Probably The Most Meaningful Poetry I've Ever Written (A Cycle Of Alpha Poetry)

All you have to do

Is everything.

We only expect

Your best.

But what if my best

Isn't good enough?

What if my everything

Isn't anything?

What then?

How will I ever live up

To your expectations?

Back with a vengeance

Feelings of sadness

Low self-esteem

Shame, self-pity

I say "back", but

They never really left

I just buried them

With facades of normalcy

As soon as I took off the cover

There they were

Waiting to be reborn.

Can hardly wait

Till tomorrow

Or the next day

Or the next day

Or whenever it is

That things get better.

Desperately seeking answers

I go to the Word, and find

More questions, but even more

Answers. He knows my thoughts

My dreams, my aspirations

My worries, my fears, my heart

And His best is yet to come.

Every time I'm not there

I feel guilty. But is it them

I don't want to disappoint? 

Or is it Him that I'm afraid

To lose? He's not going anywhere

And I'll be back, but how far

Will I have slipped in the meantime?

Fleeting thoughts

Of bad decisions

Quickly stifled.

There is a way

That seems right

In a certain light

But proves dreadful

In the light of day.

It's always better

When you can see

What you're getting into.

Green with envy

And not proud of it.

I struggle to reconcile

Myself with the fact

That others have more

Because they deserve it.

Maybe they work harder

Or maybe they're just lucky.

But worrying

About what I have

And what I don't

Won't do any good

And neither will wishing.

I can work harder

Try harder, be harder

And it will either happen

Or it won't. 

There's not much else

I can do to change things.

Happiness is

Overrated.

Contentment is

A better goal.

What's the difference?

One changes

Your perspective.

The other changes

Your life.

If you want to live

Your best life now

You won't find it

In a bestselling book

That only serves to

Make its author rich.

You won't find it

In wealth, either.

Hasn't it long been

Established that

Money can't buy

Happiness, and that

The love of money

Is the root of all evil?

Your best life now

Isn't green in color.

Your best life isn't

Being in the black.

Your best life is

Covered in red.

What's that?

Your best life now

Is putting your "later"

In the hands of the One

Who shed His red

For the blackness

Of your soul

So that you could

Be made white

And pure, and whole.

That's your best life.

Interested?

Just in the nick of time

I found my purpose.

I was *this close*

To giving in and settling

For mediocrity and stagnancy

When I realized – there's more

So much more that I can do

For my fellow man, so much

To live for, other than myself

And my interests and desires.

Right on time, I stopped myself

And let Him start His work.

Keeping her in mind

He bowed his head

And said a prayer

Of thanksgiving.

Grieving her death, but

Grateful for her life

And the joy she brought

To those around her

Some of whom she never

Knew by name, or by face

But whose heart she captured

By being herself, a servant

Faithful to the end.

Love is a four-letter word

But so is hate, and so is hope

And so is wait, and so is stay

And so is live, and so is cope.

Brief words speak volumes

While big words mean so little.

Most of what I say

Is meaningless.

Every now and then

I'll inject a bit of truth

Into my make-believe.

But I wouldn't joke

About this. Everything

I've said today, I've meant.

Believe it or not, I believe

In unseen things. Because 

The evidence is overwhelming.

Not what you expect

When you open a page

(Printed or posted).

You've seen it all before

(And maybe you have)

But this is new. This is

Real. This is life and death.

How will you respond?

Over time he's worked to gain

A better understanding

Of the things that scare him.

Like forever – a concept

He can't quite wrap his brain

Around, and that makes him

Physically ill to try to fathom.

And like forgiveness, which he's

Heard of all his life, and has

Experienced first-hand, but never

On that level. Never "total forgiveness"

No matter what he's done wrong

And regardless of what he's done right.

That just doesn't make sense.

It's not natural. Speaking of which –

He also can't fully grasp the truth

That the supernatural exists.

But he's studying, he's learning

And he's asking questions. There are

Plenty of people who are able to help him

Better comprehend. But are they willing?

Peace I've mined

From wells of wisdom

Ancient and modern

Has gotten me through

The toughest times

In my life – which

Admittedly have been few

But there have always

Been challenges. After all

If life isn't challenging

If there aren't difficulties

To learn from, then are we

Truly living, or just existing?

Quote the right sources

And the advice you give

Will be beneficial, and lasting.

Repeat the words of those

Who speak their minds

And not the truth, and you

Will likely do more harm

Than good. Think first, then speak.

Rounding the bend

And heading home

She stops to listen

Only for a second.

A cry for help

Distracts her.

She could just

Keep on moving

Reach her destination.

But the cry would

Haunt her dreams.

Not knowing if she

Could have saved a life

Or made a bad day better

She can't (she won't)

Just walk away.

This is her blessing

And her curse.

Sadly, most people

Won't ever read

A word I write.

I say "sadly" – not

From selfish motives

Or a desire to be

Widely read, well-known

Famous, if you will –

But because I feel

That there is truth

To be gleaned from 

Words I put in motion.

And I don't want anyone

Living their entire lives

Never knowing the truth

About the things that matter

Most. It may not always

Be obvious in what I say

Or how I say it. But it's there –

An ever-present vein

That ties it all together.

Read between the lines

And see the layer

Beneath the surface.

Truth in small quantities

Is still truth, regardless.

Time is never on your side

Tomorrow isn't guaranteed.

You may think your plans are set

But you might never, ever leave.

You are never in control

Even though you'd like to be

Don't consider this a sentence

It's letting go that makes you free.

Under a cloud

Of doubt

And despair

Of guilt

And fear

Of shame

And pain.

But hold on!

It gets better

Once it rains.

Vehemently opposed

To saving grace

He trudges through life

Denying the existence

Of his Creator

Loudly outspoken

In his conviction

That this is all there is.

At the end of his life

He's shocked to find

That there was more

And he missed it.

What you don't know

You don't need to know

The questions you have

In the scheme of things

Don't matter all that much

Are you that eager to meet

The God who made you

Face to face, just to ask

What happened to dinosaurs?

Where's the Garden of Eden?

Who wrote the book of Hebrews?

Once you're able to find the answers

You won't even care anymore.

All that will matter is that you're there

And He is, and that forever has begun.

"X" tattooed on his wrist

Or is it a cross? Let's say it is.

Is it a symbol of his redemption?

A constant reminder of nails

Driven through HIS wrists?

Does its presence tell others

WHOSE he is, or is it just a fad?

Does it mean anything?

Does it affect the way he lives?

Does he forget it's even there

And live by his own standards

While defying and denying HIS?

Interesting question.

You only live once

But if you're born twice

Your one life never ends.

Even if you're never born again

You'll never die again.

The difference is, you'll spend

The rest of your life (after life)

Tormented, desolate, wishing

You'd died to self, and been raised

To new life with Him. Too late

You'll realize that forever

Is only paradise if you spend it

There. Here is only heartache.

It's your life. Choose wisely.

Zoning out, dreaming of the day

When there will be no pain

No tears, no sorrow, no death

For those who are found in Him.

(Unreality compared to what we know now)

When the supernatural becomes

The norm, and we are glorified

In body and soul, what once seemed

Impossible will have been revealed.

And we will dwell with Him

Who makes all things possible

Forever

And ever

And ever

And ever

And ever...

Oodles Of Fun

For the second straight weekend, we have holed ourselves up in our house and set our hands, arms, legs, and anything else that will bend to painting our house. Well, parts of our house, at least. (And maybe I was exaggerating about the leg-painting....) Last weekend, it was the downstairs living and dining room area. This weekend, it was supposed to be doors and the walls surrounding our stairs up to the second floor. It ended up being just the doors. That and hanging five sets of blinds took all weekend long. (Obviously, we have a lot of doors.)

Over the past three-and-a-half weeks, our contractor/guy has replaced all the countertops in our upstairs and downstairs bathrooms and our kitchen; he has scraped the linoleum from our bathrooms and kitchen and replaced them with vinyl (upstairs bath only) and laminate (downstairs bath and kitchen); he has painted our bathrooms (upstairs and downstairs) and kitchen; he has repaired the sheet rock in our bedroom and third-floor bonus room where we had previously had leaks; he has replaced or repaired all three of our toilets and installed protective trim in our shower; he has installed shoe molding everywhere we didn't have it before and replaced it where it had to be removed to do the flooring; he replaced our over-the-stove microwave and is going to replace the light fixtures in our kitchen and dining area; he has taught us how to properly caulk, how to build a window cornice, and is going to teach us how to mud walls in order to patch sheet rock.

Did I mention that "he" did all of this: I should probably qualify that a little. He knows a guy who professionally installs vinyl, and that guy and his assistant actually installed the vinyl upstairs. He also has a guy whose expertise is spraying the "popcorn" on ceilings, and that guy did that in our bedroom and skylight area after our guy replaced the sheet rock. Our contractor/guy can basically do everything -- I'm not exaggerating. He had to take three days off from our project the week before last to do a framing job for a guy he works for regularly. This week, he starts working on the crew of a big stone masonry job. But he'll still come by after his day job to finish up a last few things for us. This guy is amazing!

We've put in plenty of hours doing all this painting, a bit of packing and decluttering, cleaning, and oh yeah, hanging those blinds. But our guy's put in plenty more hours doing all that he's done. Of course, we're paying him for everything he's done, but not an exorbitant amount, all things considered. His pricing is fair, he is extremely honest, and we trust him (to the point where I will let him in the house each morning before I go to work and just let him do this thing all day without having to look over his shoulder the whole time, or worry about our (few) valuables being stolen while we're gone.

He works hard, but still saves a bit of his (seemingly boundless) energy for his wife and three kids when he leaves here. His wife makes and sells tamales, and since he's been coming regularly, we've been buying and eating her tamales. (They're wonderful, by the way!) To top it all off, he's a fellow believer, and we've had several great conversations about our Christian faith. We've also shared quite a few laughs.

The big remodeling project will, in all likelihood, be finished before this week is over, and there are many things about it that I won't miss. The day-after-day-after-day of eating takeout because our kitchen was a construction zone and utterly unusable. The three nights we spent on the inflatable bed in the guest bedroom while our bedroom was being worked on. The several days, in the middle of our painting project, when all of our living room furniture was pushed to the middle, and just sitting to eat dinner was a claustrophobic catastrophe. The week-and-a-half-plus that we've spent sleeping with the kitties to keep them isolated from the downstairs construction/painting zone.

But I will miss hanging out with our contractor/guy, not to mention those tamales. (Oh, we'll find a way to get more of those, if we have to drive to Chocowinity to buy them in the store where she sells them.)

Mad Libs: "Personal Ad" & "The WalMart Difference"

DISCLAIMER:  I only came up with the words in bold, everything else was pre-written and I just filled in the appropriate parts of speech requested of me by the game. Enjoy!


PERSONAL AD:

I enjoy long, frigid walks on the beach, getting smacked in the rain and serendipitous encounters with feet. I really like piña coladas mixed with blood, and romantic, candle-lit fingers. I am well-read from Dr. Seuss to Angelina Jolie. I travel frequently, especially to Food Lion, when I am not busy with work. (I am a Gynecologist.) I am looking for pocket watches and beauty in the form of an Icelandic goddess. She should have the physique of Meryl Streep and the socket wrench of Sammie Starr. I would prefer if she knew how to cook, clean, and wash my crutches. I know I’m not very attractive in my picture, but it was taken 34 days ago, and I have since become more frumpy.


THE WALMART DIFFERENCE:

Come simmer at WALMART, where you'll receive lousy discounts on all of your favorite brand name blankets. Our amazing and flashing associates are there to undulate you fourteen hours a day. Here you will find sweet prices on the pants you need, chandeliers for the moms, board games for the kids, and all the latest electronics for the Jimmy's. So come on down to your roomy, fabulous WALMART where the books come first.

Things I'd Rather Be Doing This Weekend Than Painting Up The Stairs

So, after spending almost two entire days painting our downstairs living and dining room last weekend, we are now left with the unenviable task of painting the walls on either side of our stairs leading up to the second floor. We have never attempted anything this stupid or difficult before, so who knows how this will go? We're planning on using extension rollers, extension ladders, and any other forms of extension we can find (where are Inspector Gadget and his arms when we need them?).

Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to this too much. Those of you who know me know how clumsy I am, and knowing this, you must realize that me attempting this – even with Mary helping a lot (and probably doing a better job of it than me) – is potentially lethal. But it has to be done. So, while I'm risking life and limb to paint walls tomorrow (hopefully it'll all be done in one day), these are the things I'll be wishing I were doing instead...



1)  Vacationing In Maui:  Sandy beaches, back massages, enough sunshine to give this fair-skinned boy blistered skin in about five minutes. Sounds like heaven compared to painting up the stairs.

2)  Watching A 24-Hour Marathon Of Any Of The "Real Housewives" Reality Shows:  If that doesn't tell you how desperate I am, then nothing can. I don't even need to comment any further, do I?

3)  Playing Golf:  I should explain here that I have never played golf, never desired to play golf, have no interest in ever playing golf, and that I turn the channel in five seconds flat any time a golf tournament comes on television. So this is saying a lot that I would rather be playing golf this weekend.

4)  Dining At An All-You-Can-Eat Salad Bar:  I'm not a big fan of salad. Meaning that it almost has to be force-fed to me for me to eat it. I don't mind the croutons, nuts and seeds, bacon bits, boiled eggs, shredded cheese, or even the salad dressing used to top it with – it's that darn lettuce that I don't want any part of. Which kind of defeats the purpose, huh? But still, I'd rather eat salad all day than paint up the stairs.

5)  Waiting In Line At The DMV:  Now, if this isn't the ultimate test of patience, I don't know what is. Still, I'd rather wait in line, all day if possible, than paint up the stairs.

6)  Flossing My Teeth:  Every time I go to the dentist, he harps on how I need to floss more regularly, and that I should only floss the teeth I want to keep, and blah blah blah blah. I know he's right, but I still fight him (and myself) on it every single time. I just hate flossing. But...I'd rather floss than paint up the stairs.

7)  Attending A Lecture On Any Subject:  I've never been a big fan of lectures, and I don't really see the point in going to one unless I am forced to do so. But still, I'd attend a lecture on how to properly wax my eyebrows if it meant not having to paint up the stairs.

8)  Learning To Crochet:  Crafting in general is not of much interest to me, though I wish it were, because then I'd have another interest in common with my wife (she likes to scrapbook). But alas, I don't like to craft. Anything. Ever. But if it meant not having to paint up the stairs this weekend, I'd take up crocheting butterflies in a heartbeat.

9)  Going Shopping With Paris Hilton:  As much as I dislike shopping, and as much as I dislike Paris Hilton, I'd rather do that than paint up the stairs. Just saying.

10)  Teaching A Parrot To Speak:  I am not well-known for my great patience. Thus, the reasons for why I do not enjoy waiting in line at the DMV, driving across town on Greenville Boulevard on a Friday afternoon, or listening to radio commercials. But I would rather expend my time, my energy, and yes, every last bit of my patience to teach a parrot to speak than paint up the stairs this weekend. Is the picture becoming a bit clearer now?

Of course, I won't be doing any of these things this weekend. I, along with my wife, will be painting up the stairs. Will it be a pain in the butt (and neck, and back, and arms, and legs)? Absolutely! Will it be worth it for our house to look fresher and newer for prospective buyers? Absolutely! Will I complain about it all weekend, or suck it up and just do it? Probably the latter, but maybe some of the former. Ultimately, I want a more sell-able house (and eventually a new house) more than I want one more comfortable (or in the case of most of the listed activities above, uncomfortable) and relaxing weekend. There's always next weekend for that. I probably won't spend it doing any of these things, though. Although it would be nice to visit Maui. But that's a dream for another day...

Short Story: "Old Man Oldman"

This neat little story (well, I think it's neat) is brand-new, and originated from a random title I made up a few weeks ago. Hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it....

"OLD MAN OLDMAN"

Old Man Oldman cocked back the hammer on his revolver, aimed it at my head, and stated calmly, "You got five seconds to get off my property, Sonny, or I'm gonna use this thing like God intended it to be used."

"I don't think God intended for you to shoot me, Mr. Oldman," I answered, equally coolly.

"You just lost a second for smart-mouthing, now move it!" The slight edge to his tone spoke volumes.

"I'm going. Believe me, I don't want an extra hole in my head. The ones I was born with are quite sufficient," I said, unable to turn off the sarcasm even if my life depended on it. Which it currently did.

"That one cost you two seconds," snapped Old Man Oldman. "Now make tracks, Sonny!"

"Well, I'll try, but these shoes are pretty old, and the tread on the outsole is rather worn down, so I may only make streaks, not actual tracks."

He extended his arm fully, the barrel of the revolver only inches from my forehead now. I backed away carefully, stopping only to grab my duffel bag. Only when I'd secured the heavy bag around my shoulders did I turn my back on Old Man Oldman and break into a sprint.

Seconds later, I remembered that I didn't come here on foot. My car was still parked in Old Man Oldman's driveway. The subsequent sound of four fired shots told me that even if I came back for the car after dark I wouldn't be getting very far. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm my suspicions. Four flats. Wonderful! I just bought three of those last month. The expensive kind, with the 50,000-mile warranty. So much for that.

I should have known better than to try to reason with Old Man Oldman. He'd never been known as a sensible man. An eccentric – sure. A hermit – absolutely. But a fair man – never.

The plan, such as it was, had been simple. Offer the old man a couple thousand in exchange for letting us hunt on his land for the entire hunting season. My friends and I knew that the harvest was plenty in the woods behind Old Man Oldman's house, so pooling our resources to seal the deal seemed to make a lot of sense.

He could've just given his permission outright, but none of us expected that to happen. We figured an old man like Ollie Oldman, a retired hog farmer, could use the extra cash, Social Security now being his only source of income. But apparently the old codger had principles after all. He didn't want strangers traipsing about in his woods, not even if it kept the deer population down and might help prevent rabbits from overrunning Oldman's garden, which the old man tended every day by himself.

Somehow or another, I drew the short straw and was designated the delivery man. My friend Terence had already visited him last week with the proposition, and while Old Man Oldman hadn't said "yes" he also hadn't said "no," which we all judged to be a positive sign. So I was sent today to close the deal.

Unfortunately, I have a bad habit of saying whatever comes into my head, whether or not it's inappropriate, insulting, or politically incorrect. Which is how this ended as badly as it did.

It had started off well enough. I'd knocked on Old Man Oldman's front door, waited a polite fifteen seconds, then rapped again, louder this time. The old man had come to the door, rubbing his eyes dramatically, like he'd just awakened from a nap (which it turns out he had), and swearing at me right off the bat.

"Now, is that any way to talk to the man who's about to make your dreams come true?" I beamed brightly as I spoke.

"What's that supposed to mean? You some kind of fairy or something?" He glared at me suspiciously.

"A fairy? No. Perhaps a Fairy Godfather," I added. "I'm here to give you some very good news."

"Jehovah's Witness?" Oldman sneered.

"Excuse me?"

"Mormon, then? Where's your other guy?"

I looked at him quizzically, then understood what he meant. "No, I'm not here to proselytize, Mr. Oldman. I'm here to lay some cold, hard cash on you." I pointed toward the duffel at my feet.

"What are you talking about, Sonny? You don't look like no Ed McMahon to me!"

"Of course not, Ed McMahon is ancient, gray-haired, and quite dead. I'm young, brown-haired, and very much alive," I grinned stupidly at the old man, who was clearly not impressed.

"You wanna get to your point now, Sonny? What is it you're selling exactly?"

"Oh, no, I'm not selling anything, Mr. Oldman. I'm here about the hunting agreement you discussed with my associate Terence last week." No response. I waited patiently, then flashed another ridiculous smile at the old man.

"There ain't no agreement," said Old Man Oldman. "Me and that boy just talked, is all."

"Yes, I believe you two discussed a certain number. Twenty-five-hundred dollars, was it?" I didn't particularly enjoy being overly polite, but I realized I was quite good at it, in an annoying sort of way.

"That sounds about right. But I ain't doing it," replied the old man, scowling uglily at the sky. I wonder what he had against clouds?

"You mean you're not going to let us hunt on your land, Mr. Oldman?"

"That's right, I ain't," he said curtly.

"May I ask why not, sir?" I inquired. "Is the dollar amount insufficient? Perhaps we could hold a bake sale, or some other such capital venture, and bump up the figure to a cool three-thou?"

"It ain't about the money," Old Man Oldman spat. "I don't care about the money!"

"Then what do you care about?" I asked directly. I stared intently at the old man, till he narrowed his eyes and glared at me, which was both impressive and scary.

"What do you care what I care about?" he shot back. "Who are you, anyway? Some kind of lawyer or something?"

"No," I replied. "I'm a bookseller."

"I don't need no more encyclopedias. I got two sets back in the back, and I don't even look at those. Same goes for the religious tracts." The old man was clearly overly defensive about door-to-door salespersons and personal evangelists.

"No," I sighed patiently. "I work at a bookstore in the city. My job title is 'bookseller.' That's what I do."

"And you're a hunter? Sounds like a mighty high-falutin' job for a hunter." Old Man Oldman looked at me carefully, seemingly unsure whether or not to trust me. Who could blame him?

I don't fit the typical mold of a hunter. I don't work with my hands, or even outdoors. I have an extremely large vocabulary, and I frequently make use of it. This is not to say that most hunters aren't literate or intelligent; they just don't usually integrate their extensive knowledge into general conversation as much as I do. I am often ridiculed for this by my friends, and probably with good reason.

"That may well be," I replied. "But I do enjoy hunting animals. Not only for the bragging rights of mounting their stuffed heads on my living room wall, but also for the tasty meals I will make from their dead carcasses."

Old Man Oldman just stared at me. The flashes of anger he'd displayed just moments before seemed to be dying down, but I was still a bit uneasy in his presence.

"So about the agreement, Mr. Oldman?"

"I already told you, there ain't no agreement." The old man's tone was flat now, surreally calm.

"Well, what if my friends and I decided that it was worth the risk to hunt on your land regardless, agreement or not?" This probably wasn't a smart thing to say, but I promised the guys I'd use it as a bargaining chip if the deal became difficult to close.

"Then you and your friends would have some explaining to do to me and my friends." Old Man Oldman turned briefly toward the inside of his house, leaning down to grab something I couldn't see, and stuffing it into the pocket of his overalls.

"Your friends? You have friends, Mr. Oldman?" I couldn't stop myself from laughing out loud.

"Oh, yeah, I got friends," he said, and reached in the overalls pocket and produced his revolver. He opened the cylinder and checked the chambers before snapping it back into place. "Friends by the name of Smith and Wesson. And six other little guys in here." He pointed to the cylinder, then lifted the barrel of the gun, aiming it in my general direction.

"What's this all about?" I asked, a slight hint of panic in my voice. Being an experienced hunter, I wasn't afraid of guns. But then again, most of the contact I'd had with guns involved them being pointed in the opposite direction, not toward me.

"I'll repeat it one last time myself, and if you don't get it, then my friends will tell the story for me. There. Ain't. No. Agreement." He separated each word as though it were its own sentence, and his emphasis was clear. "Now get!"

"Get what?" I asked stupidly.

"Get going. Get gone. Now."

"You're insane," I replied.

"And you're trespassing," said Old Man Oldman. "Now move it."

"But –" I started, and that was when he cocked the hammer. You know the rest of the story.

Needless to say, my friends and I won't be hunting on the Oldman acreage any time soon. As plentiful as the deer and rabbits and squirrels may be, it isn't worth being chased off by Old Man Oldman. Or his friends.

Poems For Your Perusal: Another Batch Of Alpha Poetry

absence makes the heart grow
exponentially larger than the cavity
which holds it, causing it to burst.
that's why they call it heartbreak.

bald-faced liars shave regularly
to keep up appearances
and so as not to obscure
the extent of their untruths.

cut to the chase
say what you mean
or hold your peace.
beating around the bush
only makes me want
to drag it out of you
and i've never been accused
of being overly gentle.

deep in thought
he comes up for air
and exhales a concept
but he can't prove
whether it's right or wrong.

enough already!
how many times
do we have to
go through this?
stop fighting me
on every detail.
whatever game
you're playing
will end in a draw.

fishing for compliments
he hooked a doozy
and smiled on his good fortune.
but looks can be deceiving
as can complimentary words.

giving a hundred and ten percent
is not only statistically impossible
it's usually a blatant lie.
only heroes care enough
to give of themselves till it hurts
sacrificing comfort and security.
and there aren't nearly as many
heroes out there as they claim.

hold down the fort
as best you can
it's been trying
to levitate
for weeks now
and we're running
out of ropes
to keep it grounded.

i beg to differ
but not too hard
because i do differ
quite naturally
and with aplomb.

just like riding a bike
i keep coming back to you
as natural as if i never left
i never forget the path
to your door. thankfully.

kick up your heels
and do a little jig.
i don't blame you
at all. i'd be happy too
if i'd just found out
i was somebody.

lay it on thick
add as many details
as you can. maybe
they'll believe you
if you seem sincere
enough. maybe not.

make my day
by making tracks
and causing distance
and never returning.
that's the secret
to my lasting happiness.

not my cup of tea
i ordered coffee
black, decaf
and piping hot.
somewhere
there's a bloke
still waiting
with his crumpets.

older and wiser
but still doesn't care
enough to change.
just goes to show
that you can't judge
a book by its author.

play me for a fool
but don't be surprised
if i start humming along.
i've heard this tune before.

quit while you're ahead
and you'll quickly
get off-schedule.
finish what you started
and you'll never regret
your perseverance.

rest assured
i am right here beside you
i'm not going to abandon you
no matter how much you hurt me.

say what you will
and i will answer you
with whispered words
of absolute assent.

the girl next door
isn't who you think
she is. i saw her
yesterday. her fangs
were out, and her
nose was sniffing
for blood.

unexpected twist
i am the one you didn't see coming.
you thought it would go as scripted
but i don't write like others do.

very real concerns
outweigh petty problems
in the grand scheme
of things left unsaid.
but it all depends
on who you ask.

watch your tongue
for long, and you're likely
to become cross-eyed.
better to hold it instead
and merely soil your fingers.

x factors in everything
weighs the alternatives
and realizes that the best
thing to do is to do nothing
and watch it all fall down
around him. how's that
working out for you, X?

you can run
you can hide
you can even
disappear
but i'll find you
and when i do
you're going to wish
you had never been
loved.

zzzzz
do not disturb
he's finally gotten to sleep
and he needs as much
as he can get, and any at all
will do. it takes a lot
to make him sleepy.

Alarm Clock Animosity

I haven't been sleeping that great of late. Maybe it's the thousand things running through my head all day that just won't settle down when I'm ready to go to sleep.

I can literally lie in bed for hours, doing my best to relax, reading something boring on the Kindle (I download certain titles expressly for this purpose), and still not get sleepy.

It's not that I'm not tired either. I am. Extremely. Probably due in large part to the fact that I'm routinely not getting much sleep. But I digress.

On further reflection, I'm sure it's all those thoughts that won't let me sleep.

I'm constantly thinking about the great remodeling project that's in its third (or is it fourth?) week and still isn't quite finished. There are tons of decisions to make every day on this, and most of them involve more money being paid out. Don't get me wrong -- the guy we've got doing all the work is extremely fair and honest with us. But unforeseen things happen. Like when you buy a standard counter top assuming it will work for your bathroom counters, only to find that your bathroom counters are in no way, shape, form, or fashion the standard depth, and what you bought won't work. Or when you (by you, I mean my clumsy-tail self) stub your toe on the toilet tank cover, which was leaning innocently against the wall, and break it cleanly into three pieces, then you find out you can't really buy just a replacement tank cover, you have to buy a whole new toilet. Great news, that.

Then I'm thinking about the two (or is it three? yes, definitely three) books I'm writing a little more of each day, and trying to craft them as best as I am able so people (like you, Faithful Reader?) will want to read them once they're published.

I'm thinking about work, and how I've missed several hours over the past few weeks, from waiting for or going to meet with our contractor at home, or making supplies runs to Lowe's on my lunch break, which inevitably take more than the allotted hour. And I'm wondering how and when I'm going to make all this time up, when I still have to do more of the waiting and meeting and supply runs over the next week or two, and I'm just going to be digging myself a bigger hole. I don't want to use my vacation time if I don't have to, because that's already limited enough as it is. Besides all that, I'm trying to tune out all this other stuff while I'm at work, so I can be as productive as possible while I'm there. That isn't always easy, either.

Whenever I'm not doing all that, I'm pushing myself to finish reading The Hunger Games so we can go see the movie while it's still in the theaters (I'm 65% done with it now, so I think it's going to happen, but we'll see).

All of this insomnia leads me to the appointed hour in the morning (usually no later than 5:30 am) when dueling alarm clocks wake me from slumber (which was eventually achieved, albeit not for long) and I rue the day (quite literally) before it's even gotten started. I must add that I don't say "dueling alarm clocks" flippantly. These things are somehow perfectly synced (we didn't do it on purpose, I swear!) that when the first one goes off -- "deet-deet" -- the second one immediately answers it -- "deet deet". It's almost like one big stupid alarm clock going off in stereo -- "deet-deet", "deet-deet", "deet-deet", "deet-deet", ad infinitum. I wake up -- eventually -- grumpy, unwilling, and unready to face the day. Not even hitting the snooze button helps, because eight minutes later the cacophony begins again.

And so it goes. I know I'm not alone in my animosity toward all things "deet-deet", my annoyance in unsuccessfully seeking slumber, and the rampant thoughts I'm unable to keep in check. But knowing I'm not alone doesn't make it any easier, or any better.

The remodeling project will soon be over. My books will soon be finished and ready to share with the world. One day I'll catch up on the lost hours and delayed work at my job. But until that happens, I'll have to power through this junk, suck it up, and just live as best I can. It's not like I can do anything about it anyway....