Laid to Rest

Here I am again. Laying black roses on yet another memory. I don’t want to talk about it. At least, not yet.

Rain spatters on my black felt hat; the sound is soothing. I can almost set my heartbeat to it. My hands are so cold and the joints ache. When I get back to the house, a hot mug of coffee with a nip of whiskey might do the trick.

The world is a cruel place. It can beat us to our knees and keep us there; drowning in the muddy water. I almost drowned once. That was a terrifying experience, let me tell you!

The memory of that day is buried somewhere down the line, marked with some obscure headstone.

It is said the definition of Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. If that be the case, then my life is insane! Why do I fuck up time and time again, and think that I won’t have remorse?

Another memory too painful to tell; another mirror I will avoid. When you feel like a hollowed out pumpkin, it is easy for the devil to fill it with whatever he wants!

In the distance is my hellhound. Do you see him? He just went behind that headstone. He appears to be a little itchy to get after me as of late; been running a little slim on the trespassers. I may have to stop in town and pick him up a vagrant or two.

In the meantime, I’m going to get out of this rain. That whiskey is calling to me.



I’m Not Beautiful

If these weathered, old headstones-with chunks missing and dates scratched out-have taught me anything, is that I’m not Beautiful.  A cold wind sweeps the ground and it reminds me of the desolation of my heart.  When it comes to the sins I am guilty of, people can ask if my conscience ever bothers me:

Answer: Every Fucking Day!

An angel stands like a giant in the middle of the cemetery; its wings of faith broken off.  I used to think that I write to purge my soul, get some introspective feedback and deal with my pain.  Now, I wonder, if it isn’t the other way around.  In other words: I wonder if I remain in my own personal realm of hell just so I will have something to write about.

Theologians and the self-help gurus of the world can claim that it’s our mistakes that make us beautiful.  But I don’t feel beautiful, or relatively handsome.  I feel like a filthy rag (Isaiah 64:6).

Alone and decrepit.

Graveyard Night