Breakroom

4 AM was always his longest hour. It seemed that the rest of the world was deep in a somber slumber while production continued. He walked outside to begin his journey to the breakroom on this unseasonably warm February morning. With eyes and feet like stone, he felt every heavy step along the way.

Once inside, he poured himself a cup of coffee to pull him through the rest of the shift. He left it black as the night sky outside of the broad windows. Between coffee and energy drinks, he felt as though caffeine pumped more so than oxygen in his bloodstream. The warm brew crept into his soul to provide enough energy for a heavy sigh. His eyes closed for a moment.

He thought of his bed and his wife who slept peacefully in it. The minor argument they shared earlier seemed so distant in his timeline. At least she would be there when he came home with a kiss and a smile to melt the woes of the night before. One of many blessings to be thankful for.

His opened his eyes at last. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped it as smoothly as a drag from a cigarette. His lips had grown accustomed to the black velvet on his tongue as replacement to his beloved whisky. He looked into the white Styrofoam as if he were looking at a good friend and often wondered however which could kill him first.

The radio clicked abruptly, snapping him out of his momentary bliss. His rough and callused hands reached for the screeching speaker and his safety glasses. It was time to return to his machine and bring a new success into the matching day. With a deep breath and optimism for the rising sun, he was determined yet again.

Power Struggle

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but what about the mind that pushes the hand?

Perhaps mine is lost but it’s been stuck in translation for so long that it speaks more than it should, but I feel that it’s long overdue for it to finally take its’ stand.

I mean, it sat idly by like a lion on the prowl with a growl and a roar billowing in its’ belly.

Watching. Waiting. Hesitating.

For the mouth knew not how to do more than sing, so it stuttered and uttered word vomit for the hand to clean with symbols and phrases for the world to read. But the mind made the first move.

You see, their ears grew deaf to the songs and the screams for the help and attention that the mind wasn’t getting and it broke down and cried, “Look at me! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!”, but the words were in vain.

Scarred. Scared. Secluded.

Crying and dying were the options before it so it looked to the heavens and everywhere else below it and decided to try to attempt something foreign like the translations that I previously spoke of.

The pen was the beacon for healing and feeling but the mind needed help from the heart that kept beating in rhythm and time which held a great tempo and helped take emotion from the depths of a soul forever longing.

Longing to grow and to change and to thrive, like the sprout in the sun which is craving and raving yet still meditating while endlessly forming its’ roots.

So which wields the power, the pen or the mind? Which will move mountains or stir up the oceans or something more meaningful like save a life?

Forever a question like chickens and eggs but perhaps the real answer lies with the beauty. Perhaps in the eyes of…

Beholders. Dreamers. Believers.

The Temptress

Every time I go to the store she glances at me; watching and waiting to see if I make the first move. Her stare is almost intoxicating in itself, let alone if I give in. She knows I want this to happen. Besides, who doesn’t give in to cheap thrills every once in awhile?

Years ago when we first met, we didn’t hit it off very well. She was so different from anything I had ever experienced before. It was easy to walk away back then but people get older and tastes change. When I got bored with the same old thing I found her. 

She has always been a temptress. She is known to wreck homes and lives without warning. She knows she feels good in your hands. Depending on where she is, she can be high class or social in low places. She is well known and that’s half the thrill.

As I pass, I remember great times and low moments we shared. From pain to celebration, I held her through a lot. She brought out a different man in me. She loved me to press my fingers into her neck as my lips caressed hers. She could take advantage of my mind and heart and I could toss her out before anyone ever knew. However on certain days, her taste is what I miss the most.

Who is this temptress? The home wrecker? The enemy of innocence? I’m sure you have met her once or twice. If you want a good time, grab her by the top and take her to the register. She won’t mind at all. Her name is Sierra Nevada and she’s twenty-four ounces of a road you never knew you wanted to get off of. Please drink responsibly.