Five Stones

Cardboard boxes stacked four high in the hallway, soggy from rainfall next to the engine against the brick wall. I found a rusted trowel where vines used to climb, kneeling in weeds, ten years younger, finding something to do with my hands to buy time. I didn't shed a tear when the shovel bit dirt downtown, and didn't make a sound when they lowered his casket in the ground, but I broke down three days later parked on the shoulder in a truck, because the box with his flannel shirts smelled like nothing at all, and that absence left me fucked. Old man used to say, "Carry what you claim when weather gets raw, even when the weight doesn't come backed by a single rule of law."

Now I'm trapped inside this mental maze, counting days in an endless cycle of grief. I keep mapping every crack in plaster down to the foundation, looking for relief while the floor gives out beneath my boots. I watched a major deal fall apart before black ink could dry; executive promising the world, saying, "This kid's got fire inside," right before he pointed at the exit sign and kicked my ass into freezing cold, hitting basement concrete on my knees, feeling broken and old.

I try to map out the trap, clap back with a rap, and tap on the cap of this pen until the plastic snaps in my palm! I'm trapped in a basement, constantly erasing a statement, replacing adjacent lines with an impatient mind state, pacing the pavement while payment gets delayed and built-up hatred gets raised to a high rate! I calculate the drop, navigate the block, aggravate a cop, try to elevate the stock, but then I hesitate and stop, never take the shot, stuck in heavy shock when key turns in the lock and deadbolts refuse to pop!

Kick clip. Thick brick. Sick trick. Quick switch. Dig a trench, take a seat on the bench. Conversational devastation, navigational elevation! Ripping a beat with technical fluency while handling misery and writing my eulogy! The floor gives way beneath my weight, but the hand writing in this notebook never hesitates.

I slipped into a lucid dream last night, back in that overgrown garden beside the porch. Yellow paint peeling off steps like sunburned skin, sun burning overhead like a flared torch. Granddad sat on the bottom riser, quiet as a ghost in trees, green hose running in clover while water dripped around his knees. I reached into my denim pocket, pulled those five rocks out, held 'em flat in my fist, stretching my arm forward like an offering, searching for whatever part of truth I missed.

I said, "Take 'em back, old man, I can't carry all this strain, drowning under heavy load trying to navigate daily pain." He didn't say a word; he just slowly shook his head with a quiet refusal. He pointed a calloused finger at my hand wrapped around gray slate and said, "Those rocks aren't keeping you buried, kid—they keep your feet grounded whenever a storm forms. They're the only damn thing left that stays solid while everything else transforms." I looked at the striped one, the flat one, and thumb notch, realizing the floor giving out isn't a glitch—it's the structure of the fight. Writing isn't a ladder out of the trap; it's the anchor sunk in concrete when rafters crack. I'm not escaping through technical bars; I'm surviving with this heavy weight on my back.

So here I am back in this dark room at three in the morning, listening to the old house settle in silence. My hand is inside my pocket, fingers resting on five warm stones. I tugged gently on that loose thread hanging off the seam, and for once, it didn't unravel—it held firm, stubborn as a support beam. The floor is probably going to drop out tomorrow, but I know the landing now. Bills are piling up to the ceiling, but I'm standing here somehow. The writing was never a ladder out to make everything clean; it's just the solid wall I lean my shoulder against so the kick doesn't knock me off my feet. Five stones. Same exact weight. I know what the weight feels like now, and that's the real difference.

4677/7500

I keep my right hand buried deep in my denim pocket, slowly turning over five cold, edgeless stones. My thumb tracks frayed cotton seams while I stand in the dark, thinking about heavy loans I still can't own. One has a white stripe like a faded highway lane on a rainy night, sitting uneven against my palm while my pulse hums through grain like a live wire in a fight. Granddad's garden grew crabgrass, clay, and shade, so I pulled five plain rocks out of mud while the yellow U-Haul idled where we paid. The house was stripped to bare drywall with teeth pulled out of its mouth, and I was just a kid holding dead weight, collecting the setlist for my downfall down south. Cardboard boxes stacked four high in the hallway, soggy from rainfall next to the engine against the brick wall. I found a rusted trowel where vines used to climb, kneeling in weeds, ten years younger, finding something to do with my hands to buy time. I didn't shed a tear when the shovel bit dirt downtown, and didn't make a sound when they lowered his casket in the ground, but I broke down three days later parked on the shoulder in a truck, because the box with his flannel shirts smelled like nothing at all, and that absence left me fucked. Old man used to say, "Carry what you claim when weather gets raw, even when the weight doesn't come backed by a single rule of law." Now I'm trapped inside this mental maze, counting days in an endless cycle of grief. I keep mapping every crack in plaster down to the foundation, looking for relief while the floor gives out beneath my boots. I watched a major deal fall apart before black ink could dry; executive promising the world, saying, "This kid's got fire inside," right before he pointed at the exit sign and kicked my ass into freezing cold, hitting basement concrete on my knees, feeling broken and old. I try to map out the trap, clap back with a rap, and tap on the cap of this pen until the plastic snaps in my palm! I'm trapped in a basement, constantly erasing a statement, replacing adjacent lines with an impatient mind state, pacing the pavement while payment gets delayed and built-up hatred gets raised to a high rate! I calculate the drop, navigate the block, aggravate a cop, try to elevate the stock, but then I hesitate and stop, never take the shot, stuck in heavy shock when key turns in the lock and deadbolts refuse to pop! Kick clip. Thick brick. Sick trick. Quick switch. Dig a trench, take a seat on the bench. Conversational devastation, navigational elevation! Ripping a beat with technical fluency while handling misery and writing my eulogy! The floor gives way beneath my weight, but the hand writing in this notebook never hesitates. I slipped into a lucid dream last night, back in that overgrown garden beside the porch. Yellow paint peeling off steps like sunburned skin, sun burning overhead like a flared torch. Granddad sat on the bottom riser, quiet as a ghost in trees, green hose running in clover while water dripped around his knees. I reached into my denim pocket, pulled those five rocks out, held 'em flat in my fist, stretching my arm forward like an offering, searching for whatever part of truth I missed. I said, "Take 'em back, old man, I can't carry all this strain, drowning under heavy load trying to navigate daily pain." He didn't say a word; he just slowly shook his head with a quiet refusal. He pointed a calloused finger at my hand wrapped around gray slate and said, "Those rocks aren't keeping you buried, kid—they keep your feet grounded whenever a storm forms. They're the only damn thing left that stays solid while everything else transforms." I looked at the striped one, the flat one, and thumb notch, realizing the floor giving out isn't a glitch—it's the structure of the fight. Writing isn't a ladder out of the trap; it's the anchor sunk in concrete when rafters crack. I'm not escaping through technical bars; I'm surviving with this heavy weight on my back. So here I am back in this dark room at three in the morning, listening to the old house settle in silence. My hand is inside my pocket, fingers resting on five warm stones. I tugged gently on that loose thread hanging off the seam, and for once, it didn't unravel—it held firm, stubborn as a support beam. The floor is probably going to drop out tomorrow, but I know the landing now. Bills are piling up to the ceiling, but I'm standing here somehow. The writing was never a ladder out to make everything clean; it's just the solid wall I lean my shoulder against so the kick doesn't knock me off my feet. Five stones. Same exact weight. I know what the weight feels like now, and that's the real difference.

0/500