Posted by on Nov 16, 2013 in 2013, Choken Word, Featured, psychology, revelation


I put a gun to my head
each time I write you.
I think about … if this was
the last thing I ever
did, what would it be
that I could give?

What words
could help you live?
Would it be
a confessional
to my ancestors?
To be read at my funeral.
To be stored in a cedar box,
found in one hundred years
stored with fading photos.

The gun always demands fire.
You have one more day
to get it right.
One more day to seek
the light.

I often wonder if I
ever face my maker
what will I say.
I tried.
I searched.
I went in circles
seeking patterns.
I found beauty
in the mystery.
I found awe.

But I live mostly inside my head.
I did little before I was dead.
What truths did I live by?
Did I find anything new?
Did I love more than
I inflicted pain?

Did I poison my body?
Did I give myself cancer?
Am I poisoning you?
Did I plant seeds of hope?
Did I help you feel the infinite
inside my search?
Did I dig deeper than
the day before?

One imaginary
bullet to the head,
is all I have to give.
For that is what forced
all of this.
To keep me moving.
To keep us both hoping.
To keep the search alive.
So that I might one day meet you
on the other side.



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