Long road
This has been a journey...
Sometimes I cannot believe I am still standing. That this heart can still push this hot blood through me...
I moved here with a woman...
She broke my heart, though to a lesser extent than previous women have (scar tissue?)
Found she didn't want to be without me...
Then broke up with me again.
We remain living together due to finances and a decent friendship.
Meanwhile a friend of mine also gets his heart broken, loses his job, becomes suicidal and homeless.
She invites him to stay with us. Me being me... I agree.
Ok until I find them together.
A month of lies pass...
Then they become a couple. All while we are in the same shotgun home.
Am I ok with this? NO.
Do I try to be ok? Of course.
Are things ok? NO.
Things don't get better... they get worse.
Another friend becomes homeless. Someone I care a lot about.
Another thus joins the cauldron.
She helps me. As dear friends do but it is not enough.
Things come to a head.
The 3rd person turns violent. I fight him off. And make the mistake of turning my back for a moment.
That is when the whiskey bottle came down.
I now carry a scar across my head. And found out AFTER I had gone to sleep that night I could have died. Because concussions can do that.
But I did not.
I am moving on. I got myself a nice little place right on St. Charles Avenue.
It is small but perfect for me.
I can hear the street car go by.
I can plant peppers and herbs again.
I can decorate my home the way I desire.
I can put up art once more.
I can get back to being serious about my paintings, my photography, my spiritual works and above all my writing.
Scars are nothing more than proof that something tried to kill us and failed.
I am alive.
Broken hearted, broken skulled, broken path but I am alive.
The 15th, the place is mine.
I cannot wait to get out of this place of poison and get on with my life once more.
Sometimes I cannot believe I am still standing. That this heart can still push this hot blood through me...
I moved here with a woman...
She broke my heart, though to a lesser extent than previous women have (scar tissue?)
Found she didn't want to be without me...
Then broke up with me again.
We remain living together due to finances and a decent friendship.
Meanwhile a friend of mine also gets his heart broken, loses his job, becomes suicidal and homeless.
She invites him to stay with us. Me being me... I agree.
Ok until I find them together.
A month of lies pass...
Then they become a couple. All while we are in the same shotgun home.
Am I ok with this? NO.
Do I try to be ok? Of course.
Are things ok? NO.
Things don't get better... they get worse.
Another friend becomes homeless. Someone I care a lot about.
Another thus joins the cauldron.
She helps me. As dear friends do but it is not enough.
Things come to a head.
The 3rd person turns violent. I fight him off. And make the mistake of turning my back for a moment.
That is when the whiskey bottle came down.
I now carry a scar across my head. And found out AFTER I had gone to sleep that night I could have died. Because concussions can do that.
But I did not.
I am moving on. I got myself a nice little place right on St. Charles Avenue.
It is small but perfect for me.
I can hear the street car go by.
I can plant peppers and herbs again.
I can decorate my home the way I desire.
I can put up art once more.
I can get back to being serious about my paintings, my photography, my spiritual works and above all my writing.
Scars are nothing more than proof that something tried to kill us and failed.
I am alive.
Broken hearted, broken skulled, broken path but I am alive.
The 15th, the place is mine.
I cannot wait to get out of this place of poison and get on with my life once more.