Lessons Learned & Lost: A Book of Poetry and Prose
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Yet we endure. Slowly and painfully, we accumulate knowledge and wisdom. We are molded into stronger and wiser people. Life becomes a better place as we learn lessons and un-learn others.
Justin Hollingshead
Justin currently lives near Austin, Tx. He is 31 and engaged to be married soon.
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Lessons Learned & Lost - Justin Hollingshead
Lessons Learned
and Lost
A book of poetry and prose
Justin Hollingshead
missing image fileAuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: 1-800-839-8640
© 2011 by Justin Hollingshead. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published by AuthorHouse 07/28/2011
ISBN: 978-1-4634-4316-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4634-4314-6 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4634-4315-3 (ebk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913509
Printed in the United States of America
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
PREFACE
THE DRIP
CHAPTER I
POOR FORM
TURTLE STEW
THE DEVIL’S DUE
FATAL MISTAKE
TWIST OF FATE
A DISH SERVED COLD
REMEMBER THE CHILDREN
SCARS
TALK ABOUT IT
UNPOPULAR BELIEFS
INNOCENCE
CHAPTER II
SCORCHED
IF
GUILT
EVIDENCE
CHAPTER III
THE DESTROYER
THE SQUEEZE
FACE TO FACE
JUSTIFY
ONE MISTAKE AWAY
I’M READY
FALLACIES
RECOVERY
I’M TRYING
THE PEARL
THE BURN
CHAPTER IV
THE PLATTLEGROUND
A SPIDER’S WEB
THE EVENT
THE SOURCE
CHAPTER V
PRISON
DECISIONS
THE COST OF CRIME
TESTED
ELEMENTARY
DREAMLESS
WHAT WAS I THINKING?
WHAT’S LEFT
PANIC ATTACK!
THE SANDS OF TIME
MORE THAN FRIENDS *
EVERYDAY LIFE
WHERE THE WEAK
ARE DAMNED
FORGIVE ME *
BRAIN DAMAGE
GOTTA BE GOOD
MORE THAN WORDS *
SIGHT
THE VOID
IN DEEP THOUGHT
YESTERYEAR
ONE MORE CHANCE
I’M COMING HOME *
THE LITTLE THINGS
CHAPTER VI
HUMANITY’S CRY
ASKING WHY
RETURN OF THE SON
A HINT OF SMOKE
OUR ONLY HOPE
LIVING ABOVE THE LIE
MY GREAT ESCAPE
WHO IS GOD?
THE DEBT
THE MIST
THE STINK
A DIVINE APPOINTMENT
EXAMPLES
GOD’S VOMIT
HOW A FOOL SHOULD PRAY
GIVING THANKS
EVERYTHING I NEED
HOMECOMING
TO THE DREAM GIVER
LETTING GO
TO THE LIVING
FAMILY CALLS
COMING TO MY SENSES
I’VE GOT GOD
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION
MY HEART OF HEARTS
THE MASTER PLAN
THERE IS HOPE
IN SEARCH OF CHARACTER
WHOLE AGAIN
MY DIVINE DESTINY
NOT OURS
THE TRUTH
FINDING GOD
WASTELANDS
AND WILDERNESS
GOD AND I
CHAPTER VII
THE EVOLUTION
OF A MONSTER
BEING TOLD
FRIENDLY FOE
GRAY
A MORNING LONG AGO
THE SADNESS
SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE
A BROKEN MIND
THE BEAST WITHIN ME
THE RIDE
THE SLAVE
THE VOICES
ADDICTION
THE UGLY PLACE
ON THE BRINK
DEPRESSION
CHAPTER VIII
THE APPRENTICE
OUR CALLING
GUARD YOUR HEART
TEMPTATION
SOMEBODY’S WATCHING
A LIFE’S LESSON
THAT’S JUST LIFE
NOTHING
WHY THE PIECES FIT
ALL OF US
THE WAY
YOU’VE GOT TO TRY
MORALITY
JUST THE WAY YOU ARE
CHAPTER VIII
LOST
FOUND
CHAPTER IX
THE ELEMENTS OF LIFE
BURIED
EMPTY
DROWNING
SHATTERED
LIVING
CHAPTER X
RUMORS
RELEASE THE HOUNDS
RUN
AS THE SUN GOES DOWN
THEY’RE CLOSIN’
CHAPTER XI
BITTER SEEDS
TRUST ISSUES
FRIENDS FIRST
WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS
EXCUSE ME
MY SPECIAL VALENTINE
MY REASON
BREATHLESS
BABY DON’T HURT
UNTITLED LOVE POEMS:
CHAPTER XII
QUESTIONS
TEARS FOR PHILLIP
REMEMBERING PHILLIP
WITHOUT YOU
I MISS YOU
THE FAR SIDE OF THE VEIL
CHAPTER XIII
THE CROSSES I BEAR
MY BEAUTIFUL NIGHT
MONSTERS
MOTHER’S DAY *
INTO THE LOOKING GLASS
TROUBLE
RESTLESS
THE CHANGE
THE GRAVEYARD
ON GETTING MARRIED
HELL
FEATHERED THINGS
ALZHEIMER’S
MAD
NEVER FORGET *
NOW HIRING
WITHOUT DAD *
ON FEELING OLD
THE THIEVES
THE TREACHEROUS TONGUE
IT’S COMPLICATED
THE POND
THE WINNER
A SPECIAL FAIRYTALE
CHAPTER IVX
LISTENING TO DREAMS
THE MASON**
THE RAILROAD TRACKS**
UNDERGROUND REVELATIONS**
A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE**
FROZEN**
THE DREAMSMITH**
THE WOEFUL WOMAN**
THE SCROLL**
CHAPTER XV
I WILL SUCCEED
PREFACE
Everything of value flashes before my eyes. God, family, friends, my achievements and failures all surge to the forefront of my recollections, and as I pull the needle out of my arm I whisper, Christ Almighty, I am about to die!
No sooner than the words leaving my lips do I release an explosive cough as the mixture of cocaine and meth hits my system and jolts me to the power of 10! My eyes go wide as my heart reaches an unfathomable rhythm and threatens to pulverize the very ribs designed to protect it. My hands sweat as I grab the filthy sink in front of me. I don’t even bother to wipe the oozing drop of dark red blood that flows off my arm and drips onto the bathroom floor. My knees begin to knock and I’m certain that I am about to go on a ride from which I may never return.
Unsteady now, my entire body begins to quake. My eyes loose focus and my very existence seems to smear across the dingy mirror before me. Any euphoria is smothered by terror, and as I struggle to stay on my feet, I prepare myself to die. My face is numb and my tongue hangs out of my drooling mouth. Incapable of speech, I can only imagine the words I want to say. My knees buckle and I collapse. I’m flopping now, and all that comes to mind is, God, give me one more chance.
Dear Reader, that was thousands of chances ago. Each day I wake up is another God-given chance to get things right. It is another chance to live and learn. I should be dead. By all rights, I should not be alive to tell this tale or share this story. I shouldn’t be physically capable of holding this pen or thinking these thoughts. But God apparently has Plans, and for once my deeds seem to run parallel to His will.
I’m not sure where the genesis of my story lies. Is it my childhood? Is it the streets? Is it addiction or in prison? I don’t know. Truthfully, it all blends together. It seems like one long, really bad dream. Not so much a nightmare, just an ugly blur. Now granted, there have been moments of serenity, achievement, and happiness. There are memories that have made me smile, and occasionally I’ve recalled something that’s made me laugh. But my laughter was often a lie sounding hollow like an echo or poor recording. My smiles have been brief and all too often forced.
For the longest time, an emptiness existed that all but destroyed me. Filling that void became my quest and my obsession. I was possessed by an undeniable yearning for answers and new memories. I felt compelled to learn lessons the hard way; through failure and frustration. I was drawn to disaster and seemed doomed to drown in my own poor decisions. Little did I know that through the grandest wastelands of my existence, I would discover something greater than my obsession.
Throughout my journey, as I’ve built my empire of failures, I’ve had a love affair with words. For most of my life, I have kept an on-going journal of lessons learned and lost as I’ve searched for Grace and Redemption. I finally feel confident and brave enough to allow others to see the contents of my life’s diary. I have come far enough in my quest to pause, reflect, and give thanks. Finally, I feel strong enough to stand. At last, I feel armed with the wisdom and skills I need to succeed. Finally, Dear Reader, I have something to say. So, I disclose everything. The good stuff. The bad. I expose the genius and the fool. I reveal cruelty and compassion. I invite you, Friend, into my mind as I explore a spiritual lost and found. Join me as I walk the path from ruin to redemption.
Every now and then, you’ll see a single * after a poem. This indicates where someone else (usually a convict) has asked me to write a poem or to convey a thought on their behalf. These do not necessarily reflect my own ideas or circumstances.
THE DRIP
Awake or asleep, and often against our will,
We are schooled by the agonies of life and knowledge is instilled.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip goes the pain.
Splashing upon our hearts and seeping into our veins.
With all the mercy of a firing squad,
Wisdom comes to us by the awesome Grace of God.
CHAPTER I
DEEP IMPACT
POOR FORM
I’m asleep. Okay, I’m not really asleep. I’m pretending to sleep because my father has been drinking and he’s stumbled and slurred his way into my room and he’s next to me right now. He’s close. I can feel the heat from his skin and smell the whisky and tobacco on his breath. I can smell the body odor which has permeated the clothes he’s worn for three consecutive days. Above all, I can smell the malice and hatred in his heart. My father has come for me, and he has bad intentions on his mind.
I’m five years old and already I believe in both God and the devil. I’ve been through too much not to believe. I begin praying in my mind asking the Lord to please make him go away; to keep me safe; to wrap me in His protective arms and never let go. My father continues to loom over me. I know because he has cast his shadow over me and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. My heart begins to pick up pace. Th-Thump. Th-Thump. Th-Thump. What does he want? Why is he just standing there?
Deep inside, I know that this will not end well.
But then a curious thing happens. My father kneels beside me and takes hold of my tiny hand in his own. He begins stroking my dirty hair and whispering things to me that I don’t quite understand. I am confused and still playing opossum. After a moment, I realize that my father is crying, and what he is whispering are the words, I’m so sorry.
Has he come seeking forgiveness? Has my father decided to change his wicked and destructive ways? His grip tightens as he continues to weep and whisper that he’s sorry. I am tempted to open my eyes and reach over and hug the man and tell him that yes I forgive him and am eager and happy to have him as my dad.
But then I notice how tightly he is squeezing my hand, and I realize all too late that I’ve been had. This is no heart-felt apology or quest for forgiveness. This is simply one of his many games. It’s a game he started playing with me some time ago where he squeezes my hand harder and harder until gradually he is squeezing with his might, crushing my little hand and fingers. If I cry out then the real beating begins, but if I Man up
and show neither fear nor pain then I am given a reprieve. I know what’s on the line so I keep my eyes closed, and in my mind go to a place far, far away.
Tighter and tighter he squeezes. The pain builds and sweat beads my brow. My father has super-human strength and soon I hear things pop, but I grit my teeth and keep my eyes and mouth shut. I can do this. I can win this time. I will not surrender! Soon I feel my father begin to shake and tremble and I know he is squeezing with all his incredible might. If I can just hold out a little longer, I think to myself, I’m sure he’ll go away. So I reach deep into myself and find a strength I didn’t know I had. Sweat now rolls freely down my face and my heart is a jack-hammer in my chest. P-Pow! P-Pow! P-Pow! But I hold on, and a moment later I know I have won. My father releases my hand and says, Hmph
. He stands up and leaves the room.
I am flooded with relief. The throbbing in my hand begins to dull and my heart slows down. I think it is a good idea to whisper up a prayer of thanks, but before I can begin, I hear heavy footsteps rushing in my direction. I open my eyes in time to see my father’s face distorted by whiskey and rage. The giant closes the distance between us and grabs me. One hand takes hold of my ankle, the other clamps around my head. He picks me up and throws me with all the ease of tossing a pillow across the room. I collide with the wall shattering the sheetrock and I crumble to the floor below followed by bits of plaster and falling debris.
I’m dazed and desperate thinking that this is not fair. I had done my part! I had Manned up
! I had won the game. Hadn’t I? He drags me to the center of the room cursing me; calling me a piece of shit. I try to crawl away, but he stomps my feet and kicks my legs. All forward motion is halted. My eyes are wide with fright, and as I open my mouth to beg and plead with him, he slaps it shut. Abruptly, I am silenced. My father stands me up and savagely punches me in the stomach. The wind is knocked out of me. I gasp and hit my knees. He stands me up again and lands another blow to my belly. My knees buckle and I vomit. He laughs at me as he grabs me by the hair and lifts me once again. He throws a series of punches into my sides and back. It hurts so bad! I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I thought I was going to die and he just kept punching!
Red faced and puffing hard, he reaches back and sends a brutal right hook into my kidney. This time I shit myself. I couldn’t help it. So there I lay in agony. I’m covered in my own blood, feces, and vomit and my father begins to laugh again. He lights up a cigarette and watches with amusement as I struggle for air. How strange that I remember feeling ashamed for having messed myself. My father, having decided he is almost done with me, leans over and puts his cigarette out on my arm. Satisfied, he leaves me soiled, hurting, and feeling ashamed.
You may be holding your breath, Dear Reader, so now is probably a good time to let it out. I survived. That was just another day in kiddy hell. Just one of countless beatings. It’s twenty five years later and I’m okay. And believe it or not, this story has a happy ending. But we’ll get to that later for there is much more you need to know.
TURTLE STEW
My father hated me. He told me often that he would one day kill me, but that he was just taking his time and waiting for the right moment. I lived in a shroud of fear and intimidation. He was big, strong, and evil. The man scared the shit out of me. Despite poverty, failure, and being an absolute loser I never saw my father sweat. I never saw him panic or be afraid like me. So imagine my surprise the day the old black lady who lived next door showed up and told him that a storm was coming and that he was going to die. She stated it as a matter of fact then returned to her home leaving my father speechless, and for the first time I can remember, afraid.
All day he paced the house, stepping out frequently to gaze nervously at the sky. Sure enough the clouds were building; and building with them was my father’s sense of dread and apprehension. He paced back and forth like a caged animal and began throwing dirty looks in my direction. His looks began to worry me and I wanted to know what he was thinking. It wasn’t long before I found out.
The bitch next door says that this storm is going to kill me, but if I gotta go, then so do you.
I was six. Up to that point, my father had held my head under water until I had gone limp. He had pinched my nose and covered my mouth until my eyes turned bloodshot. He had held knives to my throat drawing blood. He had held guns to my head, and even fired a shot at me saying he missed on purpose
. He had beaten me until I lost consciousness on more than one occasion. So by this time in my young life, the concept of death was nothing new to me. I only wanted it to be as quick as possible and not done in front of