Seven Year Old Man

This blog is a piece of fictional writing about a man in his early thirties whose lover leaves him for another. The metaphor in this blog is used to express the hurts and healing that can be experienced in life's tough situations, here for example, a break-up.

Blithered, bombed, smashed, pieces. Everything burning, aching pressing hard. Can't breath. Can't be here. No one, no place, won’t matter. How could she do this to me? They all do this to me. Sluts. Whores. Alley cats. Knew she was going to leave me ever since I was a cradle's child. Now in man-skin she’s leaving. All jacked up in the ever worry of a dead beat ghost Daddy hard working slutin' road kill momma. Bought me my man shoes at seven. Joined “I Got Dis Figured Fellowship”. Prickly hard heart aching. Gotta give gun away gonna shoot my head off today. Yester-year whizzed by. Confused. Couches wearing apparitions as we hang out watching movies in the living room, me sortin’ - the dead - the living. Who are the deeds of deliverance?

No longer the cloaked boy. Skilled surgeon, said his name “Vulnerability” opened me, talking, cost hundred bucks by hour, better boyfriend bucks. Oozing. He says, buddy it’s safe haven. No emergency doc for this on call. Be inventing new threads for fix, not borrowing out of Momma’s sewing kit.

Adrenaline tsunami, man, only a crazy surfer’s paradise. Waves hittin’ got to ride the swell. He throws out breath, from the belly, float with it. I’m freezing, got to remember to move. Sleep, don’t wake up. Got to walk the dog. She is the angel of love, my constancy.

Yeah, remember me little one holding hands with sky, playing with wind. The fix it tool guy. King of cliff-side garden land. Checker board domain beloved weeds, grass, dirt. Sticks to blow away nasty villains of distress. Doves coo on warm wire singing to dusk. Ah the North Star bright in black night.

Bam! Hit the little boy. Now you one powerful chief. Who scared? Patriot to Coat of Arms transforms in twilight to Traitor of Unity. Anxiety is a symptom of something underneath he says. My hundred bucks by hour, better boyfriend bucks. Slut, bucks. Planes, trains, car mile-age. Affidavit tagged wearable for the distance of the commitment - He says its in the creative. Man, he who takes responsibility for his own present and future life. Man shadow sire pothole momma.

Took her to the doggie park today. Hummingbird hovered, so fast missed the shot. Only she and I would believe, what a view. Gotta have that xray batman vision sometimes. My man charge: Two hundred by the hour guy bucks, what a cool sky, Santa Ana's blowin' in, climb cliff-side mountain land with sweet angel dog before creative goes to work today. He, my hundred bucks by hour, better boyfriend bucks, what you think?

Expanding.