Broken Promises

What is a promise? Is it
simply a wish one believes
will come true? Is there
any certainty?

What is it to be certain? Is it
to convince ourselves that we have
some knowledge of truth? Is there
any such thing?

What is faith? Is it
the whispered resistance of
a childless voice in the face of
all-consuming circumstance
despite the apparent knowledge that
providence
only foresees
misery?

What is the point when
well-wishes and
prayers for protection
f
a
l
l
short of
any reassurance?

What is a promise but
a lie laughed in the
face of
the deserving?

It was never a
promise; only ever
a fool’s hope.

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Strawberry Lovers

Sweet.
Tangy.
Ripe like
plump lips;
a pale imitation when
premature.

Some add sugar;
a softening, synthetic sweetener for
those unwilling to accept the
built-in bitterness of its nature.

Some bite deep, severing the stem and smiling;
blood-red evidence of their enjoyment dripping
through bleached enamel.
A moment’s ecstasy, a cry of passion, a
sudden regret.

They do
not
savor the flavor, but rather
put on a show for all to see,
intentionally ignorant of their
lie and disdain for the taste.

Some engulf entirely, unaware or
uncaring for the fruit’s
comfort, its dignity.
They seek the fullness of experience and
leave nothing behind but
rejected leaves covered in
spit-slicked residue.
Left bereft of their sweetness, their
value, their
worth.

Gently, in thrusting lust, through the
long deterioration of time, or discarded
in the wake of moldering rot;
all will be consumed in one way
or another.

Thrust and Flutter

Yearning for release will bypass
apprehension.

A revelation in our intermingling;
when thrust and flutter
peel back our intricacies and rip
at the scabs of bitter romance
until taste slips sour
with the coupling of each kiss.

A beard brushing
amongst such soft skin
would bring about welcomed abrasion
until our cup runs over and,
amid that embraced conception,
the lingering question
of

“what comes next?”

remains.

Color Me Calloused

This was all misconceived.
Your misspelling a disguise of mated
souls in possibility.

If you need space,
I’ll leave.
If you need
time, I’ll stop taking yours.
But

don’t expect me to wait.

Maybe I’m not meant to be partnered.
Not everyone is.
Perhaps it is better to
seek the solace of staying single;
forever in the perpetual quest.

I was looking for
an excuse, and
you gave me one.

I had turned toward the door, but
you beat me through it.

Let’s not pretend this wasn’t
foreshadowed;

you were
never
my Destiny.

Three Year Anniversary!

Another year has passed with many changes, though almost all for the better. You have all been so supportive despite the fact my content and schedule have changed, and that is such a comfort; here is the current count since last year:

115 book reviews, 25 editorials, 79 Music Mondays, 43 movie reviews, and 16 personal posts with 1980 followers on WordPress, and 162 on Facebook.

Though I may seem like the cliche broken record, thank you again for all of your support. I couldn’t have a more amazing and humbling group of followers and friends, and that is entirely thanks to all of you reading this. As has become tradition, here is a picture of Hunter being adorable.

IMG_1983
He has a weird fascination with the texture of my guitar case.

Previously: Two Year Anniversary!

The image featured in this post can be found through the hyperlink below.
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A Song for Marilyn and George

It has been ten years since my grandfather passed, and I cannot help but wonder at what he would think about how far I have come. So much has changed since I last saw him, and I can only hope I have walked a path similar to that which he wanted for me.

Perpetually Past Due

Grandparents seem to fall into one of two distinct groups: they can be unknowable entities that we are forced to visit through obligation; shriveled creatures who seemingly live on another plane of existence as relics of times gone by. Or, they can be loving mentors that support us and willingly give sage advice; human teddy bears who want to see us succeed in life and look forward to our accomplishments. I have been lucky enough to have the second type on both sides of my family. My maternal grandparents are still living to this day; this is my remembrance and tribute to the two no longer with us.

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Fanatics: How to Love Something Too Much

There are few relationships as complex as that between fans and the things they are passionate about. Being a fan can embolden, reassure, and inspire creators we love to reach new levels of success; it can show the best in humanity in creating a community of people who enjoy the same things. It does, however, also have a dark side (pun slightly intended). In recent years, I have seen sports fans burning jerseys they bought for hundreds of dollars because of a player’s opinions or actions that they disagree with. People make death threats because a referee made a call that was unpopular and they believe they were wronged.

And it isn’t just sports fans; geeks have been getting up in arms, calling people criminal for bastardizing their favorite characters or stories and review bombing movies in retaliation. My fellow nerds create internal cliques that espouse equality meanwhile looking down on those who disagree or like things that they don’t; this is where I have seen social media at its worst. People feel that their opinions and biases should shape the way others live. How self-important do you have to be to think that way?  The only way I can think of to address this is through two groups I belong to that have showcased this unhealthy behavior; let’s start with the geeks.

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