I'm Adrift in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

I don’t know where to begin.

There is no singular point that is in any grand way defining my existence right now. Except confusion. I am without direction. A rudderless vessel without proper instruments to ferry me on my way with confidence.

So I am listing.

Adrift in this ocean of life, and sometimes the weather turns on me. Other times I feel the warm splash of sunlight bathing my face, and I think just for a few moments, I might see beyond the mist.

Beyond the gray.

There is no lasting, though. It does not stay. Just another dip and roll and I’m spun about again. Loose footing. Even looser are my beliefs in anything remotely resembling concrete.

No, it’s a mixture of sludge and slights.

And I’m tired.

Tired of drifting.

Tired of thinking.

Tired of believing that there is someone out there worth believing in again.

I do not know why this has devastated me so. I don’t miss her at all. But I find myself missing me. I used to throw myself at love with a beautiful violence. I was passionate. I was beaming. I was an undeniable dreamer, but with less idealistic thoughts. Mine were always realistic.

And now, all I find that is realistic is that this isn’t working. I’m not working. I’m adrift.

What do you do when your heart isn’t even beating in rhythm any longer? The pulse is there. I’m alive. Physically? Healthier than I have been in over two years. My strength is back. The last surgery in December fixed that. I’ve been able to gain weight back. Gain my health back.

And I still couldn’t be more incoherent. My words are tangled, lifeless, and without use. I sit here spinning poetry in my head, but I don’t write it. I don’t save it. I don’t know if I believe in it anymore.

My judgement was always my backbone. I used to do everything reliant upon that. Upon being a good man. A good person. A good everything.

And now, even when I am doing it, I still feel this emptiness. As if I were a robust tree finally gaining back its leaves and with bushy branches reaching farther and further until I am pricking the skyline.

Yet I don’t feel the sun’s warmth often enough.

I feel like I am a passenger, and I haven’t got a destination.

Anywhere but here!

Anywhere but this hollowed out husk of a tree that breathes these thoughts to life and gives them credence.

Were I to place my heart in your hands, enclose your fingers around it ever so slowly, and gently look up and directly into your eyes. Would you hear my whisper?

Please be gentle with this, it is the most precious thing I can ever give, and I honor you with it. With the whole of me. Keep this and tend to it. It needs only be held with soft hands and an even grip.

Would you start to squeeze when the inevitable tension comes?

When stress becomes your best of friend?

Will you hold it gently, and honor me as I have you?

Should you ever place your heart in my hands, I will never let go of it, I will never let harm come to it, I shall never dishonor your gift. I will always cherish your treasure.

I will not quit.

Even when the tide is high, and the rogue wave comes and slams me to my knees, I will cradle it, be grateful for it, and never lose sight of who you are.

And how beautiful this is..

My hands are soft.

My fingers wrought.

And I still believe.

I just don’t know in who or in what anymore.

I guess that’s why I’m so very rudderless.

Still adrift.

Last updated May 01, 2015