I often think about the murders that occur when bedtimes stories are told.

Did it get old;
my rabbit foot dipped in gold.
Living life as if I fit within
it’s broken mold.
Hands grasping for empty solutions,
as air, heavy, pulls me into
it’s conformity.
I wish my life were a story,
then I’d know the characters I’d
encounter; the climax written for me.
Then I’d know it would all be
over flipping the final pages.

Do I want to know what is written
in those pages?
The final letters that spell out
my fate.
Am I prepared for the revelations—
revelations that will expose who I am;
who I was?
Revelations assisting me to see
misguided steps people take;
their shoes on the wrong feet.
Shoes undone, twist ties failing to
hold weight from the shoulders.
Revelations teaching me to
be understanding as
my shoes are no different —
wear & tear on my
ties simply caused them to stiffen.

How much sorrow will I bare?
What chapter do I stop
pretending I don’t care?
I need cold water I can dip in;
kitchen heat is way too high.
A room with concrete walls, 400 degrees,
there’s no place for me to pry.
I thought that I would cry,
these tears are way too warm.
Tears, the twins of rain,
no moisture to soften this pain.

by. Philip G. Steverson