Why are all your books
and all of your other stuff
so **** expensive?

Shout into the void and your
words will become binary code.
Stay on this screen for a minute
and wait for the picture to load.

It’s a picture of dystopia. 280 characters
give us the power to create or to destroy.
Short, angry blasts are our Orwellian lingua
franca with the virtual hoi polloi.

Threads that were for weaving and sewing
are now for lacing into those who
disagree, and sowing seeds of doubt and
anger to incite a riot behind you.

There is only one mind on this
site, there is only one thought.
It’s about “like” at first sight, and
not about love, like we’re taught.

Do you see it? Is it clear?
We have become our words.
It’s difficult to admit, but we should
leave the tweeting to the birds.

It's over there.
No, not there.

There.

You know, that place.
With that guy?
No, not him.
The other guy.

That guy who did that thing.
Yeah, that's it.
That one day before
the day with the other thing.

Yeah.

With a flick of the wrist, items pass hand to hand.
You hear a beep, and place what you’ve scanned
into a bag. “Would you like paper or plastic ma’am?”
“Paper for the canned goods, plastic for the ham.”

You ask “how are you?” a dozen times a minute.
You get a cold, “fine.” You know their heart’s not in it.
People whine as they empty their cart of pricey food.
Aren’t you lucky to hear about their bad mood?

Hours upon hours, you follow the same exact routines.
There so long you know 4066 is the code for green beans
without even being asked, it’s just there in your head.
You wish you were somewhere else, preferably your bed.

The lines peter out, the crowds begin thinning,
As the last hour approaches you can’t help your grinning.
When you’re finally done you feel at peace, you feel zen,
But you know the very next day, it all starts again

****… SPLAT!

The mudslinging,
Left winging,
Right winging,
Promise singing,
and stress bringing
may now commence.

Two households,
both alike in their
traffic stopping,
secret swapping,
state hopping,
story dropping,
bubble popping
campaigns

with their
hope dashing,
donation cashing,
constant bashing,
piece of trashing,

try to
get elected,
be selected,
not rejected,
well-protected,

but their
unfeeling,
free wheeling,
shady dealing,
sends us reeling.

Hill and Don,
the battle’s on,
our wits are gone,
next week
we’ll see who’s won

Who will be the next
1600 Pennsylvania Ave resident?
Our 45th United States president?

Down,
     down,
          down,
         fall down deep into a
s
    p  
      i
    r
   a
l.
Tears, rage,
bottled up emotions.
All pour out.
All explode out
from within you.
There is no hope.
There is no joy.
Everyone is
out to get you.
You have no friends.
They all hate you.
You’re not good at anything.
You are...
      Worthless.
        
         Up,
     Up,
  Up,
               You’re on top of the world.
          Life is swell,
          and everything is a grand joke.
          Crying from laughter,
          not from sadness.
          Dancing about,
          feeling…
        Good.
        
          But knowing it’s only
          a matter of time until
          you descend back down,
                                                down,
     ­                                                 down.

Thunder rumbles through my mind,
muttering and grumbling,
angry at the world.

Lightening cracks and flashes,
illuminating the next thought,
exposing the darkest corners and crevices.

From the dark clouds pour
millions of ideas, millions of notions,
each worse than the next.

The constant rain
leads to a flood, and
all inhabitants are advised to
stay home tonight,
safe from the deluge.

It’s just too bad that I’m drowning.

The weird thing about life
is that you’re always
in the middle of it.

Whether you’re starting
a new job, or starting
a family, or ending
a relationship or moving
to a different place,
you’re still right in
the thick of your life.

The only true
beginning and ending
are birth and death.

So, it seems that
with regard to life,
we are like an author
who is at an impasse;

They know the beginning
of their story, and they
know how they want
it to end, but they have
intense difficulty with
the middle.

How does the
protagonist get to the
point where she meets
her true love, or get
that job promotion he’s
worked for his whole life?
How do the adventurers
find the buried treasure?
How does the ax murderer
ultimately perform his perfect ****?

The middle is the most crucial part.

It’s also the part that is
hardest to get through,
as a reader and a writer.
We are either desperately
wanting to know what
happens at the end, or
reveling in the simplicity
of the beginning.

Life is the same way.
I miss the simplicity of my
“beginning.”
You know, the part of life
where you’re confident
in yourself, and where you
just love everyone
around you.

You’re not cynical,
or jaded,
and you know
you’ve got a huge
expanse of life ahead of you.

I also long for the “end.”
Not death, necessarily, but
the part of my life that is
predictable, and safe.
I want to know that
I’m going to be okay.

I want to know that the
way I feel right now
isn’t the way I’ll always feel.

The way I feel right now
is what makes trudging
through this middling
part of time so horrendous.

But
it's what gives me
the hope that I can write
a spectacular ending.

Head tilting up slowly
to face the mirror,
to face the music.

Eyes wet and bloodshot
from the tears,
swollen from sadness.

Heart aching,
for no reason at all
except that is what it feels
like it should do.

Mind clouded by insecurity,
by doubt, by stress,
by fear.

And who the hell knows why?

I dare not voice
My feelings,
Because I don't know
How I feel,
And this uncertainty
Terrifies me.

It's not the feelings
That scare me,
But the lack thereof.
The emptiness
Is cavernous
And nothingness
Echoes inside me.

I dare not voice
My feelings,
Because I don't know
How I feel,
And once I say the words,
I can never
Get them back.

Sensibility,
Practicality,
Always doing
What you're told.

Obedience,
Civility,
Never ever
Being bold.

This cycle of life
Is what some would call
A rut,
Or a stalemate.

It lands you
In the doldrums,
It makes you a person
That you hate.

That time at the beach
When I got caught in
A rip current,
Everyone told me
The same thing.

"You're supposed to swim parallel to the shore."

The thing is,
How did they know that,
And I didn't?

I almost drowned,
I was at the mercy of the ocean,
And all I had to do was

Swim parallel to the shore.

This reflects life,
When it seems like
Everyone else knows what to do,
And I'm missing that crucial
Piece of information.

Now drowning in life,
Drowning in school,
Drowning in work,
Drowning in my thoughts,
I wish I could just

Swim parallel to the shore.

Let the waves wash over me,
And bring me safely home.

Encased in a
Bubble,
I traipsed my way
through childhood.

What I knew then:
People don't drink until they're 21,
*** is if you're male or female,
People you love are always there for you,
Friendship is forever.

What I know now:
Nothing.

Pop.

“I only wish you knew him… before”

You had a stroke when I was four months old,
And that made you so very different.

You were different from the man my parents knew,
Different from the man grandma married,
Different from the man who made everyone laugh,
Different from the man who would jump onstage.

For thirteen years I knew a man,
And for thirteen years that was the only version of you
That existed.

Post-stroke you grew alongside me.
We were the same age,
We were kindred spirits.

Even though I didn’t know you…
Before,
I still think I knew who you were.

The man I knew was independent,
The man I knew could use only one arm,
But would open packages with his teeth,
Rather than ask for help.

The man I knew was determined,
He taught himself to write,
Using his left hand,
Instead of his right.

The man I knew was caring,
Even when he was sick,
He put us before himself,
Blowing kisses,
Rather than getting us sick.

The man I knew was patient,
He helped me plant sunflowers,
And we watered them until they grew,
To be taller than me.

The man I knew was talented,
He built a whole table,
With only one available arm.

You taught me to be aware,
When I had to move my toys,
So you could walk through the living room.

You taught me to be lighthearted,
Making jokes to me,
Even as you laid dying in the hospital.

Life doesn’t have to be so serious.

I know I got so much from you,
I know you’re probably a big reason I love the stage,
A big reason I love to laugh,
A big reason I’m so sarcastic.

And while I love hearing stories,
About who you were “before,”
I know that the you that I knew was absolutely
Wonderful.

I still knew an amazing person,
And I can only hope that one day,
People will talk about me as fondly,
As they talk about you.

The thirteen years I knew you,
Were some of the best of my life,
And even though I know I’ll lose,
More of the people I love,
You were the first,
And so you hold a special place.

The last five years have been strange,
Seeing your chair empty,
Seeing your bed gone,
Seeing the backyard devoid,
Of random construction projects.

I miss you,
Grandpa,
And I love you,
And I’ll see you one day soon,
And then I’ll know you as you were,
“Before.”