Cleansed by the River

With brow furrowed and eyes clenched tight, he fights the scenes in his head, scenes of things he wished he’d forget. His worries, they cloud him left and right, thoughts of what he shouldn’t have said, words uttered that he’d live to regret. So, he drinks until it blurs his sight, and his feet wobble in their tread, getting as drunk as drunk can get. He wonders if he’ll last the night, or, if he’ll wind up alone and dead, with no coin to pay the reaper’s debt. But, when the time comes and payment’s due, he hopes he’ll be wasted, through and through.

Staggered footsteps trudge
Through the trench of mire and muck-
Made clean by the Styx

©AC Elliott, The Cracked Lens View, 2016

Written as a Haibun


The View Through a Cracked Lens (An Older Piece)

Viewing my life through a cracked lens
All of the who’s, why’s, where’s and when’s
Distorted in my view
As raw screaming ensues
Flowing through pain filled pens
The cracked lens letting in the lies
Unfiltered, flows into my eyes
See where it all begins
Dark, ugly origins
Hidden sin’s haunted cries
A cadence beating in my head
Words fighting, wanting to be read
March quickly through my brain
Playing their notes of pain
A campaign of words unsaid
Throat painfully raw and voice hoarse
As the words settle on their course
The picks set in my throat
Words wend way, note by note
Promoting will by force
“Let me out, let me out!” they say
They will see the light, come what may
Once they’re freed from their pen
Burst into the open
Then my pen, has its way
AC Elliott

I Don’t Know

I quit writing back in November, and for the first time since late 1999/early 2000, I didn’t have a blog or website to host. I thought it was where I needed to be. I thought I was tired of all the incarnations, and reincarnations. I thought I was tired of the personas. I thought I was tired of… well… everything. I guess in many ways, I still feel that way. So, I sit here and wonder, why am I writing this and why am I here? I find that I don’t have an answer to that. I fell down into the pit of my PTSD and have had a rough time climbing back out of it. As a result, I find that the words don’t come as easy as they used to. I feel like my brain is in a constant never-ending fog. Maintaining connections has become even harder than normal for my already introverted self. So, again, I ask… why am I here, and why am I writing this?

The answer is for now: I guess I don’t know how to do anything else.


AC Elliott