Scribblings of the Opiated Sherpa

An Angel, So bold and so true, Looked upon high, By many a people. No one has ever seen her, But everyone knows she exists, And the sweetness of her soul, Carries for miles from her solitary position. To have touched so many, With only her words, No touch or feel, And speaking to few. But doubts cloud her paradise, Because some don’t believe, Her Angelic presence isn’t enough, To sway others to her light. And how this troubles the Angel, Taking her away from those, Who believe her, Without even seeing her. Everyone down below, Need the Angel to be happy, To know her smile upon them, And all of who believe know themselves worthy. So, to the Angel I plea, To keep your head up, Your smile beaming, And what you need will come when you need it most.

Can you hear my hollowed voice? Can you hear it through this hollow box? This is my voice, Hollowed out and misshapen, To the point of disbelief. I want you to believe, The words in my voice, The emotion in my voice, And the feeling that you get when you hear me. I can be what you need, And my voice, Can be your pillow, So you can sleep peacefully. Wrap it up with ribbons and bows, A prize you can have, And a prize that is yours, If you would only ask. My voice was never used, To the capacity that it’s good for, Nobody ever tried to get this prize, So it’s left unwrapped, waiting. This doubt you have, Is nothing new to me, It has been something I have seen, And something I saw it to pass. Doubt leads to limited chances, And limited chances is all I ever had, Limited to zero, And limited to nothing. And when you know only nothing, Something is new, Something is bold, Something could be scary. My voice talks to myself, When there is nothing around, And voice is unused, When nothing plays

The one who works hard to keep his promises, The one who keeps them happy, The one who has already given up so much for friends, But the one overlooked in the end. Like a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Needed and helpful for a period of time, But the people you have helped, Leave and never look back. The recognition of effort, Never pans out into anything more, Than a picture in a book, Or a drunken memory lost among others. No one cares for the utility person, Who makes them laugh, Buys a round of drinks, And gets left at the end of the night. You look at his open door, Smile and walk away, Knowing what is inside to be great, But still you walk on by. And when it’s all said and done, The people who are there now, Become better people because of him, And find new people to leave him in a pile of dust. And have you looked at a pile of dust, In all of it’s loneliness, The disregarded pieces of skin and hair, To be swept up and thrown away? But still he plugs along for others, New

It’s felt like an eternity, Not being able to touch, feel or smell her. Living with others who recognize my presence, But don’t feel me either. Being able to help those, But the hole in my soul is still deep. I feel like Angel walking among those, Even though I don’t believe. If I was to meet her, I don’t know what I am supposed to feel. I want to reach out and touch her, She knows I am touching, but does she ‘feel’ me? If she looked deep into me, Looked deep into who I am, Touch her heart, So she sees me in new light, Not touching but feeling. That’s all I need, Someone to feel me, Feel me through and through, Just I like I do, standing before her now. She is so perfect in her glory, And her imperfections that make her who she is, I want to feel that feeling, That she feels the same way. We’ll make our own cities, Live our own lives, For each other, For the feeling we should never lose. When she rubs my arm, When she cozies up to me in front of a fire, When we sit and share ourselves,