Disability Resides In Me

Disability resides in me.
It doesn’t matter that I’m a writer,
doesn’t matter that I’m a student,
doesn’t matter that I’m attracted to certain things
or believe in certain things
or dream of certain things.
The purpose of my legs is ornamental,
the reason for my nerves is exaggeration.
Disability resides in me.
Of course it is not my everything;
I am brother and son,
uncle and friend,
fan and failure,
heart and mind.
But this does not change a fact,
does not change my needs,
does not change the truth of a label.
I am not anything less for it, but

disability resides in me.

The Last Post

War is a hellish thing,
an inconsequential pissing contest
between desk-set sacks of meat.
A palm and a pen and opinion
send cannon fodder afar
to an early grave of forgotten dirt.
It’s a tale as old as us, a tale
preceded and proceeded by ego
with minimal thought to real consequence.
The sign of a name that will be forgotten
in centuries – nay, years demands those
who we struggle to remember
leave behind a family who will be
impacted for generations.
War is a hellish thing.

But those who leave for what they believe
to be our sake do not question
political demand. They do not question
questionable decisions that will surely
haunt the dreams of any who are lucky
(or unlucky) enough to survive.
They fight and kill and die
because they believe that they do
what must be done to protect
the life they have learnt to love
and the lives they have learnt to love.
They are the accused and are persecuted
for crimes that need an answer,
an answer that does not belong to the servant.
War is a hellish thing.

© Blake Leitch August 7, 2014

A Listening Ear

I have grown so tired recently. It’s not that the sleep is left wanting, or that the dreams are yet to end; it’s that the humdrum of everyday life is becoming ever more exhausting. I have grown so tired.

I’d reach for my phone if I could. I’d call you… whichever you would pick up. Or maybe whichever you wouldn’t. I’d sit on my bed cross-legged and I’d press the buttons to make your phone ring. I think if you answered, I’d probably hang up. So I’d pray for voicemail instead.

I’ve imagined it a few times, imagined it more recently than before, rehearsed the lines in my mind that I’d say to your voicemail. Wanna hear? Let me try remember…

“Hey,” I’d start, “don’t hang up.” I’d take a moment to compose myself; it’s very dramatic, you see. “I’ve been waiting to call for a while. I’ve missed you, essentially. And I was just wanting to talk for a while. Even if you aren’t hearing me, right now I mean, it’s still nice to know you’re somewhere on the other end. It’s nice to know that your hearing me. I think it’s sometimes because it feels like I fall on deaf ears, so knowing you’re wherever you are, knowing you’re hearing what I’m saying… It’s nice.”

I don’t know what else I’d say; never really made it beyond that. Not that I’ve made it that far in the first place, but hey, life is full of fictions. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. And nowadays, the fictions mean more than reality. Ironic really, but it’s true. I’ve grown quite tired, you see, and the idea of a listening ear seems quite nice.

Nighttime Embraces

It’s simple really,
what I want.
I want nighttime embraces.
I want a hand to fit mine.
I want tears to end in comfort,
not solitude.
I want lips to kiss
and a heartbeat to feel,
and sometimes I want something more.
I want a friend,
a someone who won’t mind a cheesy ending,
a captain over rough waters
and an artist on dry land.
I want comfort, just comfort.
I want imperfect perfection,
nothing more or less.

© Blake Leitch February 23, 2016