This Life

Sometimes I want to sing a song, but the words are too painful to hear, like the very syllable was designed to choke the life from my breath, becoming more and more shallow.

 I want to stop and smell the roses, but the thorns are too Sharp, cutting and slashing their way through what is left, a seed with no purpose starved and thirsty for anyone with anything to ignite a spark of hope or a narrow beam of light, but the darkness is too overwhelming and I can not see my way through this lonely path.

 So I drag my heels, one foot in front of the other in a slow, consent race to know which foot with give out first to follow the in the way of my heart to be here just to say it's here with no purpose, an empty beat.

 My heart so torn and hurt, so far out and off the beat and yet I dance on... one heel in front of the other being dragged by the wind in circular motions never really moving forward.

 So I struggle to find an end to this poem and an end to what some of us call life.

 By Andrew J. Dorsey 
February 12, 2011 at 1:24 a.m.

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