Living with PTSD is like riding a horse, feeling the crisp breeze, the exhilaration of the gallop, the rhythm of the horse's hooves, and the synchronicity between the rider and horse.  The goodness of life captured in the view over fields and valleys, the smell of grass and flowers, and the beauty of the sunset on the horizon.  

And out of nowhere the trigger knocks me off of the horse.  Just before I black out I see the bottom side of the horse, and his powerful hooves, right over my head.  And then there I am, on my back, smelling dirt and manure, and not knowing at all where I am, or how it is that I came to be there.  Panicking and alone, the sound of horses far away.  This can be made more confusing when someone next to me blames me for falling, as if I have fallen on purpose.  This is what it feels like.  

My horse came back today, and I'm not astride yet, but he's standing here warming me, waiting for me to climb back up, nuzzling me with his warm, wet breath, and communicating that the view is great, the air is crisp, and the rhythm of the ride awaits.

In your heart,
can you sit with the grieving,
see what they are feeling,
and grow some compassion?

Tears from a stranger,
a mother’s exhaustion,
wearing the body language
of those who’ve been broken.

No hugs allowed,
no warm faces to comfort,
no one to hold,
no matter how much we want it.

In your mind can you comprehend
what all this pain is doing to them.

It’s not rocket science,
and should be obvious.
Life is constantly changing,
bringing with it new forms of adversity.

So obviously we should meet
all of these new challenges
by embracing diversity,
learning how to see things differently
and growing into better
brighter human beings.

The past is
ashes,
burns as it
ask us
to do
what we must
to get by enough,
till time picks us
off.

It confuses
as it uses
all our truths
and illusions
to deludes us.

Nostalgic
daydreams
of never where
***** things,

fiercely fueled
solar flares
of incinerating despair,
with a gravity
that draws us
back to a path
that no longer exists,
to closest and corners
where we no longer fit.

The familiarity of all of it,
beating out the uncertainty
of a future we have yet see,
is so strangely appealing.

But I have a feeling
we should be living in
the here and now.

I’ve done
some
serious wrongs,
committed horrors
in these songs
as I worked out
where and why
I should belong.

I’ve made a lot of
errors looking for love,
not thinking enough,
drinking too much
to cover up
what a heart ache does.

I can’t say for certain
if I have caused
or eased
this world’s hurting.

Is the world better
for my existing in it,
or is it just
what it is?

I may never know,
and that’s ok.
I may never be
really great.
I can handle that,
cause when I die
I don’t plan on
coming back.

This point in my life
I am just enjoying
this self-generating light.
I may be uncertain
but I am certainly doing
alright.

It is not the lion
or the wolf
you should fear.

It’s the howling storm
that breaks the chains
you hold so dear.

The attitude that shatters
all those sacred matters
which add up to
nothing but junk food
for the human mind.

All those
restrictions
you let others impose,

all those
pathways
they told you
were not the right way to go,

the ones you knew
led to a brighter day.

I was not made
to devastate
the mental state
of hearts enslaved
by the corporate government
that barely pays minimum wage.

Destiny, was not laid before me,
I just happen to acquire
a brain that desires
to explore everything.

Fear is just the tool
used to cower fools.
Curiosity is what we all need,
to generate unlimited diversity
of dreams, scientific discoveries,
and great stories.

It will give us the power
to write new lights of insight
into our current reality,
opening up unknown possibilities,
and better ways to elevate to a higher state of free,
instead of the capitalistic prison and religion some love
that calls itself democracy.

I can only pass on a fraction
of what I see and understand.

This language is a helper,
a cleaner, sharper,
sometimes meaner
gardener
that wants to trim
my branches
and clear the whims
and fancies
that I like to play in.

But there is so much more
than what I am writing and saying,
these letters and lines
are not fully portraying
the games I am playing
in my head to get a better grasp on
what is really going on
in this human situation.

When I am well-rested,
the best is all around,
all sights and sounds,
skin sensations,
but not smells
cause I can’t tell
one scent from another.

There are worlds that transcend
the energies we spend
trying to comprehend them;
Not magical realms
or fairytale fantasy lands
just undiscovered countries
of knowledge that man
has yet to get to.

When I look at you,
I see an unknown quantity,
family history,
strange ancestry
going back to
a gross glowing goo
that went through
so much to get to
become the full wonder that you are.

I see mental calculations,
physical exertions in repetitions
and multi planar movements,
a magnitude of observations,
and opportunities that were neglected
because you let your mind and body
redirect you from truths scientific.

I see the poetry of experiences
written on your skin,
reflected in your muscles,
and the wrinkles when
you are smiling.

When I am driving
listening to audiobooks
podcasts, or music
I use all of it,
try to imagine new
and inverted ways
to say what I want to convey
passing on what makes us great
and what I hate
about the human race.

But there is just so much,
and I don’t always have
the patience to write that way.

This is not a prophecy.
This is just me
proffering what I see,
offering thee poetry,
cuz words are free.

I am being super selective,
plucking past perspectives,
and putting them in poetry,
then projecting forward
from them,

and in some of those moments
I've made predictions,
but those were from
human’s obvious predilections,
those sick predispositions
which led to the onslaught of war
and so many more
human atrocities.

I am useless.
A pathetic ******,
that talks a lot
of poetic *******,
but seldom ever
lives up to it.

I’ve been crawling
scrawling
weird drawings
on my dark cave mind,
keeping primitive
images
poorly defined
so, I can change
their meaning
anytime
I like.

I am tired,
too weary
for this dreary
twilight,
counting down
with the
Clockwork Sphynx
who thinks
we all stink,
so he stopped asking riddles,
and started riffing
while sniffing
sandy breezes
till he sneezes
and breathes out
more doubt.

This is pointless,
I am just dust,
not even worth enough
to get me up
when I’d rather just
lay down and sleep. cont.

What is even the point
of me?

Some people keep it simple,
claim their body is a temple,
a holy relic of the divine
and use religions to sedate their mind.

But my body is a prison,
made up of all my bad decisions,
though I keep on living
through the struggles I was given.

Shadows burn like acid,
with secrets held so tight
that I cramp inside.

Others like to smile,
party, and go wild
being free in the moment
letting nothing slow them,
till they grow old an
their temple falls down.

But my body is a library,
full of words and thoughts
that are super scary,
a universe inside a small box.
Boundaries once made
turn to jagged edges, then blur,
as all I see and learn
makes me disturbed.

I can almost always be
dangerously carefree,
oblivious to the mess
of human debris
that floats like flotsam
around me,
till I hear them scream
as they start drowning.

Then I sense
their scarlet secrets,
linked letters
that write themselves.

I can feel the weight
that presses on their chests,
as they struggle for
a restorative breath.

Their skin bleeds raw
ravaged by savage
brushstrokes,
ancient furies channeled
as my fellow humans scramble,
yet still fail to survive.

The feeling passes
almost as fast as
I can type it.
My humanity collapses,
as pain is exchanged for less
and more pleasurable pursuits,
and the anguish fades
retreating in my own
distracting ways.

My empathy shrivels up
as I go on enjoying all my stuff.

I have written repeatedly
about how nature
embraces me.

But I have never seen
verses so serene,
written with
the love of this
blooming green.

Her poetry sings
sweet soliloquies
of rapturous beauty
and poetic clarity;

Inspires new dreams
of a lunar lady,
with pure white hair,
turquoise eyes,
and cold blue lips
encrusted with
winter frost,
a woman
of the winter lake
that breaks
the night
with random ripples
of delight.

Countering
the cold queen
are the children
of the emerald green,
oz inspired
spring petals spiral
swirling in
a tornadoes wind,
flowers whipped
back and forth
but never breaking
whilst oaks crack
and crumble
under the gale forcecont.
fury.

With powerful impressions
this poet possesses
my mad mind
making me
succumb to
strange fantasies,

pushing me
to write better poetry
in hopes I might
impress her
as she has me.

In the end
the line bends,
curving to collect
all we wish to inspect.

The way is not straight,
and waves of joy
may be too late
to save a perfect state
of peace.

Life may convict,
turn us to convicts
but if we live
than hopefully
we will have
the chance
to change things.

The grifts are plenty,
and grifters more,
but they came before
and though I abhor
their vile ways
they will probably
still be here after me.

You are a curiosity,
a very strange
flower to me,
blooming beautifully
with grand ideas
I hope to read.

Though some days
I may complain
and some pains
may strain my brain,

I hope I will
always try to be
a kinder,
wiser,
better,
version of me.