That Type of Shit

I try not to think about it.

I mean, it’s not that I don’t care,

it’s just that, if I thought about it,

then I’d have to consider it

worth thinking about

and I don’t…

… not really.


Look, do you remember

the first time you lost something

really precious to you?

Do you remember that one

singular moment of heartbreak

in vivid detail?

Do you remember the day?

The time, the weather?

What you were wearing?

What song was on the radio?

What you were thinking,

as suddenly that one thing,

that was such a major fixture

in your life, was suddenly gone?

Do you remember that moment?


How your breath caught in your chest

and everything inside you tensed up;

like an animal cowering in fear.

Everything inside you,

all squeezed together,

so tight that you were scared

for a split second

that your heart would stop beating.

So tight that it hurt;

when you were finally able to drag in

one ragged breath,

and then a moment of release.


Your eyes welling up

and your mind screaming out,

as it struggled so hard to come to terms

with this horrible new reality.

The feeling of falling.

Descending, helplessly into some

hungry, beckoning darkness.


Falling and falling,

as your view of the world

tilts and stutters,

tearing at the seams a little bit;

like old film going off the reel.

Then… crash…




You are left diminished,

violated and lessened.

Someone has been fucking with

the colors in your eyes

and everything is a little dull;

a little grey.


You are listless

and wandering the wasteland

of your broken life,

like a ghost ship on some

forsaken current,

unmanned and unknowable.


Now you are a friend of pain,

loss and suffering.

Innocence gone, at least for the moment,

you are a prisoner of terrible circumstance.

Forced finally, to realize that

you are not the center of the universe

and your happiness, no – your very existence,

is not promised,

or even very important.

Reflections of morality?

The disposition of my immortal soul?

The deep meaning of all that has been

and all that will ever be?


That type of shit?


I try not to think about it.


HG – 2016

5 thoughts on “That Type of Shit

  1. “Someone has been fucking with
    the colors in your eyes
    and everything is a little dull;
    a little grey.”

    My favorite lines in an already memorable poem. Thanks for sharing.

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