Letting Go of the Ghosts

Minding your own business. All’s quiet. There’s a noise in the room… you think. Or maybe it’s just in your head. Yeah, it’s in your head.

It’s always been in your head. Where the ghosts live.

Start. Stop. Start again. Stop some more.

It gets old fast.

Writing. Not writing. Writing again. Not writing some more.

It gets old fast. I got old fast. So did the ghosts. Except ghosts stay the same as they were before they were ghosts. The memories of them, unchanged, from when they were new.

And the worst thing is, they aren’t even there.

Start. Don’t stop.

Writing. Writing again.

Letting go of the ghosts.

©️2020 William S. Friday

Only a Day

Special. 

Joy set apart from insignificance. 

A day,

forgotten no longer.

More beautiful than all. 

Glowing. 

Shining. 

Lighting the world,

until its light went out. 

And it was only a day again. 

Special, once. 

But whether in light or dark,

warm or the cold,

this day remains special,

for those who hold it as it is,

always. 

The love,

and the pain,

make it so.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

WANTED: Couch

couch

WANTED: Couch.  With attached living area.  Kitchen and bathroom also a must.  Will sign one-year lease.  Rent-free preferred.  Location not an issue, but would desire within continental US.  Am available for immediate occupancy.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Netherworld

netherworld

Days of the week,

or weekend,

the same. 

Shadows in the place of light,

morning and night. 

No noon.

 

Late I wake,

in the waning sun,

not set. 

With afternoon’s first cup,

must wake up. 

Too soon.

 

Adapting to this life,

upside-down. 

Into halogen and pixel,

I shrink,

lacking melanin,

blink. 

Cold moon.

 

Upon words,

a ladder to climb. 

Voices above cry out, 

join our Netherworld escape,

prison break. 

Lifeless womb.

 

Through endless dreams,

or not,

unsure. 

A solitary life of doubt,

must get out. 

In hope assume.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Nine Years

9

The last thing I wanted to do

was write the same book,

all over again,

only just a little bit better. 

In the nine years since I,

unintentionally,

began my first book,

one page here,

another page there,

I’d hoped I would change,

maybe,

God always willing,

for the better.

 

Change!

 

Nine years’ worth of words,

compressed into just over a hundred pages. 

Some I didn’t even want to read again,

except for the insistence of an editor

who would scowl if I said no. 

 

Change!

 

Nine years’ worth of shredded hearts,

and tears that were not cried. 

Of alcohol related indecision,

and bad decisions made in haste. 

 

Change,

dammit!

 

Nine years’ worth of growing up

at an age when most just grow old. 

And now,

going on my tenth year since the beginning,

with a second book just months away

from crawling its way down

the publishing birth canal,

I am at a place

where all I see in my words

is the same words,

arranged differently. 

 

Change,

dammit,

change!

 

Nine years’ worth of hope,

recycled,

reprinted,

regurgitated upon page after page,

still looking like they always did. 

They are all I know, 

And they are mine.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Defragging

defrag

Pretty words that writers use

to describe what it is they do. 

Emote. 

Ruminate. 

Bleed. 

I prefer words that find

their form in function. 

Every time I sit,

or stand,

to write,

I always go on much too long,

with words steeped

in antiquation. 

When,

in all reality,

the words bitch in my direction

to be sorted and chopped,

then laid sparse on the page. 

Someone once called what I do in words,

defragging. 

Like a computer,

in desperate need

to sort out its shit,

discard what slows

and corrupts,

and make itself right again. 

I will never hear a better way

to explain me

than they used to explain me

to myself.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Christmas Twenty-Sixteen

broke-santa

I just paid my bills online.

My budget looks like crap.

I haven’t any money left.

I think I need a nap.

It’s almost time to go to work,

and start this all again.

An endless cycle I just circle,

back to where I’ve been.

There is no future hope for me,

I think my life is done.

Until I pay off all my bills,

and am too old for fun.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday