You have my word.

Words have power: that must count for something.

To this end

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This deep breath, this gasp
this drawing in.
This sin, this giving in
this transgressing.
This rage, this page
this release, this peace
almost. This wreck,
this sinking, this drinking
drowning sorrows till sleep.
This weeping child,
this hard heart, these eyes
these tears, these years
lost in fears like running wild
through forest. These trees,
these branches, this breaking.
This infallible ache, this waking
to check for monsters under the bed.
This dread, this darkness,
this death. This deep breath,
this exhale, this end.

—–

This is the 11th poem in a series of 30. Read the others:

Day 1: Tighter than fear

Day 2: Do not wish me to be true

Day 3: Listen

Day 4: What to ask after the wreckage

Day 5: Even though they die

Day 6: Where will you go when the rain comes?

Day 7: You cannot do much for the dead

Day 8: Keep it together

Day 9: Wrecking the very gods we built | On statues and stories

Day 10: Become giants from the ground

Become giants from the ground

Here is the unmaking
in petals falling with not enough weight
to break.
From faith of smallest measure,
a giant stems from ground’s hold –
pushing and making way
fighting against earth and air
gently.
It wouldn’t be called growth
if there was no gravity
for it’s only in the martyr of life
that we ever progress
or become less if we give in.
Let yourself rather reach and fall from the sky
than die half-height, half-strength
of what you could have been.
You will not break
nor smash
nor make a sound.
You will unmake even more into the soil,
and entrench yourself further into the roots,
and find the faith you thought too small to plant,
and birth yourself
ever tall
ever regal
ever made
again.

—–

This is the 10th poem in a series of 30. Read the previous nine here:

Day 1: Tighter than fear

Day 2: Do not wish me to be true

Day 3: Listen

Day 4: What to ask after the wreckage

Day 5: Even though they die

Day 6: Where will you go when the rain comes?

Day 7: You cannot do much for the dead

Day 8: Keep it together

Day 9: Wrecking the very gods we built | On statues and stories

Wrecking the very gods we built | On statues and stories

How silly we are to try and move rock
from the foot of a mountain
statues of stone that have stood longer
than the number of days we call our own.
They own this earth.
We do not know
it is the small stones we throw
and the pebbles we kick from their fierce foundations
that will bring them all down.
Few know that even the ground
can crumble
Dust to dust
for they have already been burned
these monuments of worship
of war
of watching over us.
Our history is carved in their creases;
we are destroying our own story.
They are milestones we left along our journey;
we are covering our tracks
and it won’t be long before we waste away
on paths we’ve forgotten not to take.
Let the monuments live.
Let the masses live
despite their madness,
despite their attempts to pull apart
only to be killed in the falling.
We do not know
(or we have forgotten)
that the rocks that hold the mountains
are the rocks that hold mercy
for our misguided rituals
of wrecking the very gods we built.
We built these mountains.
They in turn,
built our home.

—–

The ninth poem in a series of 30. You can read the previous eight by clicking one of these links below:

Day 1: Tighter than fear

Day 2: Do not wish me to be true

Day 3: Listen

Day 4: What to ask after the wreckage

Day 5: Even though they die

Day 6: Where will you go when the rain comes?

Day 7: You cannot do much for the dead

Day 8: Keep it together

Keep it together

hopeless cannot exist here
between my fingers
when my fists are clenched this tight
it cannot hold space
where I have squeezed
all the air out.
I am clutching everything else
(but hopeless)
Straws and string
to keep it together
amidst the unravelling
of all other things.
If I had a penny for every man
who lost sight of the “why”
and rather spent themselves broke
(and broken)
on the “how”
I would have my pockets full
and be long gone by now.
Until then I am here
keeping fear and the urge to fight
at bay
so I do not drown.

—–

This is the eighth poem of thirty, in a challenge.

Read the previous seven here:

Day 1: Tighter than fear

Day 2: Do not wish me to be true

Day 3: Listen

Day 4: What to ask after the wreckage

Day 5: Even though they die

Day 6: Where will you go when the rain comes?

Day 7: You cannot do much for the dead

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