Self-awareness is a curse,
but self-indulgence is surely worse.

I resent this emergence of televised li(v)es.
A pathetic attempt to make our own feel less worthless.

Mother,
don't you realize?
You're wasting away.
I don't care about who the Bachelor sent home today!
That's not real love.
All that ****'s fake.

You spend your whole life staring at screens.
Get out of the house!
Please, do something!

But if I soared into your fence I'd be electrocuted in an instant.
Nevermind the environmentalists several miles off in the distance.
They can't save me.
They've got their own sinister agendas.
In some way we can trace all the blame back to Brenda.
That *****.

By "that," I mean your current negative emotional-dependency attachment, and by "healthy," I mean neurotic and exhausting.

When I lived alone,
my biggest battle was leaving home
to do the things I had to do in order to feel some sense that my life was my own.

Talking to you
is just some necessary evil that I feel obliged to do
in order to feel like I'm part of the world.

Because the alternative is
a certain kind of insanity that I've
spent the last decade trying not to associate with.

To put it simply,
I don't want to end up like my parents.

And I do what I have to do in order to convince myself
that loneliness is not my fate.

Everything I've ever told you about me has been a warning.
I tried to cool down your warmth.
Please don't smile at me again.
I can't make you understand how much it's worth.

Everything I feel about you is way too intense.
I want to explain it,
but it doesn't make any sense.

Anything you say gets repeated infinitely
to leave me swimming in a pool of memories,
but my arms are tired and now I'm drowning.
The thought of you takes the breath out of me.

I'm caving in underneath the weight of what it means.
These are the kinds of things I've tried to stop myself from feeling.

Everything I've ever said to you has been a warning.
Every single one of them has gone ignored.
Please don't smile at me again.
I can't handle loving you any more.

Because when I think about you, it hurts,
yet I can't seem to stop.
I think about you all of the time.

Do you know what I'd like?
For my mind not to go haywire whenever you're around.
For my blood not to boil at the sound of your voice.
I wish I didn't want to die when I hold your stare.
I wish I could go back in time to before I even cared.
I hope one day you have children
even though you can't give birth,
and I hope one day I can think about you without it having to hurt.

There once was a whale
Or maybe it was just a giant fish
He hung around in the shallows
And all of us anglers wondered if
Catching him wouldn't make us rich

If only that glory could be ours
To win that battle between nature and wit
We set our bait and cast our lines
And in the meanwhile, we wondered, "what if?"

And at the local gas stations we give them our cash
We ask for the many itches that we would like to scratch
We look at the numbers with all our fingers crossed
Hoping that all of our hope is not lost

Whether you're in her way, or she's in yours,
she'll be sure to apologize first.

"Oh, so sorry!
(I'm just so sorry to exist.)
No really, you go first.
Of course, I insist."

There's something so depressing in it.
Couldn't you just quit?

"Don't be. It's fine.
No, really. It's okay."

*I just wish you'd find something less depressing to say.

It starts with curiosity;
fascination,
admiration,
affixation.
Excitement and expectation.
Fondly falling for flutterings.
Paying too much attention to alterations.
Getting hung up on fluctuations.

It turns into frustration.
Feelings of inadequacy.
Indignation.
Self-abasement.
Fear and loathing.
Dread.

Followed by annoyance.
Re-evaluation.
Revulsion.
Remembering what's important.

It ends with indifference;
over it.
Free again,
thank goodness.

I fell in love with a dancer once,
back before I'd come-of-age.
I was sitting in the audience with my family,
and she was up on-stage
along with five other dancers:
two couples and her partner.

The guys all dressed the same.
The girls all dressed the same.  
And yet this one stood out to me for reasons unexplained.
It wasn't just her pretty face -
In fact, all three were pretty -
but something in the grace she moved with,
as if she were the epitome of beauty.  

They wove in-and-out of each other in a spiraling ballet.
I strained to keep my gaze trained on her form,
as if she were the pearl in a gypsy's shell game
and I had my life-savings riding on the outcome.

The steps grew more dramatic.
The partners recoiled from each other.
The lights grew dim, for a second,
then the music crescendoed,
and with a grand flourish each couple reunited then froze in place.

A look of horror on my face as I realized the loveliest dancer's partner had made a mistake:
the hem of her skirt had got caught on the hand that was now on her waist,
and a black-leotarded wedge between her legs was on display for however many glorious, grueling, stomach-churning seconds that pose was held for until the lights went out.

The performance left me feeling a mix between elated and tragic,
and I sat staring into that blackness transfixed, as if
by some kind of magic.

Steeled with treated temperament.
Prepped by tempered expectation.

Danger of the arranged meeting with unknown entities.
The sting of a stranger.
Venom of anonymity.

A crash course in coercion;
The fall of Rome.
Murphy's law.
Devastation.

Did you have to work for your indifference
Or has it always come naturally
Because you're unnaturally calm
In the face of this catastrophe

Is one born with apathy
Or is it a lack of something else
Do you even have the capacity
To analyze yourself?

Do you have, at least, the tenacity
To process what you've felt
Because if I were you tonight, I think
I'd be foaming at the mouth

What do you do if you can see the strings?
What happens when you can trace them back to their origin:
A pair of double crossed wooden instruments in the hands of some magician?

What do you do then?

Should you muscle The Man out of the way?
Take over, so that you can put on your own kind of play:
enacting the way you've always believed it should be?

Or would you instead,
brandish a pair of scissors
in an attempt to set them all free?

This is the day
And this is me breathing
I'm getting away
This is me leaving

So long, goodbye
I'm not saying either
I hope I don't die
My mind is on fire

Losing track of what I think
This is me keeping
My body and mind in synch
This is me leaving

An exchange of words in which the truth is left haunting
A circle of people with nothing to do
My soul is left wanting
Craving something new

I can't catch these fish
My mind is unreeling
Got to scratch that itch
I've got to be leaving

Colloquialisms
Predictable scripts
A lightness of being
That Grand March of Kitsch

This is me angry
This is me seething
No one will miss me
And so, I'm leaving

Not in light of things,
nor in jest or for fun.
Just let them vent some feelings, would you?
Just let this **** be done.

The guerrilla poet is of a peculiar sort;
he engages in impromptu recitals of his work just for sport.
Whether he's waiting at a bus stop or standing in line,
he'll completely out of nowhere start spouting out rhymes.
His spontaneous public monologues tend to garner attention,
as they can often be quite scathing and cause much contention,
but nine times out of ten, he'll get to the end
without so much as a glance from the strangers standing by.
They either ignore him completely,
or pretend not to mind,
or dismiss him immediately
as just another crazy guy.

Guess what I did after your dry wedding.
(Get drunk.)
Guess what I did after I met your kids.
(Get drunk.)
Guess what I did after that thing happened that I didn't know how to deal with.
(I'd be more specific if I could actually remember it.)

He wears a cloak of invisible voices,
wove from the frequency of silent screams.
Ruler of the space between waking and dreams;
He is the Yellow King.

Fear not what you can't remember,
though His kingdom is obscene:
A place of waste and decadence
trapped beneath perception,
sewn with hidden seams.  

He takes his toll,
unbeknownst,
at the liminal space between asleep and awake;
collecting your soul,
bit by bit,
inch by inch,
until there's nothing left to take.

It's not too cold of a night for a walk
Even if this one was not by choice
I'm not sorry for being so drunk
I only ever wanted to hear your sweet voice

Even if the only words it told me were,
"*******!"
Sometimes it's the little things that mean so much

Your spirits weren't as bright as I remember
I suppose my own had something to do with that
I'm not sorry for losing your number
Just kind of sorry that you won't give it back

But I'm never sorry for the things that I do
I just wanted to see how things were working out
Sometimes I really do worry about you
You said that I'm the one I should be worried about

Your hair color has changed
Your pajamas said "Somebody Loves Me"
That might be true in more than one way
More ways than you seem to need

I tried my best not to look back
But I know you stood in the doorway as I walked off
Sometimes it's the little things that mean so much
Sometimes a walk in the cold is enough

Sadistic Queen,
how are you so mean?
Your punches are subtle,
but leave me with internal bleeding.

I love the way it stings.

Bring me another poisoned fruit from your tree.
Make my stomach ball tighter than a white-knuckled fist.
Hit me again,
you beautiful bruiser.
I've never before felt a pain such as this.

You are a *******'s *******.
Take one step closer and I swear, I'll scream.
****** ****** doesn't even hold a candle
to this twisted, grisly, nightmarish scene.

It's almost more than I can handle.
Stop it.
Stop it!
You're hurting me!

I always wanted to be good at everything.
Who doesn't?
I was egotistical enough to cling to the notion that one day, I would.

I dabbled in the arts.
Concocted my potions.
Ran experiments.
Made love when I could.
I calculated numbers.
Explored the ocean,

But my favorite hobby was always psychology.
My first case study being my mother.

There's nothing deeper than the depths of human emotion,
or the correlation of what one life means to another.

I can't remember where or when or why, but I do remember thinking
"if only I could be like that,"
"if only I could have that kind of life,"
"if only I could behave and act in such a way that was a better reflection of my own deep down as-of-yet unfound ideal personality type,
as a better version of myself; the me I want to be but can't even imagine being:
then I'd be happy."

Come to realize that I have become that version, but just as I've changed, so has my own ideal version of what I could be (which is to say, that despite achieving vaguely recalled dreams, I'm still not happy.)

It's like running a race against yourself,
surrounded by wraiths of what you could-have/once-were/will-one-day-become running in the other lanes.
The trick is to close my/your/our eyes and meld them all together;
the key is to maintain this pace.

The other me is of the dastardly type.
Quite a *******, really.
The other me likes to stay out all night,
and is awfully fond of drinking.

He says, "Y'know what your problem is?
You spend too much time thinking."

The other me doesn't take advice.
He prefers to make his own way.
He says, "You've gotta stop going with the flow,
and start making some tidal waves."

The other me is good with women,
and often calls me gay.
He says, "You'd might as well be a ****** -
that thing between your legs gets no play."

The other me is restless;
uncouth, rude, and reckless.
He takes over sometimes for days on end,
then leaves me to clean up his messes.

The other me is an *******,
with no regard for anyone but himself.
Arrogantly vain,
he puts those who care about him through hell
and drives me completely insane.

Me and the other me got into a fight today.

It started when he told me that I need him.
"Come on man, I mean, honestly.
I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now.
You're nothing without me."

(The other me likes to use the word "harmony."
He says it's a precarious balance.
"Our togetherness is destiny,"
but he'd **** me if I ever gave him the chance.)

So I hit him first when he least expected it.
You see, he'd never expect it from me,
but he laughed when he realized his nose was bleeding,
so I hit him again and he dropped to his knees.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?
I thought we were friends . . ."
Then I leaned in real close and said,
"Stay the **** away during the work week,
and you can have every weekend."

Is that they believe everything that their preachers say,
and nothing that anyone else does.
(Trust issues much?)
It's called brainwashing.
(You see what you do,
because it's what he wants you to.)
As if one silly antiquated book could hold all the answers.
As if one person's interpretation of it could be more valid than another's.

There is more than one mind.
There is more than one book.
There's more than one set of eyes,
so take another look.

"Why are you telling my any of this?"

"I don't know . . .
I can't really afford a therapist."

Lost in the clouds where we stored all our dreams.
Fell to the ground in a million tiny drops.
Each one, a wish we don't remember making.

Leapt in the air and broke through atmospheres,
just to get some space.

We carved our names into the face of the sun.
Fell from the stars and hit the ground running.

A flock of birds.
A group of geese.
A gander at a stranger gathering of winged things.

Don't clip mine 'cause I'm running out of time,
and I've got promises to keep and miles to fly.

Just trying to escape the Frost.

1.. A man obsessed with self-improvement. He only falls for women who make him "want to be a better man." He becomes that better man, then leaves them.

2. Horror aficionado who's obsessed with death; falls in love with women who are dead on the inside.

3, 4, 5, 6. A gay man falls in love with a straight man.
A straight woman falls in love with a gay man.
A straight man falls in love with a gay woman.
A gay woman falls in love with a straight woman.

7. A ****** falls in love with a **** star.

8. A strategic genius falls in love, then treats every action and word as maneuvers in some elaborate game that she has no idea is even being played. He loses.

9. A drug addict falls in love with anyone.

10. Momma's boy who hates his mother; only falls for women he can't stand.

11. Bored sociopath/criminal moves to a new town and tries to convince  the locals that he's afraid of everything (so that they won't suspect him of doing anything remotely dangerous). A woman who actually is afraid of everything feels bad for him and tries her best to comfort him. He falls in love with her.

What are you doing right now?
Take a step outside yourself to analyze the value of it.
Supersede the meaning of the thing that you think you currently need.
Pick up that instrument.
Open that word document.
Pick up that pen and turn to a blank page.
Action and passion keeps the ennui away.

What are you up to right now?
What are you doing today?
Punch laziness in the face and stay in that place of outpouring.
Streams of consciousness leaking out from outer space.
I've been bitten by something suddenly.
It's time to create.

Shower that page.
Crowd that silent place with echoes of notes.
Paint every blank surface with earnest strokes of rage.
Climb that asymptote.

If you dig deep,
you'll pull up something.
Even in sleep,
there's no such thing as nothing.

Art for art's own sake.
Because progress takes so many steps.
Oblivion can wait.
It's time to create.

This road looks like a picture
that I took before my time.
It sticks with me like déjà vu,
but I'm about to drive.
Get out of my way.

So this is what it's like to be alone.
It's not so bad, really,
but I can see how it could get old after awhile.

You have to listen to all the ****** things the people on this side of the fence are saying about the people on the other side.
Meanwhile, you have to deal with all the ****** ways the people on the other side are treating the people on this side.
After enough of this, you'll start to get the sense that people are just pretty ****** in general.

A hand reaching out.
A hand that belongs to someone you love.

I can't.

Offered in apology.
In a sincere heartfelt bid for forgiveness.

I can't.

A hand that every part of you wants to grab and hang on to forever.
For life.
For the night.
For just a moment.

A hand reaching out.
A hand you know so well.
A hand that belongs to someone you've loved.

I won't.

That every part of you wants to reach out and grab,
save one.

She sits in the crevice of her untouchable throne
A bathtub of fizz
The place she goes to be alone
As the bubbles coat her flesh, and pop on her throat
With a sensation of which I will never know

But oh how I long to be the one who sees her there
It's my one true wish
As she twists her fingers through her luxurious hair
And blows foam with a jet stream of air through her lips

I want nothing more than to be a fly on the wall
Of the room that surrounds her most intimate moments
If only I could hear her sing a beautiful song
When she thinks there's nobody around to take notice

I'll treasure it all
And bury it deep inside me
A sentimental chest of unobtainable gold
The toll one pays for a life of tragedy
The price one incurs from being alone

It will be just how you saw it
in every way that it was promised -
only it won't be any of those things,
because it's really quite the opposite.

Only death lies for the just and honest.

Golf is a funny sport.
I mean, you've got this assortment of sticks
and this tiny little ball
whose goal is a small hole hundreds of yards away,
and in between the two are a few obstacles.
In fact, there's a whole treacherous landscape.

But I'm obsessed with the swing.
Mainly, the mental process involved with bringing it down.
Fear, doubt, confidence -
it all plays a part in it,
and a hope that you've swung well when it finally hits.
(Bear in mind, of course, that this all happens in less than a second,)
but the reward or disaster comes immediately after.
By that, I mean, during the upswing.
That's when the golfer sees the trajectory of the ball as a result of all of their prior feelings.

I've never even played golf, really.
I just like it as a simile.
By that, I mean,
how it applies metaphorically.
There's a lot of depth there,
especially with the upswing.

I may not be a golfer,
but I play darts and throw beans on occasion,
and the upswing holds the same kind of persuasion in all these games of accuracy.
You see, there's this feeling that comes soon after the release;
almost like a premonition.
As if knowing beforehand that the thing is or isn't going to land where we want it to.

And that's all I mean by the upswing -
that I've got a good feeling 'bout you.

He spends a third of his time with a cigarette lit;
Comforted by the slight weight of it between his fingertips.
His head is perpetually surrounded and scented with smoke.

Last night, I woke up to a coughing fit;
The hacking sound of thick sludge from deep within his lungs trying to find its way out.
He spits globs of phlegmy mucus.

Every now and then,
I'll catch him putting two empty fingers up to his lips,
as if it's automatic;
nevermind that he doesn't have one yet lit.

I think he's comforted by it;
The smoke that encircles him like a phantom embrace -
There is someone whom he can't forget.

Lung cancer took his wife three years ago;
He's determined to also die from it.

is that one day you might miss it.

"Hey kid, you'll go far
because you're just so friggin' smart,
and nevermind this art ****."

Common sense dictates that you'll have to pay expenses.

I'm being pulled apart by forceful influences.

They say,
"Everybody's dying just to get the disease,"
but their silly guilt trips don't make me want to fall down on my knees
and pray.

Oh they say,

They say quite an awful lot of things,
but none of it means anything to me.

(Let them make all of their money.
Let them say that I look funny.
I won't let them swallow me whole while they rub their hallow tummies.)

Common sense dictates that I'll have to pay expenses,
but I take offense to the thought that I'm being pulled apart by outside influences.

Let them talk . . .

I used to attempt to capture in writing all of the times I never thought I'd have the time to recall later in life.
To capture a moment I thought I'd never have the opportunity to live again.
To cage a thought I thought would live wild and free for the rest of my life.
To say farewell to a moment in a way that was gracious, but final.

auf wiedersehen, dear moment.
Au revoir, sayonara, so long.

I thought I'd never see you again.
Boy, was I wrong.

A dusty trail fades into the dark.
A comet strikes a villain at his core.
A simple-minded walker contemplates the stars.
These trees are all reaching towards God.
How could one want more?

A torn spirit leaves its blood-stained mark,
with an echo that echoes.

A swift crack to the head and suddenly I'm off my feet again.
A bit of paranoia settling in.
A lingering sense of regret over things unsaid.
Things I might want to give to friends just in case I never see them again.

A quick jab to the ribs and suddenly I'm taking it all in.
Seeing the importance of it.
The implications of knowing where to begin.
Beginning again after everything else has come to an end.

A clenched jaw with fingernails digging in.
A slip of the tongue that should've been bitten off.
A song sung while lying in a field thirty yards from the bar.
A poster hung from the walls of the place where we used to live.
A bit of bone sticking out from a sawed-off limb.

A fist hits me in the stomach and suddenly I can stomach anything.
The twists and turns and cigarette burns and the lessons twice learned but never accepted.

This is how it starts.