I never meant to be alone,
But life just carved that path in stone.
I’ve had some friends, or so I’d say—
But none of them would choose to stay.

I see the crowds with hearts so bright,
Their laughter glowing in the light.
They gather near the church each day,
To sing and praise, to bow and pray.

But even there, I felt no peace,
No calm, no joy, no soul’s release.
I slipped out quiet, walked away—
Still searching for a better way.

I talk to folks while on the grind,
A passing word, a glance, a kind.
But something in me makes them pause—
Like I don’t fit their world, their laws.

I thought I moved like all the rest,
But maybe I don’t pass the test.
A little odd, a bit astray—
Not built to walk their kind of way.

I wander now where silence sighs,
Beneath the stars and ghostly skies.
I hope a spirit sees my pain—
But all I feel is cold, like rain.

So loneliness becomes my friend,
A shadow that won’t break or bend.
No hand to hold, no voice to say—
“You’re not alone, come stay, just stay”

I was tasked to clean it up
but the mess?
It wasn’t mine.
I stepped right into your ****,
you led me,
right into it.

Now we both reek,
covered in the stink
of choices I didn’t make,
but still, I’m forced to sink.

You lit the fire,
I brought the hose,
but somehow I’m the one exposed.
You played the victim,
I played along,
now I’m left wondering
where I went wrong.

They point at me
the smell too strong
but they don’t know
who led me on.

You wiped your hands
while mine stayed stained,
you walked away,
and I remained.

Cleaning up
what you left behind,
still gagging
on the ties that bind.

So next time you’re looking
for someone to save
remember:
even heroes
get tired of graves.

I don’t find it hard to be sober.
Being social and sober
that’s the hardest part.

It seems like everyone has a vice.
They call it “Cali sober,”
but I can’t do that either.
If you’re masking pain with anything,
you’re not sober.

I stopped drinking on the road,
living a life of quiet solitude.
Hotel rooms, empty diners.
I’m not the type to drink alone.

Even eating at the bar feels heavy,
lonely beneath the hum of televisions
and clinking glasses.

I have friends.
But when they drink,
I shrink.
I always want to leave.

I’ve always been anxious,
but now it’s sharper
more present,
more real.

It’s been a year
since my last drink.
Twelve months passed quickly,
but the pride remains.

Clarity came soon after,
clear as the sky after rain.
But being social
still feels like walking into a storm.

Because everyone drinks.

I’m not the one to call them out
when they get loud,
when they stumble,
when they slur.
But I no longer want to be there.

So I stay home.
Alone,
more than I’d like.

Searching
for someone
who sees the world
the way I now do.

I find myself
on the outside looking in,
like standing on a porch
at someone else’s party,
hand raised to knock.

I peer through the window:
laughter, smiles,
cheers rising like music.

But I don’t knock.
I don’t go in.

I didn’t stop drinking
because I had to.
I wasn’t destroying myself,
not exactly.

But in hindsight,
alcohol lit too many fires
I spent years trying to put out.

And that,
that’s the hardest part
of being sober:

Living in a world
that drinks
like it breathes.

Hackles darned and threaded tight,
Dubbing blends to shape and hide,
Hook disguised as nymph in flight

The bait,
The lure,
A scaled-up knight,
Who swims beneath
The sun’s bright gleam,
And hides within
The water’s dream.

My rod pulls back,
I give a cast,
Ten to two, then two to ten,
I let the fly drift past.

It drops in place,
No sound, no trace,
No tug, no pull, no race,
Until I twitch and snap the slack,
The hook sets firm,
I’ve met my match.

The water slaps,
I hear my shout,
A trout! A trout!
I dance about.

I tug the rod,
I turn the reel,
A fight too strong for me to feel.

And when the net secures my prize,
I stop,
and look into its eyes.

Compassion, sudden and alive,
I free the hook,
I let it dive

We’re both really lucky you and me
Until tomorrow,
We are both free

They ask us to give
when we have so little.
They promise to protect us,
protect our way of life.

But why must we give,
when we already have so little,
and they have so much?

They say it’s to preserve a way of life…
But whose life are they saving?

Is it our way of life,
where we struggle, scrape, and survive?
Or is it theirs,
where they ask for more,
and take even more,
from those who have none to give?

If those with plenty gave a little more,
there would be food at every table,
hope in every home,
peace in places worn by sorrow.

If those with wealth shared their hands,
the world would heal
faster than it ever broke.

A better world is not beyond us,
it is just beyond their greed.

Oh child,
so young to be alone,
no means to cope,
left sobbing on gravestones,
void of all hope.

Now searching for a home,
the old one now torn,
wanting for what’s gone,
lost is the memory
forlorn.

When all those who passed,
love’s shadow is cast,
young sorrow to last,
Left aging so fast.