I’m stuck.
Caught up in the hard times.
Peace arrives, and there it goes:
My meter, prose
And rhymes.
Is this setting with awful emotions,
The only place I can be bothered to feel?
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 12:49 AM UTC
It's the same familiar road,
Dark and slightly paved,
Toward which my soul drifts at nighttime,
Pulled by nearly broken chains.
Sleepwalking to find some danger
Where, among the chaos, it can feel
A little less like a stranger;
Around the blind side of a curve.
While I sleep, it finds a way
To - despite my slumber - travel.
Lying down, and replaying how
Life and death, seemed to briefly
Stop their battle . . .
And rest so soundly,
Sprawled out, side-by-side,
Strewn 'cross the roadway's gravel.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Each morning I awake
And to the same spot I've returned,
Lying next to my soul, in wait,
For a lucky car to make its turn.
I stand up, and spark a cigarette
-- click --
Just to watch the orange light burn.
I inhale the noxious gases,
As a car skids, and passes.
I start back home with a shrug,
And flick the ashes to the masses,
Burn some bibles, and break some glasses.
And as the rain soaks to my skin,
It corrodes the memory like acid.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
The overture sounds:
A muffled “thud,”
And scraping flesh against macadam.
Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,
Dividing molecules to atoms.
Each neuron fires off, splicing into three
The soul from the body,
and something indescribably between.
Catching fire, he ascends -
"This is what it truly means to be!"
Each piece, each side
Breaking away in-finitely
To somehow become more whole
Through division, and in balance.
Like a reunion, of holy trinity,
Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.
- - -
And like a cork popped from a bottle,
Rewound, and played reversed,
He careens with a whining pitch
And
f
a
l
l
s
From orbit,
Back to earth.
Glimpsing God
Only to be clawed back
To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,
To taste the bitterness of my own blood,
Juxtaposed
With the ecstasy of Nirvana.
This is how I came to know the realm
In which our feeble bodies lurch.
Reborn as a phoenix from the ashes.
From the rear cabin of a hearse.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
A net sum of years,
and romanticized numerals,
Built up by birthdays,
to be torn apart by funerals.
Frayed ends of friendships,
pulled until they popped.
A holy mess
in the wake of a difference,
Between what said
and what was thought.
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
My tides move in waves
Of reactive oscillation.
Bound to your momentum
By threads of gravitation.
Gravity, like rainfall . . .
I, never yours,
And you, never mine.
Each day I etch a tally,
And try to act surprised
That another day
Has come and gone
In which the sun forgot to shine.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
I've lived the kind of pain they write about
In the tales of heroes,
who came and went without
Salvation or celebration; and,
instead, became close friends of doubt.
When luck leaves your side,
And there's no one left watching . . .
There is no martyrdom.
No heaven to fall from. No damnation.
Just *nothing.
Nothing and no one*.
But I won't let myself succumb
To the temptation
of self-righteous certainty,
false justifications, or
egotistical self-mutilation -
Just to bleed on those who lay
Below my lowly elevation.
Not like you.
I am not made like you.
No longer, will I distort my own view
To lie to the few, who stand with me in the fire.
It's true.
I am a worthless piece of ****
and even I can hardly stand it
when I speak about myself.
But this time . . .
It's about more than me.
And, for once, I'm going to spend well the wealth,
That I was given and didn't earn,
On those who showed me how to learn
And to never become like you.
Yes -
I am judgmental and self-loathing.
I am selfish and I am wrong.
I am naive, and strung out and strung along.
But I
am not made
like you.
I am strong.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 5:05 PM UTC
I think I've always been alone . . .
At least, as long as I can remember.
But there's a part of me,
that still feels so connected --
To something near the source,
At the core of somewhere true.
Where we exist without our existence's limitations.
Where duality, begins to mean overlap,
And both fiction and fact,
One and yet another,
Things like "this" and "that"
Are the same, still . . .
Innocently unseparated,
In this place near to creation.
Maybe it's just my brain . . .
I do have a habit of creating dualities.
"Together, or apart? No," I think.
More like doubting infallibility.
--------------------------
So when I say I've always been alone,
I have to ask myself:
"Have you really?"
"*Of course you haven't been.
But who you are right now,
is no longer that you . . .
At least . . . not fully*."
"*So, if I was alone then,
Does that mean that I
might not be any longer?*"
"Oh, no."
I explained back to myself,
"*I think you misunderstood me.
It's just . . .
That you'll never truly know,
Until there's nothing and nobody*."
--------------------------
That's a haunting truth to tell yourself,
When you're off in your own head.
At least I won't be alone in my regret,
When I'm among the dead.
I'll find community in that.
Surely, that's the place to which I feel so connected!
The place where maybe two of myself is enough
to make just one of me feel,
Like I'm worth something more, than more or less,
In a place that's neither there, nor here . . .
At least, there, if I don't feel connected,
To myself, I may feel near.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
Devilish torment -- her body is my lament.
She crawls beneath the cracks and finds
The dark cellar, where my "worst" ferments.
She feeds it as it rots,
Just to make its wine more bitter . . .
Squeezed from the finest lies,
Designed to make an addict from a quitter.
Like a dark and tempting vacuum
That my soul cannot escape,
Attractive in its repulsion,
It's a part of me that loves the way it hates.
Masturbatory and selfish,
With a thirst that can't be quenched . . .
She finds the spots within me,
That make even deities flinch.
Their knees crack and crumble,
At its all-consuming "nothing". . .
I never knew my zero could be so wholly unbecoming.
She, or it, will surely be my undoing.
Yet, somehow, that keeps me moving.
So uncomfortably I'll admit . . .
It's the brutal nature of it all,
That I find so disturbingly soothing.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
With an audible sigh...
I curse the world to gain some clarity.
Things weren't so black or white before...
But cycles of laughter and tears do well
To burn in their disparity.
Like washed-out sadness,
I'll make it hard to judge my smile.
"The sun may fade these colors," I say,
"But they'll be gone for just a while."
I exhale...
... And I miss you.
Even though I’m left with just the pain
Most nights I alone past dark,
And curse the utterance of your name.
I longed for your shine
And the warmth within your Sol.
But your clouds gave way to Luna...
...And I left.
Still halfway short of whole.
For now, I'll do what I can to force these
clouds back over the moon.
Because even in depravity,
Or lonesome solitude,
I find the comfort that is darkness...
And in the darkness I find you.
Still, I hope you feel the thunder.
Or that the light leads your way through.
I can't make this darkness bright, but still,
I think... If I can't discern what's true...
I hope you laugh, at least, in irony.
I hope you smile, at the storm...
That casts its shadow just for you.
I've found the lightning doesn't last,
And the thunder comes too soon.
So alone, in solidarity, I will fight my fate
To be construed...
Against myself,
As the answers to my questions' echo --
reverberating in an empty room.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Doing a dance,
to wear a mask,
To play a game that you can’t stomach . . .
Just so that the truth doesn’t have to face you,
The way you recoil from reflections of yourself.
You’d forsake your happiness, your health —
You would burn it all.
To do a dance,
To wear a mask
To play a game you’ll always lose.
To look in a mirror . . .
To tell an image, that it’s anything but you.
And it is in that moment, that you'll find
You’ll tell the unfamiliar truth
As you bleed and feed
Your own obliterated youth . . .
To feel, and then
to lose —
Just like the loss you always knew
You would find in disappointment.
Like an unholy anointment
of your least desirable possessions
That retire from the heavens
Back to you.
To betray, and to amuse
Alone.
The ides of irony rejoice!
For they’ve found their lamb... or
their ever-dying muse.
Forsaking life itself, you clamor
To see others just like you.
And maybe, one day, one will choose
the path that you can’t leave,
As it reciprocates to thee —
Two partners in misery, fated to excuse
the waste of each other...
until they find there’s nothing left.
To feel the flame within its breath consumed.
Wearing a mask,
To live a lie,
And die a death,
Whose dance you six-times misstep
And on the seventh, betrays you.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC