Crutches

(Below is a piece of poetry I found toward the end of my journal I read as I rocked in my rocking chair...)

For so long, I have relied on my crutches. My music. My videos. My sins. My misperceptions. My disillusionment of people, places, and things. My crutches have guided me when I couldn’t walk on my own; they’ve taken me to a place of deception. Of hatred for those who can walk. And for shame around those who seem to have never used a pair.

My crutches have become weak. They can’t hold me anymore. Can’t support my leaning to one side. My wayward tilt to another side when I’m tired of this opinion, that opinion, and his opinion. They give me callouses, and the thorn in my flesh becomes impenetrable to love. To kindness. To innocent pleasantries.

My crutches have shortened. They wear and tear as they hit the ground in places where my foot should tread. Instead, my crutches have taken the load. But now, the ground has gotten the best of them. They can’t stand the pounding of aggression, the wrath of passive anger, and the fire of pinned up aggression. So, they burn. They scorch the earth where my foot should tread.

The hand braces have worn away. They wear and tear as my hand reaches for them and grabs ahold tighter and tighter with each reach. I’ve held them for so long, that the cushion has worn away, and my hand can feel my soul starting to become exposed. I make adjustments. I keep adjusting. I keep realigning my thoughts. My prayers. My anger. I keep finding other places to put my foot, my hand, and my other leg. But I feel my soul starting to become exposed.

As I begin to fall, I think to myself, "I’ve always known this day would come. I’ve always known the screw in the side of these crutches was weak., That sexual fantasies with others was dull without a wife, That school and education were not a saving grace, and that an alter call didn’t bring salvation from myself. Yes, I always knew. But I didn’t think I’d hit the ground this soon.

There’s no pain like hitting the ground. But something happened after I got over the pain.

I realized that I never really needed the crutches. So I got up and walked home.

Mother to Son (an ode from Langston to the only mother I knew to be mother)

Mother to Son (an ode from Langston to the only mother I knew to be mother)

Oh Death, where's your sting?

Oh Death, where's your sting?