I'll try and hold my liquor tonight
If you wanna stop by
I'll hide the bottle, clean the table and dump the ash tray
If you wanna say "Hi" for old times sake, see if I've been okay
It's been a while since I saw your smile
Won't you stop by my old house tonight?
"Where have you been?"
You'll ask me
And I'll ask myself too
Truth be told I miss placed my body under the rug years ago
I've missed you so much my drinking's making up for it
So don't you worry about me
I've got loneliness subdued with cheesy porn and bad movies
I got my life in the gutter, sharing space with cigarette asses
I looked in the mirror; it's still telling me I'm faceless
But I don't like seeing myself this way
So I don't look in the mirror much anymore
Could you stop by and see if I'm okay?
Because I'm tired of not feeling any remorse these days
There is a solitary loneliness
to every burning star
and the sky can only ever truly illuminate
when they come together in their solitude
every black hole, every meteorite,
all the discarded planets, and all
of the burning stars
together, in complete unison
with the cosmos, and all it's galaxies
Universes within universes
all working together
the sun and the moons and every lonely comet
turning and clashing in complete order
that is when the night sky
looks brighter than ever
that is when the stars
shine their brightest.
I've recently fallen into an elite group of individuals: youth diagnosed with depression by their mothers.
I can't argue with her; she is licensed.
But I can't help but feel that my case is different, minor in comparison. I'd like to call it loneliness but it's more developed than that.
It's like a cancer that started in my fingertips when they realized there was nothing to hold on to, and has since spread to my heart or my brain, whichever is responsible for the distribution of numbness to my bones and vital organs.. I'll call it 3rd stage loneliness. I'm saving calling it the 4th stage for when it starts to feel terminal.
"Lonely" is kind of a slut of a word, like "love," or "beautiful." I think people like to use "lonely" like teens use cigarettes. It taste good when it falls off the tongue. And by my observation, they both cause cancer.
Everyone wants to be "lonely" but no one wants to be alone.
So I've put it upon myself to separate loneliness into subcategories, based on mortality rate.
If you're wondering why I'm lonely, don't bother. I'm wondering the same. I have friends a family that loves me, and the rest of the chemo-esque shit that's suppose to nurture you back to health. But
I've still got that tumor buried under my skin where no one cares to look.
I ain't got many friends I can talk to.
I've concocted a list of side effects of 3rd stage loneliness, if you're interested:
1.) Insomnia - the inability to completely shut the third eye on your skull because it persists on looking to the future.
2.) Selective Hearing - the inability to listen to supposedly happy music and instead sulk with the sounds of Bon Iver or Bright Eyes ricocheting through the canals of your brain. Music your friends "probably haven't heard of"
3.) Loss of Appetite - Don't worry, you still crave food and other survival necessities. You simply lose the appetite to expand through the universe. Loss of Ambition, as the form would say.
4.) Improved Acting Skills - You'll eventually learn to manipulate the stringy muscles in your face to pull up the corners of your lips when you feel you are expected to. Not all side effects are bad.
I am not one of those darkly dressing teenagers that complains with visible angst about being misunderstood. But I do have the hair for it.
I am not suicidal. Maybe I would be, but I seem to have been struck particularly hard by Side Effect #3.
But at first mention of depression you can see their faces squirm and contort to resemble a clumsy soldier tap-dancing through a minefield, while simultaneously conducting open-heart surgery on himself.
This poem is not meant to sadden, to depress. It is simply for the public awareness of 3rd stage loneliness. If you know someone suffering from this disease, please call this hotline:
The more you know...
I see your words
but they swim past my eyes
and dart past meaning,
a fleeting fish from the abyss
of a mind.
A mind that has alway been kind,
That has always been softly spoken,
a mind awoken from a slumber of slurs,
and artificial words,
that created artificial worlds.
Yet even when our worlds collapse,
You insist on the playful insult,
and the teasing tone we take,
it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
But we don’t care,
You scream out a name unknown as I whisper,
“This is unfair.”
And we hear your silence like the echo of a drum
with its constant ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum
of emptiness, and loneliness and lowliness
along with every bad emotion that has ever been felt
by a teenager going through her faze of
hatred and self inflicted torture of the mind.
But through the dark of universes,
I hear your speech,
with words that shoot past my ears like stars
leaving a trail of chalky stardust
and dusty letters
to be unremembered by.
Galaxies glide by in this suspended time
and I realize that the words on your lips are not ours,
No longer wearing my heart on my sleeve, it gives me nothing but an infectious disease.
A disease called caring and giving a shit, something I can’t do anymore, I’m not fit.
Back in the shell I created long ago, don’t expect a smile; I’ll never let it show.
I burden I can no longer bear, a sense of loneliness that’s always been there.
I just want to be loved and thought about, but this is my punishment, no doubt.
This feeling of being hated I can’t shake, I don’t know how much more I can take.
You’re being so cold, so distant, why should I try if you’re not going to listen.
I want the throw in the towel, just give up, but I love you too much.
But love isn’t a one way street, and I’m the only one on it, where are we supposed to meet?
Or are you not here, are you far away? Waiting for me to die and decay.
A feeling of glass shards running deep through your veins;
A Metaphor For Love
when my words come together like glue on paper it is razors cutting my tongue
it is blood trailing these ceramic floors
and i must apologize,
for my mind is coming undone and I know
how silly these things can be,
how love can make you teach a grown man about the way his eyes stump you every single time with a feeling running so deep you felt every bone in your body ignite before they broke into infinite little pieces
And did you know dear
That I loved you
did you know
what loneliness could do?
And you aren't here anymore dear
you left you sweater on the kitchen table and went straight for the door that day
I shut the blinds and shed my skin and waited for the end of May
and i only wish that by August
I'll be able to wake up
to the sun shining a warmth that only you could have given me
that you never gave me
and If you only knew
how I attempted to steal that warmth
when I tried to tear out the thorns in your side
and wear them as my own
even though I knew better
than to walk around bearing someone elses pain
I could not help but think-
it must be terribly unnerving to be cared for by a poet, to think of all the times they stay up late writing metaphors for your skin and how Words Aren't Enough
How I wasn't enough
Home screams "42!" in red and white
Push it to the side
I have no time tonight
We are all separate, but wholly one
They are all separate, but wholly one
Father, Ghost, and the Son
Strange meetings in the middle of everything
Stare at the ground,
while your gaze starts to sting
How old are you?
How old am I?
Why did you grab my leg?
How did you notice my movements?
Where are you?
I want nothing to do with tomorrow.
Because self pity of today is overwhelming.
Knowing better doesn't change the actions
And my hip wants to pop out of its socket
On the streets of whe'ever the fuck in Oregon
Loss and gain
Measure the same, but one feels so much
heavier than the other.
Push beads back
Hold her hair back
The only difference is sharing loneliness with another
I'm not saying that I understand, fully what's happening here.
[Soul searching, or so I've been told]
But I know that you and I are worlds apart.
Is there this great of a disconnect between the rest of the world and I?
Because the Internet
Will you sing me another song?
let you voice cradle me the whole night
and make loneliness be just a word.
let your lullabye calm me
and your whisper tickle my ears.
will you sing me another song?
till I fall into slumber
and hopefully dream of you.
O please, will you do?
To my first love:
& you were just that. You were the steps that taught me how to walk, but the same ones that taught me how to fall. You were my first kiss, my first shared breath, and my first broken heart. See, you were full of firsts and experiments,but that's all you were , an experiment.
To my next love:
You were the summer sun, and I was a naive daisy that was star struck by your rays that made me feel alive. Because you, love number two, made our age difference, make me feel like I was on top of the world. With each 'c'mon baby' or 'why not' I fell deeper and deeper into your persistent persuasion. I was not yet blossomed to my full potential, yet you insisted perfection. And a girl of my maturity would choose starvation over loneliness anyday.
To "Lucky" number three:
I mean, 3rd times a charm right? That's what I thought too. I thought you were my super hero that was going to heal my bruises (Inside & Out). Don't get me wrong, you did for a while, with your sweet words and innocent looks. But my broken eyes didn't let me see that same look, wasn't just for me. I wasn't enough, I never was. I was enough to quench your thirst, but soon enough my taste became too bland. I mean, who in their right mind would want someone so damaged. Not before long you tossed me like a broken toy, considering that's all I ever really was to you.
To my current love:
I don't want you to be just my current love, I want you to be my forever love. I want you to adore my corny idea of love and my dark realizations of life.It's not even that I want you to love me, it's that I need you to love me. I need a security guard to save me from my worst enemy, myself. So to my current love, hold my hand when you see my empty stare and my empty tummy, and tell me it's going to be okay. Make me feel beautiful, forever, because I can't do it on my own.
Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are dirty scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.