The Wednesday Prose

Wednesday

And I’m still drinking coffee from a cup that isn’t mine

Holding on to a hope that I hope is not a lie-

And my hands are well-worn with bruises from the fight

And I’m nothing more than a self-taught cynic, still aching for the light

And this is what it is, 30 years of a strange disaster

Never thought that I would know this place

And the words she spoke that once seemed like prophecy or rain-

Still feel heavy underneath my skin-

And last night, I was reaching for the tangible

But I am blind and empty handed

And Jesus, Jesus

Are you really who you said you were?

Because it all feels too much like well spun glass

And love is not a fail-safe

And words are only oxygen and air

And it’s much too late for the right words

And I have nothing left to give anyway-

And this is what it is, 30 years of this lackluster merry-go-round

And I just need you to tell me that it’s going to be alright

And I won’t even mind if it is a lie, No I won’t mind-

And I guess that it must be easier to cut a heart out than to feel

So I’m working on sharpening this blade

Hoping that sometime soon I could find the will-

And 30 years to life; it isn’t anything than another 365 endless thoughts

Of how’s and why’s

Of regret and time that feels too much

And I hope that it isn’t all a lie-

And I hope that it’s still worth the fight, still the worth the fight

And I wonder if it’s getting harder to breathe

Or maybe just easier to languish in this grief

Wednesday

And tired of the sound of silence

And tired of this broken heart and the fracture beats

That still ache for more than what is empty

And spoiled and colored in shame and disease

Aching and restless and craving for tangible relief

And still drinking coffee from a cup that isn’t mine

In a room where the clock keeps ticking

And stripping away minutes and hours and moments of time-

And maybe just a girl holding on to hope

And hoping that it isn’t all a lie

And hoping that it isn’t all a lie-