I have a lit lamp in my heart.
I cover it with a thick blanket.
There is plenty of food in my cart.
I can’t even afford it, and put it on credit.

There is a chain the connects me,
To a large oak desk.
I cut myself free,
Just to tie it to a flask.

The day time warms my skin,
The sun gives life to this planet,
Yet I often sleep in.
The moon keeps my desk dimly lit.

Hiding what should be shown.
Never going back.
Creating bad habits.
Taking the path, of least resistance.

A desperate plea for company.
One that is known well by the lonely.
The lonely stand in crowds,
Yet in their heart, they are singular.

An ironic commonality, communally shared.
The want to be with others, that they cared.
I see past their eyes, I read their thoughts.
I know how they feel, because I think, the same.

I too have given a desperate “Please.”
It only is given at night, while on my knees.
It’s a cry for purpose within others.
A cry, that I say aloud, to myself.

That is the bane of the lonely.
Always crying out, with no one to hear.

Sometimes I dream of green fields,
Freckled with strong branches,
Standing tall and proud,
Like a soldier who survived trenches.

Nearby a creek runs slowly.
It carries away the old dirt,
Revealing smooth stones,
Replenishing those around who hurt.

There are birds, hiding plainly.
There are rabbits, who carelessly graze.
Deer gallop, not for fear, but fun.
At night there is a blanket of light haze.

A young hunter walks through the field.
His first reaction is one of survival.
Wood for fire, water for drinking.
Many animals to shoot with his rifle.

When caught in a moment, eye to eye.
He considers this field a sanctuary.
The white tail are fortunate this time,
But outside of the field, their treaty will tarry.

He silently bids them farewell,
A nonverbal agreement.

The scars on his knuckles match the scars on his uncle’s.
It’s family tradition by now, predisposed in his DNA.
He was made for the ring, but lives for the drink.
He may climb his ladder, but further he will sink.

Just a white boy on 7th Street named Ronnie.
With red hair and pale skin, he doesn’t fit in.
He lives in a segregated neighborhood,
Growing up as no boy should.

Trained at a young age to like the taste of blood,
Not by choice, not by family.
A wall of loud and young flesh surrounds.
While the size of his opponent confounds.

Such is creation.
We are all but small children,
Facing the problem of impossiblity.
While slowly realizing our mortality.

Fallen, from a broken cord,
A new perspective now able to afford.
The ceiling never seemed so near,
And now death was a true fear.

Set up to fall from his perch,
He didn’t expect the sudden lurch,
Of rope.
Of hope.

The second his foot slipped,
His mind also flipped.
A sudden urge to be alive,
Praying, someone heard his muffled cries.

There was nobody around to hear,
Only a rope, weaker than him.

I know no yes or no,
I only think in yellow.
Green and red,
May as well be dead.

I’m inconsistent,
Yet persistent.
Persistent to please,
Inconsistent to deliver.

We hiked for hours.
Over hills, tall as towers.
Our feet ached,
Begging for a short break.

We finally sat on a rotting log.
Looked over the lake’s fog.
A sunset of gray, hidden by clouds,
My hand in hers, my mind unweary.

How long do I have to act like everything is okay,
Before everything actually feels, okay.
How long do I have to act like I am the only one,
Before I recognize that I’m not the only one.

It’s like I’m sitting underwater in a wave pool,
Holding my breath, looking like a fool.
To make matters worse, I open my eyes.
Through the drying pain, I see allies.

I’m not the only one under this turbulent water.
Others are “stuck,” able to escape the slaughter.
Yet we all sit, as the waves push us around.
We’re shoved against the walls, sitting on the ground.

When suddenly a hand falls down before me.
It grasps for mine, wanting to pull and make me free.
I grab it, and it rips me above the surface,
A hand with an unrelenting, and loving, purpose.

It’s soft, yet damaged by others who rejected it.
It has been scratched, grasped, and felt spit.
This hand could have stopped pulling others up,
Yet it continues to reach for those at the bottom of the cup.

My body feels something, and my lungs fill with air.
There is a new notion to not only see, but to care.
My legs feel weak, and want to sit, my mind agrees.
My heart fights this feeling, and somehow, succeeds.

Raised from the churning of this chaos,
Understanding both sides of the surface,
I can now be the hand, to others.
Everything will be okay.

Sirens scream in the distance.
A fire truck rushes to assistance.
The men on the truck prepare,
Gloves, helmets, and heavy coats they wear.

They arrive on the scene, and dash.
They yell through masks covered in ash.
Commands are given to each hat,
They climb the ladder, and retrieve the cat.

Hurrah! The cat is free from the tree!
Meanwhile, a house on the other side of town,
Is burning.