Sometimes the sickness mocks the cure and you suffer. The internal storm, always brewing, unleashes it’s fury and you batton your hatches. You never judge, but you wonder. I see it in your eyes and I overthink it means me harm. The diseased wrong that drifts through me is no match for your right.
Leaving you in peace wanders my troubled mind. You still have an open door and a place for my head to rest.
You’re a four-letter word but not the one that we both mutter when times are bad. Tossing disregard for normal and laughing at convention, all of me walks our lives in need of your hand. You never fail to provide it.
There’s another name that should be included next to your first and middle. It’s what you offer in the times of worst and the moments of best. You’re a beautiful kitchen for my beastly soul.
You’re love, care, and another one that makes us be forever.
I try to avoid meme’s because of the pressure and the amount of writing I already have mined up. But Abby http://t.co/LPKg7xHq and her issues feels the same as I do about, well, everything. She has so much blogging street cred that when she tagged my cynical robot ass in her “Hope” chain letter, I had to say yes. I won’t tag anyone else because between her and our other blogging friends, everyone I know who would do this is already offered.
One of my favorite song, period, is from Jim Morrison and The Doors. This is about a stoned, paranoid guy looking for shelter from his turbulent storm. But I’ve twisted it to fit my wife, whom this small piece is dedicated. She puts up a lot from my crazy. Here’s Soul Kitchen.