Learning How to Cope

Since I set out on my own 8 years ago, I can't recall any year which has begun with so many personal challenges as 2012.  Learning how to cope with everything I've been going through and still maintain my faith and trust in God through it all has been difficult, especially since I have very few close friends I feel I can talk through things with.  So what I find myself doing quite often is writing - writing my prayers, thoughts, feelings, and so forth is a very effective way for me to see how I'm feeling about everything I'm going through.  It may only make sense to me, but the following is a poem I jotted down a few weeks ago which is along those lines.  If you happen to be interested or curious to learn more, feel free to contact me in any way, as I wouldn't mind having some one to talk to.  And until next time - thank you for reading, don't drink and drive, don't text and drive, and God bless America, it's a beautiful country.

Dialed up his homie once on the telephone,

Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong.

Brain freezin’ up, he don’t know what to do,

But the people that know him know that it ain’t nothin’ new.

Catch 6 rings, then the answering machine,

Hung up on the beep, stared up towards the ceiling.

Stood up to remember that he slept fully dressed,

So he grabbed his keys and put a hat on his rat’s nest.

Stepped up to that big outside,

Somebody once said today’s a good day to die.

But he never really was a big fan of their work,

So he starts out his walk by kicking sand in the dirt.

A friend to the stranger, a stranger to friends,

He’d like a coffee and a sausage McMuffin when you have a minute.

Handle it.  Paid up.  The change you keep it,

Always been a sucker for the morning smile and summer cleavage.

And if you knew him better, he’d ask for some time,

Because he’s looking for a reservoir to empty his mind.

And there’s only so much he can write before it’s too long,

Gotta talk to somebody who can tell him what the hell is wrong.

And this house has gotta lotta walls,

But only very few mean anything to you.

Through the sights of blacktop, pavement, and the street,

Sees that life is priceless and talk is cheap.

And as he sits in his 4-cornered room,

Listening to tunes, and books he consumes.

Carefully learning and analyzing what he can use,

Finally realizing that humility is a bruise.

Scared love don’t make none,

If these walls could speak, they would peep about the fake ones.

Watching this man trying to build up a plan,

Underachieving just so he can understand.

And as he sits, he starts to contemplate,

Ain’t been high in a long time, maybe he should reintegrate.

Nah, if he still had that glass pipe, he would smash it and use it to slash his wrists,

But someone already beat him to it.

He would finger-paint a picture with his blood,

A self-portrait, dramatic and morbid.

Taps his foot to the rhythym of original sin,

Throws his balls to the wind, trying to knock down these pins.

Keeps on swingin’ from the hair growin out his chin,

Tryin to find his soul in the 50-cent bin.

But he’s still surrounded by the fire and the water,

Still got a restraining order against Satan’s daughter,

Still answering the questions you’re afraid to ask,

Still believing that God’s gonna save his ass.