautifully talented beyond what you may deem your self to be
remember, deep sensitivity ~ an asset
self-less-ness a healing quality
consider your own needs
ask yourself what truly feels right and makes you happy
take the baton in your private and professional life and know
we are all in this together
give yourself more
realize the dream you’ve always wished for
yes, your someday island ache of wanting can now be satiated
remember, we need each other to fly in strong V-formation
digest the decadence of Goodwill
ease all energies of dissent
accept accolades of fluid uniting
reject rigid thoughts
laugh loudly
open to opulence
as we
vocalize victory in unison
as we
ignite this emancipation of Truth
Teetering on the fine line between
A funeral and a wedding,
Everyone who ever felt like home to me
Stood in my house
As we devoured through every box left in it.
A mentally stimulating contradiction
Of everything and everyone I love,
Being somehow of use and also useless.
Kissing my knuckles and simmering
Into each crack and crevice of my life,
I couldn’t help but to stop and stare—
Their limbs ached sorting through
Every single part of me, indulging in
Everything I ever could be and have ever been.
Home is a forever evolving concept,
And it is a feeling, never a place.
There are almost 3 decades of me
Piled up in a dumpster, and I can’t help
But feel so loved.
Home is where the heart is,
And the ribcage is a box
Far too precious and prolific
To ever be picked through,
And especially not stored away.
