Where does my heart find rest?

Where does my heart find rest?

27 February 2017
12:31

My aching heart echoes with emptiness
My broken body motionless
My flesh feeling and sensing
Longing to be touched

The loneliness gnaws at my inside like an aching tooth
Like waves against the shore
It crashes into my conscious mind
It subsidies only to return

I long to end the loneliness to be with someone
I can't do it
I can't expect anyone to share this life
To be a part of this endless struggle

So I know that I am trapped
I am caught in a loop
A repeating cycle
Longing and hoping but fading and failing

Hope, like a lifebuoy
It floats out reach
It shimmers with expectation
But fades away and drifts out of reach.

What's become of me?

What's become of me?

Choices ,choices few are the options
Even these can be crushed by a "helpful" carer
So it is with choices ,they become "subject to"
So I sit and wonder,what's become of me.

People tell me, I have independence
i have free choices
let me tell you this is a lie
it's a lie to benefit them
somehow my "independence" gives relief

oh how I wish it were so
to just think decide and then do
this is not how it works.
almost every choice becomes task
even scratching an itch

What have I become ?
I am quieter,obviously less active
spontaneity ? can't do that
quick visit to the pub? forget it

I am a space occupier,
I hesitate to say waster but
that's how it feels

We all need friends

We all need friends

My sadness surprises me.  I listen to a story on the radio, my thoughts wander. I remember independence, waking up early and seeing the morning unfold while the coffee warms my hands and I have my thoughts to myself. Perhaps my sadness is the loss of freedom of 360 degrees of choice.

Now, I wait for my hair to be brushed while I rinse with the mouthwash. Mornings are the beginning of a cycle made up of being pushed, pulled and adjusted. Choice is limited and independence is only a word others use.

I have become someone I don't recognize. I  am disinterested in doing anything. I am so sad inside. I'm without hope and motivation is just a disciplined action. I clutch desperately to any opportunity for comfort or extra mobility. Decay, disrepair and disarray overwhelm me,  gloom  and failure become my friends.

Becalmed

So why do I bother to write a blog?
Does it reward me? Do I profit?
Why do I struggle with an inadequate body typing letter by letter?
It's a waste of time. It takes the life out of me, it drains me.
So why bother?

I returned home yesterday. After a month of being in hospital;
every day rushing between therapy sessions and test appointments.
A day without appointments, just silence.
In the quiet thoughts drift aimlessly, becalmed on a deep ocean of feeling.
So I write to stop the mutiny arising from the idle activity of meandering aimlessly.

Speaking to myself makes poor company.
Looking at a screen "flipping" virtual cards...
Kings, Queens, Jacks and impatience.
I have checked my email an facebook, but with mixed emotions, nothing new.
I am not lonely, just alone in my sea of feeling.

I write because for a moment in time; the aching, the aimless drifting, stops.
Just for a moment I feel substantial.
The hollow echoes become distinct.
My soul surfs on the breath of purpose.
Spent, the gust ends....

This Place

This Place

Like an outstretched hand, beckoning with promises of the past

The memories call to me, fleeting glimpses of faded times.
I long to be there. When I walked, ran, sang for joy

I see the curly blonde hair on my daughters round face as she bounces and hops

The grass tickling my ear while we play on the long grass

Yes yesterday you seducer. You cannot be what you promise

Your promises are spent currency

Memories are not places, memories are not promises

I will stay in my sadness. My reality is a place

This place is where I am

Death

I saw death.

In nights still

It came to me and

So I saw

A dullness.

Without courage for

black or white.

Pigment poor

Devoid of shape

And touch

Crumbling cowardly into dust.

Nothing left.

Like a mermaid

To ancient mariners

Death calls us

Resist its’ rest

Tho’ it sweetly calls

And beguiles

It mentions not

That to a word

Is a lie

An empty promise

The sense

only absurd.

Pictures and Words: a Father ‘s Lament

In the dark of early morning I lie awake

My mind is restless

My body twisted and uncomfortable

I try to sleep

Images of memories my pictorial past

My children

Faces and postures, incidents and occasions

Flip like a slideshow

The memories begin to fade, followed by words

Desperate words

Reaching out into my mind and beyond

The words long to be spoken

Oh my children my words are for you!

Waning for you is my role

The words carry the thoughts and experiences

Capsules of living

I will write the words and hope they are spoken

Even if whispered

I will hope that they are spoken

To you