Villain Plays The Victim [23/52]

They see you a little too human,
A wolf dressed in Granny’s nightcap is still a wolf
Beyond the surface, the claws and teeth remain.

Cornered in the wolf’s den.
Screaming ‘til my throat is numb,
Countering every step to keep the space between us.
Doesn’t anyone hear me?
Isn’t anyone listening?
We can’t do anything unless the wolf attacks,
It’s not fair to the animal, they deserve second chances, too.
That’s all well and fine, and I’ll remind you when this happens to you.

When the wolf scratches her skin, and tears her limb from limb.
Wounds can heal, but there’s always scars.
Painful reminders of the time no one came through,
She cried for help, but what did you do?

We’ll scold the wolf, and reform his evil way.
A slap on the wrist, “be nice Mr. Wolf!
Now, go, and be on your way.”


Beneath the Surface [22/52]

This is another piece I wrote a few years back.

“Beneath the Surface”
The tinted glass, conceals the true contents.
Makeup for a building, to cover up the imperfections.
Never let them see you sweat.
Never let them know you’re human.

When did relating to the rest of humanity become a flaw?
Whose idea was it for the top of the self righteous pedestal to be our goal?

We build our stained glass towers,
To keep the world away.
Safe in our superficial steeple
While we watch the ivory fade to grey.

When did preserving our reputation become the priority?
How long do we think we can keep our facade in tact?

Our compulsive obsession to keep the dirt away.
Has given us a skewed version of clean.
We see the expensive fine made rug
But are afraid to see what’s swept beneath the surface.

Something a little different [21/52]

This summer has been all about getting back to things I used to love. One of those things is writing. Another one of those things is not being afraid of what others think/will say. The pieces I would call my better work have stemmed from some  heavier times. I never put them out there because I was afraid of the reaction they would get. Not any more. I’m getting back to being me, and that means honesty. This is something I wrote about 3-4 years ago.

Slowly, but surely,
I’m drowning.
The work. The demands. The expectations.
Why did I sign up for this?
Isn’t life more than this?

Never being done,
Barely getting by.
A little sleep, but never rest.

One thing after another.
How far can I stretch?
How long can this last?

The house of Truth.
Feeding into the lies.
Smothering that little flame inside.
Do they know what they do?
Do they even care?

They take credit for my good,
And blame me for their worst.
A momentary lapse of consideration,
leaves me stabbed once more.
Will I ever make it out?
Will I make it out alive?