I had a wife.
She was my life,
But it was a time filled with toil and strife.
I loved her dear.
And without fear.
Then came the day to shed a tear.
She asked to move on,
She told me not to miss her when she was gone.
It felt like my heart was staked to the lawn.
But her love couldn’t be bought.
So I gave in and accepted my lot.
One thing in life I’ve been shown.
All my relationships have been blown,
And I am meant to be alone.
I ran toward death today.
I believed that my friends and maybe I were going to die in some unpleasant way.
I was ready for the battle, both to kill and to die.
I don’t understand why,
But I ran anyway.
Straight forward not away.
Then we found out it was a false alarm.
There had been no harm.
But I’m still here at 100%.
And that I resent.
Because I can’t calm down.
I can’t come down.
I feel pressure in my chest.
And the sweat builds in my vest.
And I still have the might,
Given to me by fight or flight.
I’m like an explosion that just didn’t happen.
I hate my pride,
And the way I’m never satisfied.
I love my drive to work and make,
Even if it’s just for motion’s sake.
I hate my reluctance to make a stand,
Even when the embers of my anger are fanned.
I respect my lack of complaints,
Though it doesn’t put me with the saints.
There are many sides to me,
Some I love, others a don’t want to see.
I have good traits and bad,
Some are happy, some are sad.
I try to maintain self respect,
Though I know I’ll never be perfect.
I would like to make a statement regarding what I write.
I’m not trying to cause a fight.
A poem is a personal art.
It’s purpose is to reflect the heart.
It should not be critiqued by others,
Because that sort of input simply smothers,
The author’s ability to express feeling,
And prevents that inner healing,
That comes from having a voice.
I wrote my poem that way by choice.
If you like what you see then say what you like,
But don’t tell me how to hold my mic!
The stage is mine, just sit and listen,
Watch and see my raw emotion glisten.
If you’d say the words differently then write your own.
Don’t try to force me to be a clone,
Of your thoughts and emotional need.
My writing may never commercially succeed,
Or make me well known.
But at least it’s my own.
And if someone took the time to read each one.
They would know me better when they were done.