I can't come back.
Sorry, pastor, I can't come back.
Sorry mom and dad.
I can't come back.
I have seen crippled men beg for pennies outside the mile-high walls that guard the glittering, gem-encrusted Vatican.
But I haven't seen Christ.
I have seen good men's funerals picketed by angry mobs all swearing to be the hands of God.
But I've never met the rest of Him.
We've seen holocausts, crusades and conquests kill millions in his name.
But I have never heard His voice.
And I think those men holding those guns missed the point as far as his commandments go.
But that's not why I can't come back.
I ducked out from under the umbrella of religion and I felt the rain
And every day since I've been learning to take the wet with the dry rather than seeking shelter in what's comfortable.
And what's more, I've gotten a clearer view of the sky than ever before
And without that umbrella
I have seen something.
Or the outermost edge of something-
Something unimaginably large
Something not only too big for words, but too big to see all at once.
Something bigger than me and you and god and everything.
And I can't unsee that.
I've surrendered to the fact that not I, my children, or their children will be able to fully comprehend the vastness of everything,
But I am willing to die incomplete before it.
So sorry mom and dad.
I found my own truth.
and that’s why I can’t come back.
I dream about them sometimes.
A fold for an eyelash, crooked tooth, white hair;
A beak for a fingertip, heart-shaped mole, rough elbow;
A wing for an expression, idea, stifled laugh;
A neck for a spasm, brutally honest letter, sleeping breath.
I hold tightly to my chest the first of the two paper cranes [Loss and Love, respectively]. It calls back to her brothers and sisters at (our) home. At times, the sound would be so painful, I would banish it to the farthest recesses of my room, between book and shirt, away from light and butterflies.
But her cage is an illusion.
Paper is as fragile as the heart, and the older it gets the more brittle it becomes. Then, she would fit nicely through the bars.
One tiny (paper) tear for a missed celebration, stifled sob, empty rib cage.
I can see them all now, simply by knowing how long this one waited for them to come.
Their destination is an illusion. You could scatter them across the sea and they would all find refuge at the bottom of our ocean.
I still fold to this day, and wonder if you still do, too.
You remember them nights?
Use too kiss ya lips..
use to touch your spots
"Baby just like this"
Damn look them hips..
sensation becoming to real
Seducing ya mind, I think things bout to get real
Do you feel how I feel?
Is this just an act?
Will you make me numb, leave... than never comeback?
My head spinning in circles..
How does she do this?
I should've seen it coming...this woman's bluff I missed
Imma charge her mound
Give her all the pitches
Knock her lights out
Flip off all the switches
Protection a must
When you encounter a woman in lust
"Baby oh fuh..."
Shh baby please calm down
You gunna wake the neighbors
If the feeling to good
Let my neck be ya new favorite flavor
She starts to bite as I start to grab
We moving slow to the track
"Baby just like that"
Loving like she the one
What have I become...
Her body produces novacane
Girl, I'm about to go numb
She pulls me in close, continues to ride the beat
I told her "baby not yet"
She replies "you gon remember me"
Toes curling on my feet
Suddenly the moment comes...to an end
She slowly kisses my lips and whispers
"You'll never have this again"
The days are long and the nights are even longer, we’re beating this poor horse and I noticed it’s breathing stop a long time ago. Beating a dead horse, am I using that idiom right? You know I’m no good with those and no matter how many times you say one stone is better than a hundred, I’m never going to understand that either. You’re more likely to kill two birds with two stones than you are with only one, why do something the hard way when there’s always a more simple one? If we’re out killing birds with stones, I’ll carry four while you carry one and we’ll see who has more dead birds to bring home. Why are we killing birds and beating horses anyway, maybe I don’t understand them because jokes about dead animals make me sad? There’s a burning in my chest— it’s been decades since the last time we slept in that bed together, sometimes it felt as if I slept beside a stranger and it’s the first time in my life I wanted to hold someone I’d never met. That night you stood in front of me with tears like a hurricane, you were struggling to catch your breath, begging me to love you back and it was in that moment I knew this poor horse’s heart no longer beat in it’s chest. I could tell from the look on your face and I know during that brief moment of silence, you were hoping I’d have something to say. But there was nothing left to say, you weren’t able to hear a word I was trying to say and I had risen my white flag.
Can you draw me a road map of your moods, detailing where they lead and every possible detour? Because I’m lost, I’ve never traveled to a city like this before and the road turns too often for my car too keep up—didn’t you notice me fading in your rear view mirror? I’ve been a tourist in the town you grew up in but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to show me the shortcuts to all your heart’s favorite parking lots. Last night you said, “When I’m around you, I want to take a knife and carve at my fucking face.” and five minutes later you were sitting on the floor in a pile of self-pity, asking why it’d been years since I last kissed that face but before I had a chance to take a deep breath— you were telling me I made you want to kill yourself again. You need to add in these roads and sharp turns because I think my car’s breaking down.
And the night I sat with knees to my face while crying over messages which had revealed everything, you said things would change and you would be different. You said you’d make me happy but tell me baby, when was the last time you saw me smile or heard a laugh which wasn’t fake? You say things can’t get better because I won’t just let it go? The hole I broke my knuckles in for the third time that week still exists right above your side of the bed, how can I forget when every time I hold you I’m forced to stare at it? Horses are much different than the stethoscope we quickly replaced or bent syringes we toss aside like trash, this isn’t something we can buy from Walmart at four in the morning, plus you and I— well, we know more than most about the permanence of mortality. How many more times will we break each other’s hearts this week? Now our words are sharp and I don’t know about you but I mean very few of them these days. While you’re crying because of reasons you don’t understand, I’m just sitting miles away from you with my hand on my chest to be sure my heart keeps beating through this.
This has broken parts of me that I can’t afford to have repaired, so I’m stuck using super glue and strips of tape to piece myself back together but I can’t seem to get the tape to stick. I think I may have missed that day of kindergarten because I don’t remember ever being taught this. I was going to end this using an idiom but we already know I was never taught those either, maybe if my parents had sent me to public school I’d know the secret to killing birds with stones, I’d know why it’s preferable for our world to be an oyster even though I hate fish or why raining cats is used to explain something unpleasant. I’m constantly determined to know everything about anything and I’m convinced there’s very little which cannot be taught through Wikipedia, unexplainable mysteries. But I’ll never understand how to put together a fog and toggle for a pocket watch, I won’t ever understand the meaning behind idioms or how to use them, I’m never going to learn how to successfully tie a tie and I’ll never understand your mind and how it works despite previously thinking I might. It’s raining cats and dogs on this horse we’ve beaten dead, the world may or may not be our oyster I’m not sure how you feel about fish yet and I don’t want to say the fat lady is singing, just in case that’s in my head and in reality she’s sitting silent.
Live to fight another day, just to die another night
Unzip my veins and set me free
From empty bottles, and broken dreams
A shaky foundation indicates doom
And I'm alone in this hollow, desolate room
So forgive me if I must depart
I've been murdered by this broken heart
I missed your birthday that was last year
what got in the way was more than a tear
even though we have been far apart
now is the time to make a new start
I long for your touch and dream of your smile
and to share your days for a very long while
I guess we can take it day by day
I am hoping you're feeling in the same way
my love for you I carry still
I offer my heart, do what you will
Ripped ribbons scattered aimlessly,
with fractured cups, dirt and dust
pink pearly acetone just won't be enough
to erase the evidence of you.
With forced confessions,
spilled out all past indiscretions,
and cursed vindications and blood
splattered like a musty revenge.
Hand print caresses that show
Polaroid prints all faded and jaded
like the illusion of us.
It was desperate fingers
that clung to the railings
but the force of gravity meant I had to let go.
Hope had revived me
Like water to my parched throat
my oasis is the desert
All my horrid words were revoked.
Yet nothing will ever be enough
to surgically remove
our open bleeding wounds.
I must tend to the injured,
Leave alone the wielder
Knife still in hand
How did it come to this?
I missed your voice
so much it made me cry
yet after I heard
it made everything worse
Mourning a loss that was not mine
I still love you
but it burns
until I have to take my hand off
the all consuming flame.
My teardrops cannot pay the price,
or eradicate the past in peoples minds
Will I forever be beholden to this guilt that now defines me?
Too many skin graphs to hide the scarred tissue underneath.
All paths lead me back to here.
I'm helpless to watch your ghost
Linger,you still linger.
I was looking for shoes
Tomorrow night was the ball
With twenty two dollars
And not a cent more
I dug through the pile
Of second-hand shoes
Some broken or beautiful
Or worn down with love
Behind the stilettos
Something caught my eye
Not shiny or bright
But a second-hand heart
Not treated with care
But it kept right on beating
Alive but alone
With my twenty-two dollars
And not a cent more
I bought my second-hand heart
To take to the ball
Not shiny or bright
No glamorous gleam
But it was my new heart
And it needed me
So I took my new heart
On the night of the ball
I didn't have shoes
But my heart mattered more
Scowls, sneers, and smirks
Greeted me at the door
They all picked and poked
At my second-hand heart
It was patched-up, sewn-up
But beautifully mine
But no one could see
Past the scratches and grime
So I ran away
Fast into the night
As twelve tolls of the clock
Told me the time
When I finally stopped
And my tears caught up
I realized my heart
Was no longer mine
I screamed and I wailed
For my second-hand heart
Though patched-up, sewn-up
It had to be mine
Somewhere I'd lost it
It was abandoned again
All my screaming and wailing
Could not bring it back
But day after day
I missed my heart
Maybe someone had found it
And made it their own
Day after day
I have to hope
That my second-hand heart
Has found a new home
Someone must love it
And treat it with care
Because it was beautiful
Even patched-up, sewn up
My second-hand heart
The day they operated on his brain
he imagined it as his day of poetry
freedom from the pain of living,
and heard a train reciting a long poem
on love, nightmares and death
by a Chilean poet he adored,
whose name he tried to recollect, over and over again
but his train of thoughts curiously missed
that one station in each, separate attempt.
Did he hear anyone whispering anything about 'bad omen'?
reminding a poet killed by a dose of poison
injected by the doctor treating him
to end the emotional domination of
his poetry over the mind of millions
- and then he slowly lost orientation
in delirious state he fell in to a pit of delight and thought
about the white luminant mist poetry, has created in his being,
all through the days of suffering love gifted him.
He received poetry as a feeling, deep, deep inside,
Emily Dickinson was to him a fragrance enveloping his consciousness,
then a feeling inexpressible, an elation, leading him to a plane higher.
His brain was a night filled tunnel, through which
the train reciting dark poems of stark beauty of death
traveled like lightening, he sat perplexed looking
at a mirror someone held before him, reflecting darkness, an eerie feeling.
That night train wailing as if someone dear has left for ever
traveled through the surreal plane of Dali paintings.
"Life", a unfamiliar voice proclaimed aloud near him,
"Is poetry written in one's blood, which one fails
to read as it is dangerously close to one's suicide note,
that one finishes reading only at the last minute".He hoped
they must have finished his surgery by now;
it was getting dark, a kind of mist spreading like a swarm of evil beetles,
but they were still at it, panic reigned
on the operation table. His face was peaceful
immobile like the wings of a dead butterfly.
Today; we are are together, and you have my heart
Someday, somehow we will eventually part.
Yesterday; How I missed you...I couldn't solve your equation
Someday we'll have another chance; with infinite patience.
Tomorrow the shapes and colors of true
Of love for another made of numbers like you
Hurting another when we can't understand
Somewhere, sometime we'll find that we can
Today; we are one, sublime in effortless love
Once we understand the depths of above.