Write Well Me

Waiting - A Poem

Two paths lie before me,
And I stand before them,
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
And they wait for me,
But the decision about which path
Is not mine.

I wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Both paths are clear,
Each turn easily visible.
No hidden twists or turns.
Each path equally viable.
But the decision about which path
Is not mine.

I wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Finally, a decision.
I take a step.
Then another.
And another.
I walk.
And walk.
And walk.

Onto the next crossroads.

Whirlwind - A Poem

A whirlwind.
Never stopping.
Never slowing.
Sucking you up into the maelstrom.
Spinning you around.
Spitting you out...
If you're lucky.
The head aches.
The mind tumbles.
The heart hides.
The whirlwind is inside...
Sucking, spinning, spitting.
You try to grab it.
To stop it.
To hold it.
To contain it.

No Other Place To Go

The pain overtakes you, runs after you, tackles you to the ground.
You stay there, because, really, there's no other place to go.

Tears fall, witnesses to your failure,
Silent reprimands of all you should do, all you could do, all you don't do.

Steps are leaden, trying to drag you up,
But they just continue to drag you down.

You want to run away, but, really, there's no other place to go.
You sink to the ground, alone.

You cry out. No one hears you.  You're destined to be alone.
To despair. To suffer. To feel.

You take a step. And then another.
You write a word. And then another.

You hope, because, really, there's no other place to go.

Me

Me.

Not me.

Me Yet To Be.

Not me.

Me.

Swirling

Swirling, swirling, swirling.
It won't stop.
A spinning spiral.
Emotions, thoughts, events.
Spinning, swirling,
Swirling, spinning.

Quiet.
Space.
Release.
Opening up.

The swirling has nowhere to go.
It slows.
Stops.
Dissolves.

What is left?
Blessed emptiness.
Relief.
Breath.

Almost - A Poem

"Almost"

The darkness is there
And then it passes,
Leaving an emptiness,
Almost.

More like a newness,
Like the fresh, clean smell
After a raging thunderstorm
That makes you forget
The lightning, thunder, torrential rain.
It's all a memory,
Already so distant you forget how terrifying it was.
Almost.

Now what?
Do you go out and play in the rain-soaked grass?
Splash in mud puddles?
Feel the soft, cool breeze on your cheek?
Or do you stay inside and watch, a spectator?
A spectator of your own life?
On the verge of claiming you?
Almost.

Dark Places of the Soul

The darkness creeps in
Finding cracks and crevices
Filling up any empty spaces.
Until suddenly,
All is black.

Sometimes the darkness comes crashing in
Showering you with black
Shocking you with the suddenness of it.
And you can no longer stand.

You're crushed with the weight of this blackness
This blackness that has no weight
Yet is heavy beyond belief.
You can't see it,
But you can -
Through your eyes, your soul, your body, your heart.
All is dark.

You wait for the wave that drenched you
To recede.
 But it never goes as quickly as it came.

And when it came silently, slowly, sneaking in...
It leaves that way, too.

The soul is tired.
It yearns for lightness.
For joy.
For love.
For safety.

But it's dark.

And so you wait.