I remember my moms cups of coffee as a child.
A hazelnut aroma rising out of her travel mug --
a gift she got as an underpaid teacher who had to get her boost on-the-go
--filling the car like steam from a hot shower fills a bathroom.
I remember that smell ironically always headed to school.

I remember the first time I was offered a sip of coffee.
Not nearly as sweet as it smelled.
Bitter liquid that terminated taste buds like water extinguishes flame as it billowed across the tongue and  down the hatch.
I remember that taste vowing never to have to again.

I remember when my sister started working at a "coffee shop".
The one that competes with itself across street-ways,
and still has lines filled with downward looking drones despite being in Paris.
I wouldn't even eat the pastries she brought home
knowing the aroma entwined around them long enough for osmosis.

And sitting now, in the office of my retail store at 23,
Staring into my travel mug,
which looks like an above ground pool version of the black lagoon,
These are the memories that come to mind
as caffeine blocks adenosine from their receptors in my brain.

It was a Monday afternoon.
I decided,
after months of putting off,
to finally give blood.

Red Cross had only been
emailing me for months now.
They were in bad need for blood,
desperate need for mine: O-

The man who took my information
was  furrowed, leathery, and tired.
The opportunity time provided was conversation,
and the benefit of meeting Jesus.

Now the woman who took my blood,
was not only the unanimously decided tired,
but also sad.
The eyes gave it away.

The entire time I gave blood I listened,
and somehow made sure I didn't open up.
She sat there quietly counting the minutes,
While I denied her a chance to meet Jesus.

I treated her well.
I'm genuinely kind
as I know anyone can tell.
But is that enough?

And I'm questioning now with her memory in mind,
"What if that was Jesus?"
"What if He gave me the chance to better His day?"
And that's where I know I'm wrong-

For I know she was Jesus.

Nobody ***** up,
People just get lazy.

Where do we draw the line
Between the difference of wanting something,
And when it's time you need that something?

I'm not unhappy,
Yet the latter is slowly fading.
And as I feel this through I remember,
There's a reason it's called a pursuit.

I don't know if I'm ready
But I know that I want you.
I know that I'm ready,
For that.

I've never been big on second chances,
And yet on night like these-
I wish I was

I turned to tarot last night in search for answers.
Answers regarding you.
Which only ever lead me to questions,
about me.

I can remember your touch
in passing
A slight graze
to gentle squeeze

These words
are driving me mad
So I give them
to you all instead

Like two peas in a pod,
We were devoured.

My lizard died today.
With sunken eyes,
He's relaxed.

Now I conceptualize:
His perception,
If one-

Of me.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
This was supposed to be for those who needed it.
But the voice in my head reminds me the eyes will never find these words,
It screams out they wouldn't care even if they did.

I wish to trade the hallow people,
Give my shoes for theirs.
But when I see the feet are bare,
I use words to cut off mine.

The nerves surface,
the ideas pour out,
and I am fascinated by you,
as though I am not one of you.

So I write in order to reach out,
I write in order to connect.
These words are created to express,
Screaming ironies I do not see myself.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
Except now it's a message to me.
My lines are crossed now that I've moved on,
And so I pretend that this end sets me free

You can have an opinion long enough
you lose grip of the fact that's all it is.
The same principle can be applied to beliefs and morals,
And that realization can be terrifying.

My ex had an abortion while we were together,
to a child come to find never existed at all.
Yet that experience still weighs one me,
and it is scary that I'll never know:

Whether the guilt I felt is one I hide within a changed opinion,
or if my opinion is changed in order to find a justification?

I found our unfinished puzzle today,
The progress preserved through all these years.
On several occasions I've attempted to finish it with no prevail,
And yet today when I found it, it had been destroyed.

This is an SOS
This is to keep from blowing my brains out
This is to save another's life
This is for tomorrow
This is what it has always been

I don't want to be paid for what I want to do,
But I have to have a living.

From fingers to mouth
To fingers on toes.
I'm removing dead cells
With teeth made of bones.

It's never appealed to me,
The smell of cigarettes.
Whether it was my upbringing or the Asthma,
I couldn't say.

2-3 days later and it's peaked.
Headache √
Anxiety √
Nausea √

Here I am.
All the symptoms are there.
What these lips have touched.
What these lungs have tasted.

They crave for more.

All that's happened up to this point
it has not been easy.
It has come with equal discomfort
as comfortable as I truly I am.

And although its not very sturdy,
this is the table in which it lays.
It's not easy but I am happy,
And I know it'll get easier in time.

A majority of the struggle for Art,
is simply becoming a reality.

I hate finding the beauty in things,
But by now it's all I can do.
And I hate finding the beauty in everyone,
Cause I fear I'll glaze over that beautiful someone.

I'm not weak.
I am scared.
I love you.

I listen to the sounds the leaves make as they fall to the ground,
Look at the way the water moves as the breeze blows,
Smell the crisp air as the sun beams,
And I wonder if they notice all the same things about me.

Have you ever been a walking contradiction?
Or a sitting one rather?*
For walking implies movement and
I don't feel I'm going much anywhere these days.

I told a friend Id see a therapist
For one reason-
That "I've grown to become lonely,
Yet I'm more comfortable being on my own".

Complacency - the silent killer

Wake up.
Be a good person.
Go to bed.
-and that just isn't enough anymore.

I know what that means,
I'm just afraid to admit it.

At what point does declaring your fear make it any less of what it is?
Because I know what I'm afraid of
And for the night it's still here.

Patience;
Like the answer within a lucky eight ball,
the word submerges to the surface.
Upon meditating the previously proposed question.

Is it foolish to be afraid when you know all will be well?
Or more foolish to fall under such a notion?

We forget how powerful fear can be,
how quickly it becomes the thief of will.

[noun: /ärmˌrest/]
The repelling force between two magnets.

The other day I restocked on peppermint Altoids,
when I always buy the spearmint.
And I'm not sure why,
but thinking about tequila makes me smile.

I've been feeling a lot more lately,
In quantity over quality.
And I haven't been able to place it,
but with the passing days the music's become acoustic.

Between the coffee and the beers,
Father John Misty preaches away my fears.
And although I've disagreed with today,
I know tomorrow w̶e̶'̶l̶l̶ I'll be okay.

It's hard to tell the difference in what is actually poetic
and what is simply me viewing something as a poet.
With that in mind- I've been thinking about scars lately,
and I've realized there's a metaphor to be found in there.

Appearing when injured in ways our body can't heal.
Despite any effort, the wound is never the same.
The new design etched in the skin as a memory,
With any physical pain now masked with an emotional connection.

The thing about scars is that they do go away- eventually-
And by the time you are healed, the area is 100% new.
No longer marked by anything more than fresh cells,
A creation or rebirth formed through one painful moment.

Some change our appearance, while others only affect our actions.
Some change what makes us laugh, and others change what we fear.
Some bring tears even after their gone, others hardly force a second thought.
Regardless in the end there is nothing left but what we remember.

We endure pain to a degree of being marked,
But that doesn't mean we won't heal.
It just takes a lot of time and understanding-
that we'll never be the same- but we'll be new.

Buddha: 'Nothing is forever, except change'-
Scars: There's a poem to found there.

Here I stand.

A sheet of ice cracked with age beneath my feet.
Temperature plays no affect
For I've always been here.

I scream out in hopes of being heard,
But imagine the echoes of distance
Dissect any understanding by the time it reaches a willing ear.

I've been shuffling along for as long as I know
Only to freeze when I hear another crack form.
And I’m stuck again.

Only able to decipher the feelings of fear, frustration, and panic.
Equate time into the equation-
The emotions only grow.

Why doesn't anyone help me?
Where is she?

I have hands worth reaching for
And legs that can climb.
So saving me would come at half the cost that it may seem.

Frustration becomes my crown of thorns
As I cry out to feel more but in conclusion: I’m too numb.
Fresh trails of blood begin to show me where I've been and how I tend circle back to the beginning.

The Crown only digs in deeper,
Where is she?

Off in the distance I see etches in the ice.
Scribbles or scratches that feel familiar.
The closer I get reveals the messages or poetry in the ground,
Words I haven’t seen in over a year but know so well.

They are mine and they are not.
Some written long before me by figures only one could admire.
Regardless of the author,
With each word read after another contributes a feeling I can feel.

I graze the carvings with my fingertips as memories rush back inside me.
Emotions I can see expressed in something no echo can interrupt.
Words thousands of years old and words only a year old,
Yet the meaning has always stayed the same- Solidarity.

Why hasn't anyone come looking for me?
Where am I?

Tearing away the crown I scream,
The pain and realization overwhelming my vision with tears of indescribable emotion.
And vigorously my hands begin.

Scratching away at the ice I write.
Pieces of ice, nails, skin, and blood surround where I’m now.
Falling to my knees crushing the crown,
I’m too focused to notice the frustration subside.

Words growing on top of others,
Encompassing my position with far little structure.
I’m too transfixed on finishing.
Any pain is masked by the feelings I can finally describe.

I can see the words of anger to my left,
Metaphors of sadness in front of me,
Loneliness flows from my finger tips as I’m painting the emptiness to my right,
And love- 180 degrees behind me- I feel her in the letters that I write.

As each emotion surges through me to words in the ice,
A smile that has formed within me refuses to fade.
Clarity of the frustration I held onto has enlightened me,
I can never stop writing if I want to feel.

There she is.
Here I am.

I know why she isn't here,
And in the haste of my writing I see words that aren't mine accompanied by a pen-
"…Go all the way".
What’s written before is covered by my own mess, but I feel the meaning and walk away.

No longer fearing the cracks that form,
I know where I’m going.
Hands throbbing, I must never stop writing.
Pen in hand, I can never stop moving.

Here I come.

They say home is where the heart is,
Well I gave my heart to you.
Thus there is nothing more true in saying:
"Home is wherever I’m with You".

And it may take hours, days, or years,
But “I’ll never care how long it takes,
-as long as you come home to me”.

I've tried therapy once;
Weekly: Mondays, 3 PM.
But like interruptions end thoughts,
Broken glass ended sessions.

So call for help cause I've done it again,
Killed the advice as soon as he chimed in.
Conversations left to brewing inside I just ask
“If I can’t help myself, what other ******* ***** can?”

Blood stained fists are what sealed these lips,
Closing my eyes on the broken bathroom mirror.

Q: How can one lose home -
but live in a house?

A: She tells me after class when she’s almost home.
Yet later it gets... and I find she’s still not here.

*Moral: To be homeless but live in a house,
Is to live in a house without her.

Remember the day when you told me you loved me?
Do you?
-I do-
The icy shiver as the cuffs bound my ankles.
It hadn't been that long and yet, I liked it.
I remember within all that fear,
Deep down (like waaaayyyy down): relief.
Love.
A word and emotion;
But to what does it hold value?
Because in this economy it doesn't feel like much.
Do you remember when I told you I loved you?
Truly?
That was my favorite day,
Right before your birthday.
It wasn't a gift to you though, no.
It was a burst of meaning and feeling I had mustered up over weeks passing til it exploded into ****** up confusion in your parents bed that night.
You overlooked the imperfection with a smile.
Too giddy to care;
Perhaps even your ears heard it perfectly as I meant it.
P̶e̶r̶h̶a̶p̶s̶.
Then that word, love, slowly faded away remember?
The daily panic of as though you were slipping in my hand,
And the over-compensated measures that would push you away.
So. far. away.
Commitment- Check.
Love- Check.
And a future? We were so ready to skip ahead to the settling down it sickened us.
Remember that?
-I do-
And yet its gone and I can’t remember why?
I can’t place were it fell out,
I've retraced my steps but someone cleaned the mess before I could investigate.
And so its gone, as I’m left stumbling through this fog trying to rebuild a scattered puzzle.
Piece - by - piece.
It is as though our kite strings snapped and now I’m holding them both as the separate winds tear me in two.
I’m breaking.
And so now I’m just here,
Alone.
Watching replays of us in my room until I realize whats missing:

*I've lost all my teeth and yet now your smile seems twice as big.

I write til my thoughts and body grow weak.
You’re tired, they say.
No… no but alas, I am free- And with feeble eyes, I sleep.

I made a promise to a girl I once met,
Her fearful stutter revealing such challenge to be brought.

In her mind she could see the result,
And eyes like projectors I too saw what she knew.

"Never let me leave, never let me run, just never let go…"

We had only just begun and yet with assurance it quivered,
I Promise.

Yet here I stand, left with an empty hand.
Tracing the foot steps:
The half “toe-heal” running prints back to where she no longer stands.

I can see the waters in your eyes,
The ocean of sadness that keeps you afloat.

I can hear the air in your voice,
The winds of weakness stretching til it snaps.

I can taste the fire on your lips,
The flames of desire quickly fading overnight.

I can feel the earth in your heart,
The soil of life turning to stone under the weight.

And I can smell the salt in your tears,
That fall from the ocean within you+

My senses notice the elements that cause this sedimentary heart to feel hope++
Sacrifice to stay alive- don’t let your waters run dry.

_____________
+Passing through the broken wind, putting out your fire; only to water the soil before it’s gone.
++Hope that your ending will be better.

Close one eye.


                                                          ­                        L


                               What do you see?


O


                                        Now switch.


                                                       ­                 O


             Close both;
             And- open.


                                         K


Each perspective, giving light to new way.
Each angle showing its very own and personal meaning.
Every piece forming the large view of it all.

We can do this now with our thoughts,
Some might call it-
"Taking a walk in their pair of shoes".

I prefer “art”.

Simply put, you start with nothing.
From there we add stories;
Be it experience, imagination, fictional, or realistic.

The best part is each story has meaning
Ranging from deep to no meaning at all.
And from there we see coincidence, similarities, and difference.

Regardless of any one story-
Its relation (or major lack there of) to another,
Makes a picture.

Like forming the Mona Lisa from pieces of toast,
Or 9/11 from individual pictures of victims,
Every minor part has a purpose,
And every purpose give larger meaning.


      Close one eye:


W


View the items you can see without peripherals.


                                                  ­                                   I


                                    Now both:

                          T


                           Seeing not with eyes but all else that is handed to you.


                                                          ­           H


                                                             ­                                     And open:


                                                         ­                                I


Yet do not immediately place it all together.


                           N


We are not all lucky enough to be born blind, def, or dumb.
But we all have the capability to see words from letters, weeks from days, buildings from bricks.

Just because a brick is left over or a painting of a shoe sits next to a photo of an ore,
Does not give reason that it is a mistake, or unimportant
Without it, Such words would never exist.

Get It?

As a writer,
Pictures inspire the emotion:
The journal acting as the canvas,
And the pen being the brush,

And as a writer to an artist,
Black and white had never shown more beautifully.

Though as a writer dating an artist,
To view meaning within the basic lines of the world
Compares not to the placing of meaning atop the ones given.

For as a writer dating an artist,
A blank page envelopes more than unfinished work,
As any unfinished work soon becomes accepted beauty.

And as a writer dating an artist,
Seeing emotion in color no longer feels foreign,
Evolving old metaphors into nothing shy of the neanderthals.

Thus as a writer dating an artist,
I've begun to learn the way of the trade,
In fear for when my words run dry.

As an artist,
Words inspire the feelings,
The canvas acting as the journal,
And the brush being the pen.

And as an artist to a writer,
Silence had never been etched more enticing.

As the writer dating an artist-
I have become the artist in love with a writer.

I am not afraid of the dark.
Nor do I fear the thoughts in my head.

But the bugs.
Aye.
The ******* critters in my brain.

My fear, I’m afraid, is they power they have mustered-
Controlling such thoughts; destroying slumbers when days-light dims.

Like solar paneled viruses that attack at the core of emotion,
Ripping through the Limbic system.
Erasing Memory; Re-circuiting Anxiety.

Taking the wiring from retinal output and re-coding each message.
Hacking the server until ants become Godzilla
And “hello’s” read as “goodbye”.

Twitching fingers and feet that scratch at the skin.
It’s these ******* leeches in my skull that **** my nerves dry
Til I’m hot- **** no, cold.

And the extermination comes:
Sunrise.Coffee.Interaction.

It’s like they live to die by the hour of midnight,
Only to do their time through rummage and destruction.
Hatching eggs in my nails, Chewed away by discomfort.
Growing to new forms by lights out.

Rehearse.
React.
Repeat.

It’s these bugs that I fear;

Fearing the darkness.
Fearing the thoughts inside.

It’s these bugs that I even doubt this ****** piece of work.

Yet these bugs are what created what you now have read,
The over exaggeration now etched on paper.
And it is the small bit of me still left alive at night behind them,
Refusing to see this truth when the extermination has come.

It’s no plead for help; No cry for sympathy.

I am me as you are me-
So please take me as I come.

I’m a shell of a man,
In this shell of a world,
Surrounded by nothingness.

And it is this shelled life we live in,
In such a vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

But our shells are not the one which lives inside,
The five senses know not of who that shell can hide.

For some of us fill the shell to the brim with alcohol,
Til they drown the one within.

While others mutilate the shell in fiery destruction,
Finding not what is lacking beneath.

Some starve the shell down to a much thinner lining,
Suffocating the air for the internal.

Some shells are altered in design and decoration,
Rendering what feels as difference.

While the others that have kept original and the same,
Slowly grow in independence.

When we fall -crack- and our true selves leak out,
Some run and hide the broken; faking in disguise til repair.

When we can’t escape judgement for the innate shell and/or the cracks we bear,
Some leave the shells found hanging in closets or simply lying warm gun in hand.

Forgetting our gift of common sense we lack as a whole,
We define each other with what only our five senses show.

For I've found I’m a man in a shell,
In this awful illusion of a shell,
Surrounded by ignorance.

And it is this shelled world we create,
In this vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

Ask of me my troubles,
I wouldn't know where to start.
Ask to share my joy,
And I’d get lost in layers of darkness,
Simply searching for a worthy glimpse.

The thing about new lives are —
finding where the old ones end.

Why are the beginning of life stories skipped over?
An authors job is not to choose where to begin.
Why do we feel the need to fill life with action or tragedy?
An authors ending isn't created but rather written through.
Why do we force a story if it doesn't fit the mood?
The fact of the matter is, an author can only choose “when” to write.

The thing about old lives are —
deciding when the new ones begin.

Ask of me my high spirits,
I wouldn't know where not to look.
Ask to share my pain,
And I’d be blinded by the depth of light,
Simply searching for a sliver still fresh.

My problems seem to have evaporated.
Condensing into a clouded form of stress.
Only to precipitate through the cracks of my eyes in my shower tonight.

A fleeting moment gone too far;

Silence.

The three words come out and — vulnerability.

And the silence comes again.

Right. I said.

But how does it feel?* She begged once more.

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶p̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶e̶a̶,̶
W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶g̶a̶n̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶o̶l̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶e̶m̶b̶r̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶e̶m̶o̶r̶y̶,̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶r̶o̶w̶d̶ ̶u̶n̶k̶n̶o̶w̶n̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶r̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶
W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶a̶r̶m̶,̶ ̶q̶u̶i̶e̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶b̶b̶y̶,̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶o̶s̶e̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶t̶y̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶c̶a̶r̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶
T̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶e̶x̶a̶c̶t̶ ̶p̶o̶i̶n̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶a̶l̶i̶v̶e̶.̶

Those were the thoughts of feelings that could compare,
But I kept them to myself because in summary, or simplicity rather, it truly is;

*Right.

My bed smells of you.

The aroma of today’s faint memories;
Your face,
Those lips.

Lying here now dozing in and out of reality,
the dreams become more real than the memories seem to be.

I’m reaching for you in my thoughts-
Inhaling your remains til the day you share this empty place in my bed for good.

Removing the mask you bear,
The one painted in sadness and doubt.
Removing this cover we find another.

This middle layer (the second lie)
is the mask of fake smiles most people wear.
No one can really smile that long,
So we must lift once more and cinch our eyes.

Beneath this second film cover we find the human you are.
The person you have only let a total of two people see.
I, being one of the few, have only been graced on the rarest occasions.

Most people only wear one mask,to hide the pain.
But you, you wear two: for hiding the pain then hiding the fake joy.
Its clever, believable, unique, and a mistake.

For only you would need two extra layers to hide how extraordinary you really are.

I want to see the rough drafts of your life,
the ones that reside on the floor after missing our casket of waste.
I want to see the erasing, the changed proportions, the skeletal grid.
Cause the resulting finish is beautiful; you’ve mastered a technique.

Maybe I want to feel closer,
with a secret for thine only.
Or maybe I just want that importance,
with trust I would truly come to believe.

It’s only a peak I am viewing.
All else is six feet deep.
But it’s that peak of the iceberg that I love
over the entirety of any other.

I do not know what lies in heaven,
nor what our deaths may bring.
All questions may be revealed,
or grow unanswered in fresh new trees.
But disregarding my faith; despite all your beliefs:

This one I want from you, not omniscient Him

I can feel the pounding on my heart get heavy

What feels like pain to my unconscious is merely the act of resuscitation.

For I’m choking on a pit I've swallowed in trying to replace the one in my stomach.
I’m dying and I don’t even know it.