October 9th, 2021
Once I had believed that a woman's voice would coax me from my sleep, lead me from my home and teach me a way to go on. Because surely now, she has the wrong home address. I am left lying in bed, still and waiting, trying not to doze off for I might miss her entrance. But she never comes, instead an alarm wakes me. I teach myself roundabout ways to cope with pain, other routes that will get me to the same destination, secrets to appear numb. It comes with no price other than the growth of a paradoxical ego. I am doubtful of my capabilities and my capacity to go on. Yet I know no one else, by now, could lead me. I am prideful in how far I've come, boastful even. Yet I fear I could break at any minor mishap. I am contradictory to the point of silence-if I don't say a thing nobody has to know. I will make believe a woman's voice in my head, leading me onward and upward, until she truly comes to my bedside and lays a gentle hand on my face. Until she give me permission to dilute the heavy load I carry, I will go on with myself, for myself.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoesiaI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
