Misguided Ghosts

I'm going away for a while
But I'll be back, don't try and follow me
'Cause I'll return as soon as possible
See I'm trying to find my place
But it might not be here where I feel safe
We all learn to make mistakes

And run
From them, from them
With no direction
We'll run from them, from them
With no conviction

'Cause I'm just one of those ghosts
Traveling endlessly
Don't need no road
In fact they follow me

And we just go in circles

Now I'm told that this is life
And pain is just a simple compromise
So we can get what we want out of it
Would someone care to classify,
Our broken hearts and twisted minds
So I can find someone to rely on

And run
To them, to them
Full speed ahead
Oh you are not, Useless
We are just

Misguided ghosts
Traveling endlessly
The ones we trusted the most
Pushed us far away
And there's no one road
We should not be the same
But I'm just a ghost
And still they echo me

They echo me in circles

R.I.P. 05-02-10

2,500 miles traveled in less than 42 hours.
this was the place where he thought he'd write his masterpiece,
standing in front of a wall where his father's ashes rested.

the words didn't flow like he wanted them to.
instead, tears streamed down his face, wiped off by his trembling hand.
if only tears could be read,
his novel would already be completed.

there's a saying someone told him to help ease his pain,
"it gets better with time."
it doesn't.

he once believed that the void in his heart could be filled.
filled with the satisfaction of a job that paid well,
the love of a beautiful woman
or God.

but those ideas were only temporary fixes,
that slowly disappeared like the sun setting in the horizon,
and once again he was left feeling alone.

the more he tried to forget,
the more he tried to ignore,
the void only grew bigger, more painful.

as he stood there looking for the words to write he took in a deep breath and looked around.
he wondered how busy a cemetery really gets and what is the proper dress attire.
the air was wet on his skin and the sun burned his face.






silence.






and for no reason,
with no real significant moment,
it came to him.

death wasn't about forgetting or moving on
because no matter what he did,
that void was still that drunk he didn't want at a party.
that void was still that traffic he didn't want to sit in.
that void was still that ex-girlfriend he didn't want to accidentally bump into.
it will always still be, no matter what.

death is about welcoming that void into his life as if it was his own flesh and blood.
looking deep into the darkness and saying, "hi"
because the more he lets it know it's there,
the more it loses interest in him,
like a child does with an old toy.

he stands in front of the plaque that reads "Peter J. McCauley."
his chest feels lighter,
his body adjusting to the lack of weight holding it down.

after years he's found some peace with his father's death,
no longer putting himself on trial for a crime he didn't commit.

he writes down on a piece of paper three words his father would say to him as a child,
tucks it behind the flowers that guards his ashes and says,
"i love you Dad."