I stepped out of the hospital towards the cold breeze and the grey sky. The fluorescent lights of the stores smashed against their utility, which was decimated to none because I had nothing to ask for. The blankness amazed me, I was swept off to the alleys, behind crypts, walking the boardwalks, lines, toward the unknown spurts of locations. Maybe there were places in the world sadder than this, or maybe more beautiful, but for that moment now, the city seemed hateful, engrossed in a busy talent, distant, and unwelcoming like all places in the melancholy paint that lazed here, to graze a field there, where I was not, somewhere drilling a tunnel to connect further. There might be places brooding darker in their search for uniqueness but what scalded over me was a school of bitterness that entangled growth with such devious notions that couldn’t be overcome by the train of imagination, or the notoriety of remembrance. Did I have to be so lost, did I have to be so far away from a place that I never had, home? I wasn’t robbed of a home, I never accepted the one I had for its flaws. The bars, galleries, apartment complexes complicated the skyline that I wanted desperately to be consumed by, I wanted to spin a sweater that could warm me to volcanic heat, which could breathe me a new attack and parachute me into an unsound abyss. I wanted to plummet without it actually happening, since I wanted to be there to see myself survive, I wanted to be another person, a spectator of myself and others, a bridge, another; just not what I was, never in this time…

Ruminating the soul could be helpful, maybe that’s what they were all doing. I kept everything contained in my jarred souls, where memory was churning into a sweet jam and becoming a cause of inspiration towards the vague corners of vicious passage. And as I embarked on the voyage to move onward the oceans of faded time, just as fast as I could, to inhale the truth, to realise that when you’re imitating nothing, life is the ultimate truth. The setting parts with light thru the sighing shadows that began to dance in accord with the rippling instability of the lampshades. A netted veil covered my sorrow, and I took apart the pieces of recall, and got free, got idle, looking for a mission, a reason to completely abandon the emotive weight. A psychedelic lie could shamelessly carry me to my bed, illuminate the way to the top, and educate me about the things that I have to do.

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It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

58 thoughts on “Grief”

      1. You are welcome, Watt.

        You make great points.

        Every emotions stemming from our heart must be shared with audiences who are listening and they must listen well with beautiful poetic messages. I believe so.


  1. I lose myself in the vastness of meaning with each image you paint and every emotion you deep the reader into. I feel so small, yet infinite, within every piece.

    Liked by 4 people

      1. Not at all. I was implying that you have the ability to add a dimension to your work that others don’t/aren’t able to. I’ve enjoyed all your work I’ve read thus far but this piece in particular is exceptional.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Wow…. where your mind took us on this city walk through grief, the limitless depths of it in all the viscious corners. Looking for home, looking for weightlessness from the emotions that followed you. And you found it, in the parting of the clouds, even if it felt like a psychedelic lie. Something to provoke grief in itself. I can’t even say anything about any of beautiful lines and phrases within this, as each one carries a weight of meaning in itself and toward the whole. So brilliant, it will linger in my mind.

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Thank you very much.

      But I feel that everyone should read your latest poem in its entirety. Won’t you please show it all? Or have you already, I’ll head over right now.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. “I wanted to spin a sweater that could warm me to volcanic heat, which could breathe me a new attack and parachute me into an unsound abyss.” …Incredible!

    To cover loss so beautifully- to fill the worst parts of life with phrasing that makes the reader actually want to feel the way your narrator feels. This is the kind of prose writing I’ve been looking for- this is the kind of writing I crave. I’ve read this piece three times now, and each time I get more- each time I feel more where I thought only a moment before I had understood.

    Thank you for writing this, and please don’t ever stop writing my friend.

    Liked by 5 people

  4. This reminds me of the way I have felt for 20+ years leaving the hospital, feeling helpless yet thankful for the opportunity to give hope and love when it’s so very needed. I love the feelings you share. Saving lives always is a higher calling I feel. Beautiful expression Watt.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you so much!
      I feel that sometimes in the stretch of time, our wounds consume us endlessly with a show of inexpensive sorrows. But the true ones unravel unto us, to such dim extents.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Oh yes and it’s such a lonely feeling. Recently I found myself wondering if the sacrifice was worth it all. My higher self knows it is but my inner heart is tired. The journey can be long and we never know when it’s over and maybe it’s continual. I guess that’s when little respites become like a treat, maybe. Just thinking out loud. 🙂

        Liked by 2 people

      2. That’s so true Watt. I was thinking sometimes it feels like a foreboding silent sadness. I feel sometimes I suffer in silence because if I give voice to it some try to fix me and I’m not broken just dealing in my own way. Sending a hug. x

        Liked by 2 people

  5. I must agree Charlie … a piece of mastery.
    Seeking the mystery behind this veil of grief,
    tears, and misery. Choosing life always a key.
    Wandering the wilderness of shopping malls
    across the Great Consumer Sprawl, thinking, you’ve got nothing I want, you’ve got nothing I need. Where death is camouflaged & gift
    wrapping, by zombie sale assistants. And
    truth is priced out of the market.
    Yes, home is where the flawed heart is.

    Liked by 3 people

  6. Thankful to the Gods of illiteracy I could understand the words you used without asking Google. This African who speaks English as a third language thanks you for simplifying the words enough to enjoy. I cannot relate to your experience but I treasure the exposure and insight you are giving me… what might or might not lie ahead of my life.

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Clarity, I reread the past writings and now think I understand individual words, it’s the way they are linked together that left me lost. I suspect that is beauty of your writing, it remodels what words mean in a way one has to be familiar with the language to understand. My issue not yours. Carry on as you were. 🙂

      Liked by 2 people

  7. You’re always seeing behind the curtain. Looking at the mechanics behind the facade. It can be bleak in that place, that’s why we spin the illusions in the first place. To stop from going mad. We layer each moment with those illusions and call it OUR life. We can make horrible things beautiful, or at least manageable, and we do it all the time because the alternative is to see the machine behind it all and that’s scary to some people so they build their illusions faster, stronger and never really open their eyes.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Are you binge reading my work? Thank you very much!!
      Every time we close our eyes, the world has aged a second, or a minute, and the world doesn’t learn things with us, it already knows, so we’re usually late.


      1. Hmmmm maybe a little binging. I mean I’m already here, right? And it’s interesting, so…I guess I am. I’m not sure what knows exactly but I think there is a kind of knowing. Realistically, I don’t know anything at all. Answers are not available.

        Liked by 1 person

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