My sadness gets up at 2:00 am
Then again at 4:00
And 5:30
And 6:45
Then 7:00am

After the snooze alarm goes off
My sadness wears concealer and mascara to make it
feel awake
and pretty

My sadness hides behind a joke, a smile, a laugh
My sadness is scared of my happiness, who
Stops by once in a while
but just for a quick hello

My sadness doesn’t show through the way
I pull myself together in the morning like nothing is wrong
Or when people ask “how are you?” And replies “I’m good!”
People don’t see my sadness in the stories I tell,
the schoolwork I do, the advice I give them for their problems

My sadness doesn’t show up like other’s sadness
It doesn’t hold its head down in the hallway,
or sleep in until 12, it doesn’t go days without eating,
and it doesn’t try to keep happiness in a locked door

No.

My sadness only shows through the poetry I write
The music behind my earbuds
The short stream of tears when the doors are
closed and the windows are open hoping that just one
small bit of happiness will come inside and stay for longer
than a joke, a laugh, a smile.

My sadness stays in the shower longer than usual,
gets angry a little too easily, and cries a little too much
when watching The Notebook.
It doesn’t look like sadness or walk like sadness or talk like sadness
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t sadness.

No.

You can’t see my sadness.
It doesn’t show like a person with a
broken leg and crutches
You don’t take one look at it and know that
It is crippled and broken down

No.

My sadness is like cancer
You don’t know it’s there until you strip me down
peel back the layers of my skin
to see that I’ve been breathing an air like smoke
that’s caused a growth in my lungs and heart so
that each breath I take, each drop of blood that flows
through my veins feels like a weight on my chest that
can only be lifted with you laying beside me and holding
me until I feel as light as a feather souring through the wind
after finally break free of its bird. Its burd-en.
The thing that’s been holding it down, keeping it from doing
the impossible. But, possibly you can’t lift that weight.
possibly it’s only me that can lift that weight.

Possibly it’s been me the whole time.
Possibly I am the one that kicks happiness out the door
When it stops by because I don’t see happiness
Without you here
But how dare I place the image of happiness
Only in your presence when happiness can fall
In from any joke, or laugh, or smile
And happiness can stay past the sunset
Because you can still see happiness when all you feel
Is the darkness
Happiness can come in when the door
Is bolted shut because happiness doesn’t
Ask if it can come over
Happiness waltzes right in, unannounced, but
Always welcome.
So the next time my sadness is sitting at the table
And we are having a cup of coffee,
And happiness runs through the door
I will show sadness the exit
And then turn to happiness and say “it is great to
See you, please stick around for a while.”
And later when it gets up to leave
I will grab it by the arm and hold
onto it tighter than you ever held me.

I remember when we lived in Paradise
I remember dwelling with God
I remember walking with the Father
I remember talking with the Son
I remember conversing with the Spirit

I remember the beauty that God had made
And I remember the fruit that was for us
I remember the animals that I named
And I remember the perfection there was
I remember having a relationship with God

I remember that day
And we left the garden
I remember being against God
And ourselves, and our children
I remember the sin I fell into

I remember telling my wife we had to go
And I remember leaving
I remember the tears, the pain, the regret
And I remember the blood
I remember this curse I brought

I remember my son
And how he killed his brother
I remember my son
And I remember his sons
I remember how they perverted God

I remember how they were pagan and wicked
And the flood, when they were destroyed
I remember my son, Noah
And I remember his righteousness
I remember the iniquity of even Noah, the righteous

I remember the sins of Noah's sons
And the pagan worship they began
I remember my son, Abraham
And his son Isaac
I remember the sacrifice

I remember Isaac's sons Israel and Judah
And the iniquity of their nations
I remember Egypt, and their god
And the slavery of my sons in the land
I remember the sins of my sons

I remember my sons in the desert
And the 40 years of sorrow
I remember them entering Canaan
And the beauty of the land promised
I remember the promises of God

I remember the promised King
And the seed of the king to come
I remember Judah and Israel
And warring among themselves
I remember the iniquity of my sons

I remember the sins of my sons
And their people scattered
I remember the pain and sorrow
And the exile they were given
I remember the loss of a people

I remember my final Son
And His gift given to us
I remember His death
And how He paid my debt
I remember the guilt

I remember the Father
And his assurance to me
I remember the Fall
And I remember the Spring
I remember it all

I remember that all deaths are mine to bear
And I was the founder
I remember the sin that comes with my name
And better yet, the grace that comes with His
I remember the name of Jesus

LIFELINES

Her dead husband
trapped behind glass

laughs from his
faded photograph.

He stands in a field
of wallpaper roses.

She knits & knits
as if

she was knitting
time.

Time is cast on.
She never drops a stitch.

"Purl..purl...purl"
her tabby purrs.

At night she unravels
the day's knitting

as if disposing of all
that wasted time.

Time is cast off.

Tomorrow she will
begin again

the endless endless knitting
that is neither

scarf or cardigan
a... nothing.

A car headlight sweeps
across her husband's face

brings him alive
for an instant

and then he is
dead

forever again.

The knitting needles
pierce the blue

ball of wool
that will be tomorrow.

Sleep at last is
kind to her.

She hopes Death
will find her soon

so that tomorrow
need not be

knitted. . .

This letter is truly and doubtlessly a letter to the only person who will be left when everyone else is gone. To the woman of my life. To my love, my life, my everything. To me.

Dear me,

You, the way you are, are perfect. You, with your little struggles you bear, with all the strength you carry so desperately around, finding a way to use it in your everyday life. You, with all your words stuck in your throat that you are so scared to say out loud – so you write them down.
You, with your smart-***-mouth trying to make this world a better place. You, who has already realized that you must better yourself first to better others. You are all through perfect in your own way.
And yes, times were tough back then, but you were tougher. You mastered to overcome your biggest fear – the fear to stand for what you want and to love yourself entirely.
And even though, your selflove has improved so much over these past few years, you must learn a lot, you will have to endure a lot of pain and gain a lot of strength.
Selflove is a lifetime process.

My wonderful, beautiful love,
You carry mountains on your back and universes in your mind.
And every single day you wake up you are a better version of yourself.
Whatever you wish to do – do so! This is your life and you have to hold the upper hand in it. You have to be your own master.
Yes, let life be taught by others. Watch them live, but never become someone else while observing.
God did his best in making you special and unique – do not destroy his work of art in imitating.

Learn.
Observe.
Master.

Once you can rely on yourself, you are ready to change the world.
The world is waiting for you to make it the place it deserves to be.
A good place, a place with no fear, with no terror.
A place people can feel secure and loved.
Make this not only a vision but the reality.
Do your best and whatever you have reached at the end of the day – you DID your best.
You were great, and you could not have done any better.

I am proud of you.
And I love you.


To the dearest, most beautiful person on this planet, me.

i'm so tired of having to break these walls down only to have to rebuild them
at this point, i'm out of energy
so the walls are just going to stay up from now on
i'm not even going to try and break them down
let them build up as they please
i don't care how unhealthy it is to let them exist
but i'm tired of trying to let people in only to bet hurt
i've tried too hard to make other people happy
to not make myself happy
so ***** it
let the walls stay, **** it when you tell me to open up
i'm so sick of opening up and then shutting down again
i don't care if you've been there when the door has opened
it's shut now
and it's not opening anymore

Write
I told myself

For I'm guilty and
I like the way it makes me feel
When I don't finish
When I do

Heavy -
With plenty to do

I like my incompleteness
For the way it hangs,
Like the ways
Walls are never high enough
Or borders are never strong enough
Or love
Is never
Ever

Enough.

Write,
I tell myself
I am myself
I am and always will be

For voices
However many they are

Are meant to not just be heard

But felt.

Empathy,
Is the key,
To all of this - us.

Look at music.

They try...

They just have terrible delegates

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013