It's Not Worth Going If You're Not There.

It's not worth going if you're not there.

Is It My Fault?

I do believe you lied to me,

When you said you wouldn't leave me.

Was it just a way to calm my anxieties?

Or was it a dream that only you realized we wouldn't achieve?

Perhaps it was my fault,

Feeding myself that false hope.

It used to be that I would look at you,

And the future would click into place,

But now, as I beg you for your time,

I wonder if I'm currently forcing the pieces together.

Perhaps it was my fault,

For holding on to tightly to someone who only needed me temporarily.

I still believe that you care for me,

And maybe even love me,

But now that I've given you the power to leave me

Are you going to?

Perhaps it was my fault,

For not forcing myself to give you more than I was able.

I can't kiss you the same,

It just aches too much.

I cant hold you the same,

It seems to be all I can give.

I will never be able to love you the same,

As anyone that follows after.

I hope now it's a simple overreaction,

An easily fixed assumption,

And not the truth,

That's creeping into the corners of my mind.

You're like a siren,

Dragging me out to sea,

Over the jagged rocks of my own misery.

Oh how I would drown for you,

In the salty ocean of tears,

I've cried while dreaming of our future.

Photo Story Prompt. 

Source: http://themetapicture.com/these-pictures-are-what-dreams-are-made-of/

I Fear the Day  I know I’m getting older, it’s a fact of life. Maybe one day they will replace me with something new, but I’m not sure of how they will be. Perhaps one day they will replace me with something younger, more agile, more lively. Something that will be able to do my job better than me, but not for nearly as long. I have to keep him safe. He is so small, too small. I know he will get bigger, as all things do, but I fear that I will not be around for those days. On bad days, I can’t keep up with him. I was fast, once, but now that my joints ache and fail, I know if he runs too far, I won’t be able to protect him. On cold winter days, I know most other things are sleeping. Maybe that’s when he’s safest, when I, along with most other things, are too cold and tired to do anything. But, this is when he is a danger to himself. He is uncoordinated, and I fear that he will slip and fall into the frozen-over pond, crack the ice, and drown. How will I help him then? I am too big and heavy to follow him out there, and the cold hurts me so. Yet, whenever he toddles to the door, hat, mittens, scarf and all, I still rise and follow him out there into the snow. Maybe I don’t give his mother enough credit. She is still strong and I can’t possibly keep up with her now. Maybe she won’t replace me with something new, but simply herself. Maybe she will do a better job than I ever could. I know she will outlast me. I hope she will keep him safe after I am gone. I’m so tired, I should go to sleep, but I can’t bring myself to take my eyes off him. He is my responsibility, and I fear the day I can no longer open my eyes and watch over him. I know that day will come soon, so I must do my best while I still can. I know I will be gone soon, yet, he keeps me going. I wish him the best of luck when I’m gone, and to stay away from the water that causes me such grief. 

Fathoms

Can you trust the empty fathoms? Those dark ravines in your mind? That meaningless void inside, The cracks and the holes that cover you?

Can you even perceive the immeasurable despair that fills you? That seeps inside your bones like the lonely cold, That  gnaws on your corpse like the cat you neglected to feed?

Can you even understand  the pain you have caused in yourself? The suffering you have wrought from your absence? The tragedy that will come when you fail to open your eyes and see the world again?

No. You cannot trust yourself to be kind. You cannot perceive yourself, not truly. You cannot understand the joy I feel around you.

You are immeasurable, Cold, Dark, And alone.

Your heart is a ship lost at sea, A child left on a doorstep, The only painting in a museum, A puddle of blood being washed away in the rain.

You look in the mirror and say, “Loveless” “Forgettable” “Inadequate”

But I look in your eyes and whisper contradictions. “Loved, at least by one.” “Will always be remembered, even in little ways.” “Absolutely perfect in my mind.”

Remember that I will be your lighthouse, Your blanket when you feel cold, Your companion when you feel alone, And your light when you only feel the dark.

My grandmother used to say I was growing like a weed. Maybe I'm just that; a weed, undesirable, growing in a garden full of pretty things.