The smell of an old and cheap,
but priceless guitar,
the acrid and dry aftertaste of
beer, lingering
with a sour smell of
ink,
chances missed, and opportunities
lost,
in a mind of memory
where the air grows wet,
and the season
begins its change,
there are times like these
and others
that will be missed and
put upon when similar
elements meet,
the dance consumes our bodies
as our bodies
flay open to deteriorate
and regenerate the lives
after,
and we say,
"Today.
I will live today."

arizona, my dearest love,
my eternal soulmate, and
partner in this life,
I have waited for you for lifetimes,
have sat patiently for your presence.
You have given my life more meaning,
more love, and more possibilities
than I ever thought to ask for.
I want you, only you, by my side.
I want you to be my support in this life.
I want you to bear our children
and to bear my name.
I want you in all your imperfect ways
and all your silly, goofy shenanigans.
You are my home, my salvation,
my morning prayers, and my sleepy goodnights.
Simply, you have completed me.

arizona, it would be an honor to stand
by your side in this life, and to do
so would make me the happiest man alive.

arizona, my love, my only love,
would you please marry me?

Let me take the pieces of you
and put them into one place
for you to ponder.
I cannot put them together for you.
As you know,
only you can do that.
But I can show you
that you haven’t lost as much love
as you perhaps believe,
and that the pieces
I would give to you,
if you would have them,
would eclipse
the dark moons of the past
and reveal to you
the bright suns
of a future.

I hope to
rediscover the world
through your eyes,
unlock the mysteries
behind the mundane
again.

See new colors,
think new thoughts,
find the lost joy in music.

I hope to
show you, teach you,
love you, reach you,
in all our imperfect
human ways.

Read new words,
twirl words into lines,
find the perfect poem
for you.

Through what fire and revelation,
what loves have scorched us so,
what vines have wrapped themselves
so sure around our feet,
what webs have we untangled,
left hanging in dusty cellars,
been left hanging on
bare walls.

What love have we longed for,
with what truth we have sought,
and seeds we have sown within
for the times which passed by
without a glimpse in our direction,
unrequited and bereft
of the dust which so dutifully
held us in place for too long.

For what is the matter
of such strife and martyrdom
in comparison to the love in which you have given,
and to what end have these things manifested
to become such stepping stones as
the things that
led me to
you.

This has been an interesting year for me.
I left 2017 in a depression,
it followed on into 2018.

I completed a year's worth of coursework
for my Master’s degree.
“Master’s of Science in Software Engineering
with a concentration in Cybersecurity
and Project Management."
What a ****** mouthful.

I started a new job -
one I enjoy coming to every day,
one where I'm never the smartest person
in the room.
I get to learn so much every day.
One where I can grow and
take on responsibility.

I took a leap of faith -
made my first investment
and bought a house.

Shortly after, I took some responsibility
for something other than myself
and got a dog.

I stopped underestimating how important
people are in my life.
I repaired some broken relationships
and nurtured some existing ones.

I went through a severe bout of depression.
I found myself drinking daily,
found myself on my knees in my driveway
pleading to God,
asking why and how.
Sometimes all you have to do is ask the question.

I found myself in a state of uncaring -
completely apathetic as to whether I should live or die,
suicidal,
with my gun calling my name, whispering,
growing louder with each drink.
In a drunken daze, completely broken
and defeated,
I admitted to one of my best friends how
close I'd come,
how tempted I'd been.
She took my gun off my hands,
in keeping with a promise we'd made to each other long ago.

I have not drank since,
nor will I ever drink again.

In these darkening hours is when
I found my faith in God,
something that seemed to be there
all along,
yet was something I couldn't admit
to myself.

I met the love of my life -
something I've never been so certain of -
and it's opened up possibilities
I had only dreamed of.
Someone that there's a future with,
that chooses to grow, to flourish,
and to love.

Certainly life has more challenges in store,
the struggle, the suffering, is never-ending,
and sometimes it's all we can do to
stay above water.

This year has been one of absolute transformation,
and this December looks entirely different
than the last.

People simply baffle me.
Existence much the same.

I cannot understand people, no I
will never understand people, so I
forget so it doesn't matter, and I
don't care anymore. **** this ****, goodbye.

I wonder who's around for me
and I wonder who's to blame.

So what is this life and what does it mean?
What if this is some elaborate dream?
What shall I be, and how does it seem?
Life is terrifying so just run. SCREAM.

And run from this, I run.
Whether it's prose or free verse, I'm done.
I'm ******* tired of this ****,
this runnin' around, this makin' me spit.

I don't know how to end this,
I don't. I thought it was over,
please say it's over, I won't.
Contracting these lies, this
murderous disguise. I believe them,
I do. Makes me question this
life and all that I'm given. Makes
me wonder and see
what makes me so driven.

But I need to stop, I must stop,
I must. Or I'll keep going and
going and drive it to dust.
I'll rip it apart, I'm taking
it down. I scream and scream
and make no sound. There's no
way out, there's no way in.
There's no way to start
except to
END!

I didn't realize how close I'd let you get to me.
I didn't realize your love was the only thing that made me see.
I wish you hadn't gotten this close.
I didn't know it would be you that hurt me the most.
So here I am, all lost and confused
Just wishing, maybe, you could take a walk in my shoes.
I wish I could show you all the tears that I've shed.
I wish I could tell you a life without you is to be a pointless life led.
I wish you could see all the blood that I have spilled.
I wish you to know it wasn't for attention, it was for me to be killed.
You took away your love, the only thing to me that mattered.
Without that, I shattered.
I didn't think this horrible pain would last.
But here I am, and several months have passed.
They say those who care the most fall the hardest.
And baby I'm telling you I've fallen the farthest.
I guess none of this matters now because I hear you've found somebody new.
But for the record, I still love you.

Sometimes I can't find the solace I require in my loneliness.
Other times I can.
I can rejoice in my presence, and
be grateful to be alive.
But now...
All there is now is a singular floating leaf
that is blown away from the pile before it can
land.
So Spring comes and the grass grows,
and I am still alone.
I search within myself for some seed,
some growth,
that proves that the soil is not spent,
and that my joy does not always require
recompent,
in vain.
And in vein these rivers and Spring wet-weather
branches flow,
for it rains and rains,
but nothing may grow.
But alone.
And as the limestone gives way to
ash, and roots that enclose to form
a ring,
we lose ourselves but for a moment,
but what could also be a hundred hundred years
that many many tears will allow me to
live
encircling an eternal hell
that may yet be
heaven.
I find the ways to say
as surely as the trees find a way
to reach toward the sun,
that the sun may give such life,
may turn the Winter to Spring to
Summer to fall as I do,
in love with you,
but will blind and burn
as surely as
you,
and will set and night will come
where I will howl and cry and sigh
at the moon,
alone,
without you.
And the stars shine bright as a reminder
that there are a hundred million hundred suns
like you,
but also that my sun has departed and
the hundred million hundred other suns
could burn a hundred million hundred years and not be
like you.
As surely as I search and the night grows long
with the shadows on the inside, and
all I find are the writings on
the chalk-hide to symbolize the turnings of years,
you rise,
with a greeting and a smile,
welcome,
my solace.

How could I possibly describe my favorite things about
her?
How could I possibly enumerate the things I
love?
How could I possibly question what her heart chooses to know, as
I?

For there are an innumerable amount of things she
does, says, is
that I adore more than all of the positive words in the
English language could possibly articulate.
And how could I dismiss it as unworthy of trying?
I couldn't.
Not in all of the Godly or ungodly years of this universe
or the next,
could I.

She is like a mirage, but not.
For the promise of water is sweet, but
people know of the illusion therefore do not
try.
But I have tried my hand and come away
with much more
than sand.

I have come away with the delicate soul
of pure water.

So I try.
To describe the shape,
the strength, the vitality,
the life-bearing qualities
of water:

For when she ties her bag of tea to
the cup,
I see.
That she is tied and ties because she is
free.
Watch her.
Watch how she flutters and stutters
and flies,
and one would do well to surmise
that her nature is also that of a
butterfly.
Why?
For she makes it possible for the Spring to come,
the flowers to bloom,
and the lovers to swoon.

For when she comes across something that causes
her to render an expression across her visage,
(and there are so many expressions! Indescribable,
unpredictable, yet when they come, no other expression
would have been sensical.)
I see.
That she wears her heart in her expressions.
As true (pure) as one (water) could ever
be.
And she knows it (even if she does not),
"*****!"
She'll exclaim, firing her guns,
the baddest ******* this side of the
Mississippi.

For when she is particular and planning
in tastes and in life, such as to take the time
to scrape a biscuit of pepper gravy for
later use, or
to have such disdain for provolone and corn,
(What happens if I melt the cheese over the corn?)
I see.
That no detail is beyond her scrutiny,
about herself and about the world,
she sees all,
is in all,
as is water.
Such a life she has led that
she cannot be afforded
mistakes, oversights.

For when she settles upon crossing a road
in which is meant to be crossed and is crossed by
white, and steps carefully, on-her-toes, quickly
across (only) the white,
I see.
That child-like gleam pass through her eyes
shining as bright a white as the Winter sky
as the sun refracts off the clouds.
Never has she given up (and never will she)
that child inside,
for she can't,
and shouldn't.
To do so would surely mean...
It matters not.
Such child-like wonder to
wander is a must.
Without child,
all of us are naught.

For when she lies about, let's me memorize every
inch, examine every detail, and there are three specific
(right side of chin, below right breast, under left shoulder)
marks of beauty.
I see.
That there is captivating charm within
what could be seen
(and who should see such should be petty and foolish, indeed!)
as imperfection.
That it is the minute marks that define
her as none other could ever be
before, or after, or
ever.

For when she reads and loves the freedom that
poetry (that of which I someday hope to write) often gives
and calls it miraculous and enchanting,
I see.
That her appreciation of others' appreciation,
which is quite a marvelous thing to perceive,
gives her the power to nurture
the nature
within herself and others
with such love to
grow flowers and trees and life into an otherwise
desolate wasteland, and to
turn the most arduous challenge
to that of which is
as effortless
as water.

For when she smiles, and her eyes squint as if the
happiness is too bright, and her nose wrinkles as if the
smell of laughter is too much to bear,
I see.
That despite all the hardship, all the pain,
all the struggle,
that she is stronger than I have yet to
discover.
That the strength to smile in the face of
the terrible truth that is this
world,
is a feat of unparalleled proportions,
and will guide her to many places
far and in between because
she is too strong to quit.

And finally:

For when she opens herself in a way that one pin-*****
would be fatal, and exposes to me the rough, lonely, responsible, insecure
kid that she was (and may still be),
I see.
That she has been reduced to nothing
far more than she has deserved (not that she ever deserved it!),
and she has taken it as well as one could,
not attempting to rebuild herself from
the shards,
but instead arranging them
to form something more glorious
than before.
That free and fair girl,
which has been so trodden upon,
so wronged, so hurt as to hurt as
long as there is existence,
(and when I trespass her too, I become so deeply ashamed
that there is little I can do)
has become the most beautifully broken person
I have ever had the honor to know.

For when she simply is,
I see.
That which has been broken may be made
more beautiful than
that which has not.

The words are there,
suspended in front of my
eyes and yours,
to be read and
to be written.
Their curves around the drip
drops of rain
on the concrete,
they crash to
become one
but only become many
as the ink from their words
flood the cracked road
with a pure pitch.
They have spilled from our lips,
and have run their course
and have carved their ledges
and cliffs into our rock-slide
lives,
and settled
to be written
before they have been spoken.

My own special heaven
Away from all that is bad
Reaching for forever
In the most wonderful way
Even if,
          It's far away.
Losing myself in you
Over and over
Vowing never to leave
Ever again
          Your sweet, sweet smile, an
          Oasis to behold
          Until...
                   forever.

I sit and I wonder
while I sit and I wander.
I think of what I do know,
and of those things that I don't.
Of what I need,
and simply of wants.

I think of this life,
then of our deaths.
How could we know
where to place bets?

Of course, I think of you,
I think of me.
And then of all,
that is yet to be.

Down these deep chasms of
my mind, I walk.
Questioning everything,
of which I'm unwilling to talk.

There seems to be purpose
to my life after all.
Who would have thought,
after such a great fall?

The train rumbles by,
the whistle keeps a-blowin'.
And I can't figure out,
just where I'mma goin'.

And so it comes,
as quickly as it came.
I have wondered,
and, Lord, I have wandered.
Only just to realize,
it's always the same.

I woke up 30 minutes earlier
than usual
with a bladder of **** about
to explode out of me.
An entire 12 pack in one night,
that **** again.
Nothing new.
Not even hungover.

I lost my mind over some stupid
****,
childish ****, crazy-type ****,
and sat bare-*** on the
bathroom floor at 6:30 in the morning
with my ***** resting on the
cold wooden (and new, I might add) floor.

It's stupid, I knew that,
and still do,
but it's definable and measurable
and if it's measured,
to me,
it's real.
As anything.

I sat on that floor
and felt my converter kicking on.
You know,
that mechanism that takes ****
and turns it into gold?

I know it's stupid,
but forgive me for being honest,
or don't.
Fling **** at me,
do it,
******* do it
****.

Talk to others
if that's what you want to do,
is that how that works?
I don't actually know.
Unfounded? Maybe.
But that's only part of it.

Time is precious.
If I'm not worth yours,
how can I give you mine?
That's ok.
Fine.
That's the real issue.
Forget it.

My **** converter is on,
I know where all of these
energies go,
I know how this goes for me.

The day starts.
Something feels wrong,
but what?
I make it through,
summoning every bit of
motivation.
It's hard to eat,
it's hard to move,
it's simply hard to live.
But I make it.
I pull through.
Then the night hits,
the creeping loneliness
surrounds.
The darkness seeps
from the floor,
the ceiling, the WALLS.
I am enveloped,
eclipsed,
completely enclosed,
by this.
My shoulders slump,
from the weight of the
DARKNESS.
The fire in my eyes,
gradually extinguished,
as the wave of hate
breaks over my soul.
I am broken down,
ground,
and chewed,
by the monster
darkness.
The monster that is
myself.
It burns, oh it burns,
straight through me,
destroying who I am,
who I was,
who I may become,
tearing through what hope
I try holding onto.
Every fiber it tears,
it shreds,
devours,
until I am but a shell
of my other self.
Confused,
scorned,
and cold, I can't remember
who I was. (who I am)
I try to remember,
what life is like
without the monster,
and can't.
Life isn't always this painful,
is it?
Doubt takes hold,
but what if it is?
Has life never been
worth it?
Surely not. Surely something
brings joy?
I can't remember.
I CAN'T REMEMBER.
It shakes through my bones,
echoing and bringing me
down, down
down.
I cry out.
Oh, God! Why?
Why me!
The tears fall, and fall,
in an everlasting
downpour, until
the room is full and
I am drowning.
I hardly care.
With the self-hatred,
sadness, and
hopelessness,
I'd rather die anyway.
I breathe the salty tears in,
a last, desperate attempt.
More and more
and more!
Be finished with me!
Because I am
finished!
Then I wake.
The day starts.

I have fallen
as the rain on a windswept path
covered in pine needles,
a home to the trodden
underfoot.
I have wept
as the rain in a silent Winter forest,
coating the leaves
and then sliding
slowly.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip.
I have frozen
as the rain above a jutting terrace,
forming cloudy icy trails
to the ground
below.

My friends and I laugh a lot
when we're together.
We talk about a lot of things.
Stupid ****, women, philosophy,
politics, games, books,
anything.
We've seen the women come and go,
been there for each other
through all the heart breaks,
seen each other drunk and crying,
drunk and suicidal.
You can't break those bonds.
We chose each other,
they chose me.
We're a very tight-knit group,
and it's hard for outsiders to understand us.
We've been on a lot of adventures.
We work well together --
we're always a team.
Not a bad looking group of fellas either,
so when we get on the move,
on the hunt,
women never stand a chance,
and God forbid anyone ever
cross us when we're together.
As a team we're invincible,
we can't be touched.
They would lay down their lives for me,
and I would do the same.
It's unspoken, but we know it well.
We will ride together,
and we will die together
as brothers.

I just wish someone out there knew how I felt tonight.
I wish someone could feel these tears, as they slide
down my cheek, past my lips, and, finally,
fall, onto the paper. I just want someone
to understand. I'm so tired of being alone in this.
I don't know how much longer I can do it.
I've never been so tired, so annoyed, so frustrated,
so angry, so torn up, so absolutely
******* SICK of any god ****** thing.
I've dealt with myself for years already, and
I'm already worn thin. I just don't think I
can do it. I'm tired of living, I guess, and
I just need, I NEED, someone who understands:
I'm okay with dying.

Watch carefully as the rain gathers
in the crux between a broken shoulder
and tender neck.
How the footsteps fall as if from the sky
in tandem with the falling rain.
But it’s not something one must be told to see,
for it is easy to crucify the self
amid the muddy steps
where faith must be found.

God hears you.

In the drops on the hair on
the head as in your head
in the clouds
as He is.
So must you be.

It’s time to kneel
in a way which has never been attempted.
It’s time to recognize the conception is whatever
you conceive of Him to be,
and that it matters not the form.

Eliminate your suffering as the Buddha has.

The water exists,
it soaks you through and
comes from within without.
But there is always warmth,
it only must be found.
As such the four noble truths
set to a path known for years.

The time of ingesting poison must
come to pass
or death must come sooner.

You can’t do this alone.

Something shifted.
The gun was in my hand,
and I was to my feet
immediately.
I heard the safety click off
somewhere in the distance.
The gun lead me around
the apartment,
clearing rooms one by one
logically
with my back covered
at all times.

Last night I heard something
deep in the wells of
my dream-state.
I forced myself awake,
pulled myself from the
darkness of sleep,
barely,
to listen.

Remnants of my childhood.
Like my Mother,
I am a protector
and ruler
of my domain.

Trying is not good enough.
Nor will it ever be.

Steal my words away,
in cryptic ways they have
always been yours.
And while the wave of yesterdays
fall upon me,
and I gather my courage,
you'll slip away like you do.
Let me know in what ways
I cling too strongly;
please don't leave as
everyone else has.
I cannot stand the absences
I leave in myself.
My knees have been sore lately,
begging, pleading
for my own forgiveness.
I will not (cannot) cleave
if unwelcome,
so send me away to feel
soft sand and sharp shells
while I sift myself in
oceans blue.
You'll discover stars alone
within and across and above
regardless,
so I beg of you,
if only for a little while,
stay.

Fall below the sea, if it so ails,
I will stay here to catch you.
Take me, in ways and in flesh,
wherever you so choose to go.
Do you hear how the wind cries?
How the midnight air swells,
paint me pictures with your words,
and I'll paint you in mine.
I'll show you where this attachment grows,
how the flowing motion of your body
is laid into satin robes,
and when your hips so sway into me,
let's dig into these unmannered times,
how I long to find the ways you
wrap yourself around me,
what my name sounds like passing from
your lips softly as the day's first
light gleams off your ocean eyes.
Lift me with you, I'll take you below me,
show you where this visceral dance
stays within and makes
us so true
and right.

I tried to peel back the layers of you -
layers you had not
or would not yet
face.
I wanted to get down to the root
of all the mysteries you hold within.
I wanted to see the things you hide
and the thoughts you keep safe
from the world.
I wanted to know you -
to truly know you
as a complex being across time
and space and oceans
above,
a companion in this life.

Tumbling down mountains
through long and sharp grass,
I find
that the dew I’ve gathered
is of little consequence
to the stars
I’ve pondered
above.

Yet I still find myself
glancing skyward
as I gather speed,
wondering
if they’re
watching
and hoping
I might catch
their eye.

I just want to sleep,
yet don't know how.
I lay my head to rest,
my mind sparks up instead.
I feel the tears fall down,
and the emotions rise within.
I know what is coming,
there is just little I can do.

And so, I fight the tears,
I fight myself.
I should have no fight left in me,
for I am far too tired,
but it continues just the same.

My world descends to
chaos. My thoughts
                    fall
                 into ash.
The room s
                     p
                         i
                     n
                  s
and will not stop.
I am lost                   from me,

and even further                                                          ­            from you.

I am just so tired.
And it is trivial
because, like everyone,
I will sleep when I die.

I thought my home was with you,
but you sat upon a raft
with a motor that had a large,
sharp propeller.
A boat, and a powerful one.
While I sat upon my island,
some would say stranded,
but I would say
found.
You visited, happened to
glance my way on your travels,
and I wanted you to dock,
to stay for a spell,
but I knew your engine
would have cut my rope,
so I hopped upon your craft,
hopped off,
and watched as you again
drifted away.

When the mountains stretch across a starry sky,
the lone bird yells its final call,
and the desolate song bird sings,
sings that the world may be right
as another preaches its wrongs,
so shall too the ground take us all.
And with misdirection the trees grow
from this very soil which reaps
all life from the very beginnings
to the ending of time.
They pass by, so carefully,
and speaking in ways which are
easy, but misleading, as all
creatures do. Why must the truth
be so difficult to find?
How can they not see in the wake of
the sun's wake, and the passing
of four seasons, that it was not
a dream? Dreaming of times when
Mother Earth was kinder, these blades
of grass reach for the heaven and
moon, in a park with hammocks
where dreams were
destroyed.

Death?
What are you?
Are you what gives life meaning?
Or is it...
Life that gives you meaning?
Are you actually wonderful,
compared to life?
Or
is it because life is so wonderful,
that we are afraid to die?
It is only life that is within our perception,
for we do not perceive you,
death.
We know that life is full of trials,
but
we don't recognize that you could be too.
For we cannot comprehend you.

Do we fade?
Completely out of existence?
Never to return?
Or, do we meet a
Creator?
Does our being wander,
through a limitless void?
Or, is it possible,
we are given another life?
And death does not really exist?
What if everyone is waiting?
Our loved ones, our friends,
all on the other side.
We can only guess.
But, why guess at all?
Why not just live
Life.

They always seem legitimate
to the person that makes them.

And then it dawned on me,
quite suddenly, with no warning,
just how much I loved you.
As you fell apart,
I realized then
that I would give up
everything,
sacrifice anything,
just for you to be happy
again.

I can't apologize anymore,
for who I am, who I've come to be,
who I was and will be.
I cannot.
If my person offends you
when I do not speak my thoughts,
and also when I do,
I cannot help you.
I have spoken far too much,
and far too little,
for far too long
not to know
what I should hide
and what I should show.
I have wrestled my thoughts
for years until I've found I cannot,
but instead must observe them with
an objective eye,
cut them open
with an inquisitive mind,
searching for something,
but only to find --
that it is best to let them pass
without consequence,
without permanence,
only resonance.
And if you cannot take seriously
the things I know seriously
of people, the world,
the pain,
then you deserve
manipulation,
exploitation,
desecration.
For I do not speak lies,
and if so,
by mere mistake,
when I speak of what I see,
and what I see is fake.
Too many false words
have fallen on my ears
not to be distrustful
for the rest of all my years,
and not to know and read and see
what people would have come of things.
And I cannot blame them, no.
For we are all full of ***** tactics,
shadowy motives, and schemes.
It is everyone's duty to see this
in themselves,
and to know it must be in others
as well.
And when I try to take responsibility
for not or for
voicing passing thoughts,
and their effects,
only to be met with more wrongs,
and rejects,
I cannot.
For if I am to believe
my responsibility towards you
is meaningless,
then I should seek responsibility elsewhere.
I know.
I know there is much to learn,
and much I do not know,
because I know what I know,
and I know how little that is.
What I know are things about myself,
and therefore others,
that I will always improve upon myself,
or at the very least,
I will try.

So I will not apologize anymore.
For to do so means apologizing for
learning, of myself and of others,
for improving, of myself and of others,
and for trying, for myself and for others,
and I cannot.

I cannot apologize.

Filling holes with things,
stuffing with green and items,
wanting to eat with kings,
needing to be king,
knowing that this desire cannot
be satiated,
nor can the want for
it to be.
Though notes bring slivers,
minuscule portions of contentment,
it is only obvious to seek
to find more,
until the pit is filled
to less full than it was.
It is impossible to give all away
and search for
substance, isn't it?
Or is it?
Maybe it is yet impossible to take
all and give nothing and be
full and large and happy.
Sliding into this familiar space,
I feel the weight of
emptiness,
exactly as it was before,
where it has always been.

I have tried to
chart and compass
exactly where I have strewn
the pieces of my love.
I find them trapped
in the constellations
and collages of
long past photographs.
A wandering mind
is never at home,
and I'm afraid
I have forgotten mine.
I still find myself lost
somewhere between
Orion and Pleiades -
on the chase for
a simple kind of love.
But here I am,
stretched over millions of miles
in a direction I cannot grasp.

Take my hand,
and let me show you
what peace you may find
among the rolling ocean.
You have charted your way
from galaxy to more,
now use your compass
to rediscover the pieces you have
let fall from the skies above.
I have used your guiding light
to steer my vessel
into yet untamed waters
for years.
I have dropped anchor
and loved many for long and still,
but I travel on
always leaving parts of myself
trapped in the soggy pages
of the past.
Let us not lose ourselves in
the moments we have left behind.
Instead let us forge ahead
in fiery rapture
across the ever-changing sea
and the ever-burning stars
to chase Poseidon
into the depths
together.

I'm depressed almost every day. Nobody knows how bad it's gotten.

I have a problem with alcohol. The alcohol feeds my depression, and the depression feeds my addiction. My life is spiraling out of control, and nobody knows.

I thought I moved past being suicidal years ago. I was wrong.

I'm ready to get help, but I don't know how.

I'm doing the best I can.

The day you tried to live,
you could not,
and passed on to the
Superunknown
and let us fall on
black days.
You finally let yourself drown
in a way much
like suicide,
a spoon in your hand?
Spoonman?
You could never quite break
your rusty cages,
outshined by your own light,
burdened by your own hand.
You roll on like a stone,
the final hunger strike.
Someone forgot to
show you how to live,
and now you will be missed.

I know this one girl.
She's amazing, let me tell you:
Her eyes,
they contain the depth of the deepest part of the ocean,
they are as brilliant as a sapphire under the desert sun,
maybe even more so.
they hold the pain of ten lifetimes,
yet when she smiles,
Her smile,
it radiates the brilliance of twenty suns,
it reaches as far as the furthest stars and makes them smile too,
it is enough to bring even the toughest man to his knees.
And when she speaks, oh my,
Her voice,
it is as sweet as thirty pounds of sugar condensed into one tablespoon,
it weaves into existence the most brilliant melody the world will ever know,
it has the power to melt away any troubles that may plague the mind.
And I know her,
and I am sad for those who do not.

There is this quiet
and persistent voice
in my head -
quiet enough not to be heard
in everyday life, but
persistent enough to be an
agonizing stitch -
that tells me that society is wrong,
that it is backwards,
that its morals are convoluted,
and only when I am surrounded
by the sounds of nature -
the rushing of water,
the chirping of birds,
the buzz of insects -
and not civilization
can I hear it
without agony.

Face your fears with me,
and we will conquer them
together.
No more running,
no more shying away from that
which is unpleasant.
You are courageous and virtuous,
and the sum of all your mistakes
will never be the sum of all you are.
Gaze at what is harsh and real with me,
let me be your eyes,
let me catch you if you stumble -
we will both fall inevitably.
Let truth only fall from our lips,
and we will always be whole,
we will always find
a way.

I think of you
when the water begins
its fall
from the sky.
Of how you flooded
my eyes,
made sure my willing heart
swelled with your words.
I let you take what you wanted,
maybe what you needed
even
and gave you more,
but not enough for you
who wanted less than nothing.

Speaking into the air, he sang
sung, and preached mainly on one
subject.
"Playing the black card again."
As if that was the epitome of who
he was and is.
As if racism wasn't over and still existed.
Segregation isn't a thing anymore.
Who cares?
People don't get lynched anymore.
It's not like we don't have all the same
opportunities, don't all go to the same schools,
can't all apply for government assistance to get into college.
The media doesn't tell the truth.
Everyone knows that.
Blue on black crime is way
over reported.

This is the voice of many people in my hometown,
bouncing through my head,
ringing in my ears,
as it comes from their loud mouths
and closed minds and covered ears.
This is the voice of all the propaganda
and rhetoric I was fed as a kid.

Don't get it wrong,
I wasn't raised a racist.
My mother always told me that if you
treated them like you treated anyone else,
that nothing would happen.

I internalized it as "treat everyone the same."
It was years later before I realized the subtext,
the subtle divisive and splitting
nature her words had.
"Us and them."

The subconscious is a *****.

I had a cousin that married a black man.
She was ostracized in the family for
a long time.
My mother was the only one that stood
up for her.
Years after this incident my
niece started dating one of my black friends.
His name is not Token.
They were in love and everyone was
delighted for them.
There were flowers, it was mushy and sickening.
Everyone but my mother.
She pitched a fit, and did everything
she could to destroy the relationship.

I remember calling her and trying to
talk some sense into her.
Of course, it didn't work.
I was emotional,
and for the first and only time in my life,
I told my mom I was disappointed in her.

And I hear this man speaking up here,
talking about matters close to his heart,
and then I hear the white privilege
whispering in my own ear,
and I silence it.

Of course his color has colored his life.
In just the same way my pale skin
has made me blind and often insensitive to the
injustices anywhere which are injustices
everywhere.
And I can quote Dr. King,
but I can't know how he felt.

I don't trust people that say they don't see color.
If you can't see color then you must only
see the blinding white of your own privilege.
If you can't differentiate between one skin
color and another
how in the **** can you possibly speak on
prejudice?

Not being racist does not mean not seeing color.
Not being racist means putting aside your pride and
seeing your color as well as everyone else's.

I am inherently racist because of where I come from.
The system we live in was built on racism.
Isn't it possible the system is racist as well?

There is a darkness in me.
I think most people see it in my eyes,
a wolf with no disguise
on the hunt
always.
Don't you dare move too suddenly.
My teeth are sharp and my wits are quick.
I'd sooner tear out your throat for speaking
than to listen to what you have to say.
I'm ruthless.
I hide in shadows of the natural dark
only coming into the light to claim my prey.

There is a darkness in me.
I have a reptile brain
driven by id with hardly a superego.
I can barely control myself sometimes.
It takes all of me not to take all of everything.
There is a conscious somewhere.

There is a darkness in me.
A cold, calculating void
that plans and plans and plans
and executes
you and me both
without a word and without a sound.
My actions speak for themselves:
I am a dagger in the night.

I may have been born this way,
a combination of my father and mother's genes,
or I may have been molded,
driven to conquer out of necessity and hardship.
I don't know,
but this is who I am.

I find myself
in the same places
again and again.
Right in between the cracks
of where memories form
and people are built.
Between the ties
of an old railroad track
and in the sound
of a rushing creek.

I visit this place when I can.

The vines have grown up,
as there are no longer feet
to stomp them down.

I suppose I have too.

I still find myself
waiting for the train
to come down the line
so it can rattle the air around me,
so it can rattle the teeth in my head
and remind me
that though many things have changed,
there are many things
that have not.

I woke up sad today.
Gently, I asked myself,
"Why?"
And my mind, responding,
showed me the dreams that, for once,
were a direct reflection of what had happened
the night before.
I'd glanced at your fridge, noticing,
not for the first time, the absence of
anything related to me,
and the presence of the past,
as if, somehow, the past had become,
once again,
more important than I.
But it's not my place to make those assumptions.
And you noticed my glance, maybe thinking
it was the first time I'd seen it.
Again, not my place.
My best guess for this would not be a matter
of importance, but, as usual,
a matter of ***-for-tat.
As if I made the decision to set
that bridge aflame.
I didn't.
And I refuse to make amends,
once and time and time again,
for something I hold no responsibility for.

I woke up sad today.
I examined it carefully over my morning
cereal and coffee,
accepted it,
and went on to have a semi-productive day.
And it's still here, this sadness.
And as usual, as it's mostly always been,
there is nobody to talk to.
My only comfort is a pen and paper.
Of course.
I ask myself,
"How could you open up to people?"
Not long ago I was described as emotionless.
Because, I guess, I don't openly express
my emotions,
but how could I?
Nobody has any interest in knowing me beyond
what I show them,
and that's ok,
but I wish people wouldn't assume
invisible means non-existent.

I woke up sad today.
I can't figure out if
I am guilty of seeking to be understood
before understanding,
or if others are guilty of it.
The result is the same, of course.
But I can only change myself.
And there are already steps in place
to create this change,
I could never be accused of not trying,
but self-improvement doesn't seem to end.
I'm content with myself,
but I'm still lonely.
And as usual, I'm wallowing.

I woke up missing a friend.

Write in pen, not in pencil.
Such as in life,
we cannot erase.
Only mark, and scribble, and
smudge it away.
But the mistakes persist.
We write new lines,
new words,
new stories,
past the darkened marks
of our accidents,
in hopes we remain perfcet
onward, afterward,
only to misstep, miswrite,
misrepresent who we are and
permanently leave imperfect
marks upon the pages of
others' lives.

We can’t know the wind
but the wind may know us

It wasn't until a friend of mine pointed it out
that I realized it.
He said
think about it,
you like the woods,
you like mud riding,
and drinking beer,
and shooting guns.
You like the open air
in any season.
You like fixing cars,
and cutting grass,
and laying under the midnight stars.
You like sweet tea,
and cornbread and beans,
and, even more,
you like cornbread and milk.
You like dirt roads,
and you like the open water.
You like being *****, greasy,
cussin and spittin.
You like going into the wilderness
with just what's on your back,
just to see if you can make it out again.
You like sitting on the porch
for hours on end
doing nothing.
You like all these things,
and you're going to tell me
you're not country?

I looked at him, and I said
fine,
I'm country.

A world plunges into chaos
as world leaders with worldly
egos make decisions
based on what?
Because these small men cannot
fight their battles among themselves
they send children to **** children
and for what?
They drop bombs, the
Mother Of All Bombs
to collapse tunnels on
Mothers' sons.
Who authorized this?
With nuclear tensions rising
in a sea of ships
invading a country's personal space,
while the drums of war
beat with fervor
and the blood pounds in these
leaders' ears,
and the people that elected them
just sit back in fear,
as if they're watching
World War III
live and in color in a crowded
and dark theatre.
These men all think they
are on the right side of history,
and they are showing,
flexing,
their country's muscle,
they think to back down is
a display of weakness,
but it is the monks of the world,
the meek of the Earth,
which will outlast them all.
They think they can justify the
killing and slaughter of others,
but what happens if you flip it?
Would you not militarize as
a regular human as well
should your homeland be invaded?
How can we blame these people?
Is it too much to hope for
that we lay down these arms
and not destroy ourselves?
There is no you,
there is no me,
we do not **** others,
we only **** ourselves.
There is only us,
and we are all in this together.

Senseless
         Falling
  Soaring
       Fastidiousness
           Shooting
                      Further

I try to hold it in.
I feel it rising again.
I look around, I swallow.
Contain this, I say to myself.
It may have been coming all day,
but you can stop it short.
You can.
But that's not true.
I know it's not.
It comes as it pleases,
and I am forever at it's mercy.
I lay my head down.
I try to accept it.
I pick up a pen,
and flip to the next page
in my only solace.
I write, and I realize,
it's ******* pointless.
**** it.