Author: Tom Darby

His anger boils over in rage.
How can she do this at this stage?
She gets the house, the car,
He’s left wishing on his lonely star.

He works two, three, four jobs
To pay Peter, who robs Paul.
She works once, time, and again
Refusing to flex, refusing to bend.

Mow the lawn every weekend
Not a hand would she lend
Just to keep up appearances.
Manicured lawn, impeccable references.

So why does she ask these things?
Because happiness to her does bring.
And now, he is left out in the bitter cold
Feeling abandoned, unloved and so old.

He carries her picture in his wallet
Lest her face, he should forget
From time to time, he’ll pull it out
Recall what love was all about.

What was there, is suddenly gone
Like sunshine, dusk to dawn
And he doesn’t know what he did
What was wrong, how he slid.

Jus’ a former shadow of himself
Slowly decaying, losing his breath
He does not wish to live any longer
His heart’s true hope, is gone from there.

His soul is so darkened by despair
He no longer cares to have a care
She has broken his living, loving will
Leaving him nothing, death will fulfill.

Those around him have said again,
“Well, if you had not screwed around.”
He thinks, “Screwed around? But when?”
That they think this brings him down.

No wonder his wife thinks the same way!
If his coworkers have concluded this
The thoughts and their words lead to dismay
It’s goodbye to marriage with a sudden kiss.

Where the hell did he go wrong, he wonders.
Reflecting back on the total sum of his life
He can clearly see the mistakes, the blunders
That led to a goodbye from his loving wife.

“If God knew this,” he asks no one there,
“Why did he let me waste so much time?”
Of course, again, no answer from anywhere.
Appearances now appear to be his crime.

The last thing he wants to be angry
The woman, his wife, whom he loves
But with every twist, turn, and emotions betray
Realizing the destructive outcome.

Why will she not talk about her feeling?
It leaves him lost, alone in a dense fog,
Where do broken hearts begin healing?
The silence is distractive and destructive.

She has placed him in a holding pattern,
Like a prisoner, on death row’s final night,
Hanging in the wind, twisting and turning.
Death would be the welcomed companion.

Anger leads to fiery hate in human clay.
The last thing he wants is to feel angry,
But that is how he lives each lonely day,
And his soul screams to lash out at her.

Night-time comes, and I grow afraid.
Worry climbs into bed like a lover.
To get away, he would gladly trade
Every ounce of energy he has.

It pushes its way against the skin,
Making itself comfortable next to him,
Sleeping where once love had been,
Crowding for the comfort of the mattress.

Soon self-doubt climbs in on the top,
Followed by anger and resentment.
Two feelings he fights to make a stop.
They lay, tossed, and unslept in bed.

Unwilling to struggle come the morn,
Drifting uneasily into worthless sleep,
Waking with emotions spent, mind torn.
Night-time comes and I grow afraid.

There is little more room than a cell,
Personal purgatory, a heartbreak hell.
Night has fallen just beyond the door,
Daylight gone, evening sun no more.

The bare-naked bulb casts a shadow,
Beating down a figure beyond its glow.
His long-form, a hulk of unhappiness,
Stirs in the area where he must dress.

Personal effects lay about this place,
Filling in blanks, covering the space.
Still, he knows it ain’t home,
Not his tree and not his loam.

Here there is little more than survival.
A place where pain becomes delightful.
Where a broken heart lives in misery,
And only the criminals are set free.

He vowed to remain positive all day,
Not counting on seeing her eyes that way.
They spoke in gentle tones in the parking lot,
No harsh words, for they never have fought.

Each one unwilling to take that first
Step, the one that is clumsy, the worst.
They dance around each other’s careful space.
Keeping their distance, keeping their place.

He wants to reach out and take her hands.
But he can tell this is not in her plans.
Cannot force the situation without fear
That the meeting will create dreaded tears.

Finished, she drives off, he walks away.
Polite conversation, but not much do they say.
Yet, there is so much more to be said.
Too bad it remains inside his head.

What if the Lord has answered me,
Given the message to set me free,
And I am too busy pleading to hear it?
Maybe I need to learn how to be quiet.

Prayers, not only for personal forgiveness,
But also for those who bear false witness,
Those who have helped me in my time of need,
The ones who’ll be there, fail or succeed.

Words shouted then whispered up to God,
Whose silent, but gentle answer seems odd
Compared to the man who struggles now,
Who talks and talks with a knitted brow.

If I sit still, and in silence at that moment
Will He release me or find more torment?
It is something that I must finally know.
Truly, does she want me — or shall I go?

Clear the head, the heart, and the soul
During the long hour drive in.
Rinse away the palate that is full,
Ask for forgiveness for daily sins.

Wandering mind and busy eye,
Focus is lost on the desert scene.
Where does the emotional self-fly,
Logic lost, what does it mean?

Parts fragmented in private conversation,
Talking to God and others is not there.
Anger arises as does desired retaliation,
The only place the heart can freely share.

Clear the head, the heart, and the soul
Of all that is filled with reviled hate.
Add colors to the palate till it is full
To start the day refreshed, so great!

There are no dreams as he sleeps.
The mind is like a slate, left blank.
Only eyes that burn as he weeps
Leaving pillow, cheek, wet, dank.

Where does the pain enter from?
Plug the hole, and fill the leak.
The emotional toll, final sum,
Leaving him tired, spent, and weak.

Push on! Act happy! All smiles!
Fake it till you make it, so it goes.
Anger, resentment, pain in piles,
Overwhelmed feelings only he knows.

Why can’t he be the real person he needs?
Able to churn like a flooded arroyo.
Hidden feelings like new-planted seeds,
Wait to erupt like an active volcano.