Bloody Gloom Sunday

1:04am 7-21-14

Bloody Gloom Sunday

It was all a big misunderstanding, a miscommunication where alcohol and prescription drugs had my mind dazed in rage and all of the sudden I woke up enraged at what was not a nightmare. I look back at all the striving want to make a difference, growing so boldly within me. I find myself instead on the other end, cursing them all within, hurting, tears wanting to shed. It’s all a mess, deep within me, pounding thought in my head. I can’t sleep. All I could do there was so, and now I am deprived but alone here inside, the safety of the room at my parents’ house which I can honestly prove I reside. I feel left aside. But is it I, or the strive once never dormant inside? I hear the cries. The saddened looks, the big eyes, filled with fears so great, so near, close to home and they call out silently to me-but I fear, oh how I fear, I have to answer with, “there is nothing I can do my dear, my dear”. I allow my head to fall. My hands are bruised from being misused, and the tracks from my feet dirty the floors I sweep. Just like any other, today is a day that passes. No matter how much time flies and we try our hardest to strive, strive, strive-we all have an evil demon inside that roars loud when we aren’t looking, when we lack the needed attention, to keep us from crossing roads without looking at both sides. I cry. I try. I try to cry, but tears only form and no longer drip down as I mourn my wicked ways that betrayed all I the reasons I feel I was born.

I creep into my mother’s bedroom. She lay peaceful in her slumber. I caress her hair, hoping to feel comfort. Instead she awakes, frightened. I hush her back to sleep, pull the sheets closer, cozier around her body and think long and hard at what I have become. What is this? At times, nothing makes sense. At other times, I would be mistaken to not be inhaling the breaths where I breathe in. It all makes sense. And when it doesn’t-I can’t feel the pain.

Let it rain, oh, let it rain. Rain down on me; wash away impurities, the strife in which I cannot stand. Wash it away into a different land, where it promotes growth and plants bloom from such a gloom, gloomy Sunday.

Its past midnight, the work week is about to start. Fresh and new, feelings feeling glued, to surfaces that are too sensitive to allow any growth to bloom, bloom, bloom. I wish the room would spin and my mind would silence itself. Growing dizzy in its own atmosphere where there are only cheering gestures that sound like happy children playing toys that squeak noise no one hears until night falls. A distance sound of laughter, nowhere near the disasters that grow closer to them, faster and faster. Their little hearts would never imagine.

But here I am, already pondering a plan, to keep their little hands safe and sound. Just as I am now, no, I retract that, better than that, I hope to make a difference that stays.