Self-awareness is a virtue
like no other,
so I seek not to excuse anyone
completely,
but some have seen multitudes
of shattering pain,
been through countless nights
of sobbing and wailing and crying,
dark, scared, and alone.
Been through abuses unspeakable,
torn from families,
families torn from them,
torn into them.
Some see tragedy after tragedy after
tragedy
warp their very soul
and never reconcile it with the world.
Some experience the truly malevolent
in others or in themselves,
and are never able to bring it to peace.
Some live in perpetual hells
brought on from themselves
or inescapable circumstances.
And yet, despite all of this,
most are capable of great good
and great love in this world.
It’s a wonder there’s any good
in anyone
at all,
so how do we explain that?

Memories of snow-filled rock caves,
and of following the branches of water
to a faux river,
and becoming hopelessly lost.
Trudging up logging hills,
as the impending storm looms closer
and closer.
Your eyes, clearly,
lost in something we could never
be, but we tried,
didn't we?
The seasons passed too slowly for us
and our wandering, inquisitive
minds.
Stumbling up a road, a hill,
leading to your home,
as you were mine,
wearing gloves of mine
to keep your warmth for myself,
selfish,
knowing it will always belong to
Earth.
Snow angels.

I long for that Wintry, Willowy wonderland
still.

You pushed so hard.
It's a wonder the walls didn't crumble
sooner, and all of the delusions
melt the very floor we stood upon.
How could we have both been so blind,
how are you still so?
Projecting upon a person accusations and insecurities,
how did I not see that you were hiding the
very thing you were trying to find in me?
If you had found it, all of your own
demons could have been justified.
That's the logic behind that, right?
Whether consciously or unconsciously we are always
trying to rid ourselves of blame.
You should know that.
Why don't you?

i recycle my words
stitch them rip them
tear them apart
turn them into monstrosities
frankensteins of lines
transplant them from here to there
from yours to mine and mine
to none
dead brain dead weight
fallen limbs and the
butchers table
to who or whom
do they belong not mine
let them rot decay
and fade with the times
a madman and a cleaver
cleaving clinging slinging
syllables together senselessly
sensually
torn flesh from bone
marrow and bloodletting
to purify the sickness

How many times do I have to regress
and regret all the times
I've faltered?
Should I relive and revive all
my sins and wrongs,
create and shape my own private hell?
Is it not what I deserve?
To bury the past in shallow graves
so the rain may reveal
the skeletons of my loves past
yet never gone -
what of the dirt on my hands?
Is it not plain to see the time
I've spent digging holes within?
Ask not of me what you dare not ask of yourself.

These dream states
slate me for the things
which are to come.
There is only one truth
far away from my current view;
I see all through crystalline goggles.
Please, don't let me fall
into this waking nightmare
and be captured into
the one place I know
again.
I have lifted my words and being
by rooting them in truth,
but I'm still missing something
somewhere.
Somewhere
I am still dreaming.

I stay deep in silent reveries
and lost in meditation

Irons in the fire.
Irons in the fire.
Got a lot of things going,
a lot of irons in the fire.
Take one out,
put another one in,
keep them all going,
irons in the fire.

Are you like the wind
through open windows and
blowing leaves?
Do you pass by,
felt but not heard,
in the longing hour of the night?
Do you sing in silence
away from the reveries of your fate?
Will you settle on me
such as dust in an old room
with older books,
or will you pass by
as fleeting as a swallow
as the Winter
approaches?

Looking
back
at it,

you were the ******* crazy one.

To the days I mark the date
and nothing else.

What would normally inspire
is now but a frugal reality.

Forgive my silence;
I know not what to say.
My heart is hardened on this matter,
and I'm ashamed of how deftly
I have, once again,
taken another apart.
You faced me,
now I cannot face you
to reveal that which I know.
I am a fool in many ways.

I stare at the wall
with thoughts thick as molasses sliding
down my arms,
mind is blank, the refrigerator hums,
semi-solitude.
Tickle the ivories, hoping to spark
the motivation to learn a song,
but instead find ashes where
fire has not been in god knows how long.
My brain has heard the screams of
my liver and knows it is time to
rebalance the chemicals,
but it will take some time.
I'm surrounded by books with knowledge,
yet all I have the will to do is
add to mine my sub-standard
notes.
Write the things that feel like
sentences, but when spoke,
are accidental rhythm and
stride, I don't know.
My eyelids have attached to them
dangling rocks under gravity's
command while my eyes cannot
dare to fall under a restful pitch,
so I stare.
Catatonic, canonical,
half here, whole gone,
I stare.

I read somewhere that the mark of a
narcissist in relationships is the constant
"place a person on a pedestal" versus
"person being the worst ever"
when I was trying to figure out my
narcissistic tendencies and if
a more distant lover was a narcissist.
I have seen this, been on the receiving
end of this,
so it doesn't surprise me when it,
again,
happens.
I have been on the giving end of this,
and the thing I find most important
in these situations is to not deny the
love you have for a person
even if you feel badly about them.
It only serves to damage both parties.

I have washed up on your shore,
risen above and into your blue skies,
heard the visions of truth and future
in the ways you call my name;
you are my soul companion.
I need you in ever-present ways,
your constant grace and kindness to be held,
an effervescent stone moored in the
ever-changing seas of our life.
I beg of you, with all of the hope that I have,
I'll place myself at your mercy,
to accept my rugged and broken ways,
please,
as you have matched my desires
and shown me what your love must hold for me.
Let me cover you under warm blankets,
enveloped in love's rough passion,
pull your being into mine,
and ******* name
as it escapes from
your lips.

What pages do you flow between
like a draft through an open door,
through mine and others’,
a perfect line on an otherwise
smudged page?

You appeared in another dream -
this time we said goodbye.

I do the best I can
with what it is I'm given.
Many times
have I produced something
from nothing.
At this point, I am
the master of my world,
your world, and everything
else, I claim.
There will never be anyone
who can break me. For
I am the strongest.
I work the hardest.
I suffer the longest.
I am me, and
only me could beat
me. I come from
nothing, and, see now,
what am I? I am
something. Something more
than nothing.
And, take heed, even
nothing more than
something, is something
still the same.

I will always have time
for your passing thoughts.
Reveal to me the laughter and
heartache of your daily life,
I will always be gentle with your soul.
Ask of me what you need,
I will give you all that I am able.
Sleep soundly beside me,
and if nightmares should come,
know that I will chase them away.

I went to a wedding yesterday.
Saw some brothers and old friends.
A brother asked if I had
quit drinking, after denying his
pressure multiple times.
I said yeah, he immediately stopped
pressuring and asked "why?"
I told him,
something I wouldn't have done before,
"You know, I just didn't like myself
with alcohol. Plus it fed into my
depressive issues, and the cycle just
kept happening. I'm just done with it."
I left out that I'm currently in one,
no reason to explore that on a happy occasion.
But he understood, probably more than most.
Another brother and I dipped off
to have a "GTT" or
"Garbage Trash Talk."
Something we made up years ago that's
code for a brother-heart-to-heart.
We talked of loves present and past,
and what we hoped for the future.
Significant happenings.
I told him that she left for a while,
how it tore me up,
and how she's back now. He said,
"Do you think she'll do it again?
At this point I'm just
looking out for you, bro."
I told him, I said,
"I don't know, man, but
I'm willing to find out."
He accepted, knowing how I felt.
I admitted to him that I'd
"given myself up to God."
He beamed and recounted a time,
a conversation we had had some years
ago, outside of Sonic, drunk.
I had cried to him,
struggling in my faith, trying
to understand how God fit into my
life, even then.
He thanked me, it's always meant
so much to him.
I thanked him as well.
I was struggling on my drive home,
stuck somewhere between meaningless despair
and hopeless loneliness.
I had prayed.
He called me, drunk,
about to pass out,
just to say,
"Keep up the good work, man"
to which I responded,
"I'm doing my best, man."

Coming in contact
with darkest parts of the self -
how do we survive?

They call out,
"The disabled, line up!"
There is a man who stands,
and as if realizing who he is,
what he represents,
he places a pained hand upon his back.
He moves and shuffles toward
the waiting breakfast staff,
themselves waiting,
on a miracle, on worldly
compassion.
And these downtrodden,
these hurt and wounded,
the veterans of wars
global and personal,
are no longer human, no.
They are labels,
their entire purpose is to be
a sticker,
because we,
we have deemed them so.
Unfit, we say.
Unstable, we say.
Ill and weak-willed, we say.
We cast these judgements
to tear them down and
build ourselves up.
And if only we turned these
judgements inward, but
without malice, would we realize.
We too are weak.
Perhaps more so.

I pick this pen up to write,
but before I make a single mark,
I know there is nothing I have to say.

What I could say is nothing more than...useless.
I could talk and scribble some of the
awakening thoughts down into some verse, prose,
or poetry.
But why?
I know of this...for lack of a better word...
pain
I feel.
It is mine, and only mine.
Like she was.
I know where my thoughts wander.
I know what everything reminds me of.
I know.
Why should you?

Why should I bother sharing?
Even if someone cares,
I don't
if it's not her.

I want to fix myself.
It's all I've ever wanted,
all I've ever striven for.
I try.
I tried.
Every day,
for her.

I've been acting out of character
trying to build a new man lately.
Careful don't you look down on me
and find a different version of yourself.

How many faces
do you pass by
with broken dreams
and lonely eyes?
Lives and men you
have brought to their knees.
To adore you and love you
until you discard them
without a second glance
or thought
again.
As you cast your eyes away
because I will not cast mine,
as you cast your stones,
and I will not cast mine.
And you pass by,
telling yourself you don't love me.
You do,
I tell myself.
What trails of sadness and
regret
do you walk?
How many people can you step
on to get to the next
and the next and
to deride and discredit
their being as humans?
Do you stumble and fall
as we do,
or are you as sure as the
earth and fingers you so
irreverently step upon?

And so you pass,
with your silence and haste,
with your shrinking and bowing,
and your eyes cast and face of stone,
I find that my answer is
many
and that I am but
one.

Passing again,
through my thoughts
as the wind through an open
door.
A year and more
has fled,
and in my dreams we speak
and in my mind we
dance.
Of follies once uncertain,
now I am sure,
of my wrongs.

The universe is strange.

Lessons come and come again
until they are learned
and they disguise themselves,
they are well worn and apparent
to those who know,
as are the things we see
when we know.

And lessons, that which I had done
to you,
came around.
Karmatic.
So with my new knowledge,
my lesson learned,
I wonder again
if we could ever be.
Or, if you are still,
light years
ahead of me.

You will not steal these tears from behind my eyes.

Storms rage,
and I cannot look away;
I am not scared.
Let the trees fall around me
and the air crackle with static.
The wind can wist me away
while I stare into the sky’s oblivion
searching for the elusive bolt.
The world can flash around my eyes,
leave me half-second blind,
and I will not hesitate
to step out into the open.
Take me while you can
dastardly weather
I am yours
for now.

These contradictions, inhibitions,
ways to still falter,
stitches,
from days gone, not forgotten,
that color my future,
my thoughts, my ways,
are nothing
short of. Words
echo in the chambers of
my mind, but
actions are as mute
as the passing of time.

All life drained within,
only an empty shell
that follows the
automatic processes
of a man
trapped
inside.

This is not who I am.

Silent, and sad,
unwilling to forgive
myself?
or
Her memory scorches the
fabric of every muse
and thought I should
revel in.
All thoughts to ink
to paper
to you.
To her it was nothing,
as infinitesimally small
as my now
motivation to create,
to Spring forth vitality
in Winter months.

This is not me.

We speak these words in our actions,
tell of the things we
cannot yet
say.
Her eyes question, mine do too,
but we know.
I answer with a glance,
how I've known for so long,
of mine and of hers,
how it has carved its
spaces into my mind,
wrapped itself so snug
around my willing heart.
She tells me today,
with thoughts, not words,
the thing she'll tell me
tomorrow,
of what has soaked
into her being,
tied itself so splendidly
into her open hands,
and as such,
I do the same.

Open hands and dust dispersed,
fatalistic attitudes through love returned,
set adrift in open flames,
captured as none
beyond the rain.

A word, a glance,
leading to a thought,
a muse.
And all is gone.
Walls turn dark,
faces sinister,
the floor is gone.
Falling.
While smiling faces
watch.
Suffocating.
While the pitch
invades.
Falling...
until.

I never want to wish days away,
but the days without you
have grown long indeed.
I fall asleep dancing
with thoughts of you,
awake with the dreams of you
falling from the tip of my tongue,
tasting the kiss
I've not yet known,
of honey and wildflowers,
of gentle soul and soft vows.
These days have me frozen in amber,
suspended animation,
watching the world idly pass,
counting months, days, hours,
until I am thawed,
until you arrive to hear
these words.

Take the wind into the
darkest opening within the forest.
Fall and tumble the words
and mistakes with others.
Be wrapped in vine
and entangled in the homes
of others.
Search for fruit and nourishment
on low and of high
and give what and when
able.
Take rains of seasons to let
them wash away foolhardy
steps and plant
life anew.
Forget not the being of
things creeping and small,
and let trees
of past, present,
and future giants
tower above.

I dreamt of you last night.
It is fuzzy, as fuzzy as the memory of our love,
but this is what I remember:
We were broken up, not friends,
such as we are now.
But were forced into each others' presence
by a road trip with Grandpa.
It was an uncomfortable ride
with every word spoken being suffocated by the toxicity of the air.
And then it was morning.
We apparently drove to Michigan,
for we were all having breakfast in Grandma's living room.
You were ignoring me,
but I brought you your orange juice anyway.
I set it on the coaster beside you.
You didn't say a word, but Grandma thought it was sweet.
I sat and ate a humble breakfast
as far away from you as possible.
And then it was night.
We were sitting on a log somewhere outside in the dark...beside each other...
alone.
I told you of how I cried for days, and then, finally,
how all I felt was emptiness.
You told me of how you cried for the first time in years,
and how awful Grandma was.
I leaned my head on your shoulder, and muttered,
"I'm sorry."
I'm a slave to the physical,
but the physical doesn't fill the hole in my heart.
After a long moment,
you leaned your head against mine.
We wrapped in each others' embrace,
full of love,
full of warmth,
and cried.
"I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you, too."
And I was happy.
And then I woke up.
And I was still happy.
I looked around and felt the room grow bigger
as the loneliness filled it up.
I smelled the girl from the night before on my sheets,
so I threw them off.
I stood up,
and then I fell to my knees
in a broken heap of a foolish man,
and cried.
There are no words to describe how I miss you.
I am sorry.

I've learned not to fight it
when people show themselves the door.
I've always been alone,
why would that change now?
You can call me what you want,
know that I know it well.
I'll keep returning keys
to the places I'm not welcome anymore
like I'm giving back the
pieces I've taken,
like I haven't given any keys myself.
Why would anyone think differently
when I act like I haven't?
I don't blame you.
Many times I know there's things I need to say,
ways to show I care,
and I can't.
Or I won't?
I don't know, but I'm trying.
Forgive me, please.
I'm sorry.

It worries me that the world still spins
without you
and you and you and..
I never wanted you to go,
but I was never present so
how can I ask you to stay?
I've made blood promises to myself,
could you understand?
I've been shaped in ways as you have;
do the pieces I lay before you
not reveal me?
I am stretched and lonesome
of lovers past and future,
in search of a puzzled soul
as puzzled as mine.

Start with a statement.
Something you know to be true.
See how it relates to the things you cherish -
family, nature, flying, anything.
Now write it, but also speak it!
Make sure it has a rhythm
that bounces to and fro.
Weave in the important elements
everywhere you can.
But be careful with your words!
Try not to repeat them -
this is where a thesaurus comes in handy.
A dictionary too!
Use your language correctly,
or have a **** good reason for not.
Punctuation matters too;
it affects how you read.
Listen in your head -
does that period belong there?
Grammatically it might be correct,
poetically, maybe not.
Hide things, little secrets,
between the lines
for the reader to discover.
But most of all,
and now this is the important part,
write what feels right,
nothing less
and nothing more.

That's how to write a poem.

I wish I had the words to say
what must and may never be said.
We build these walls,
and for what?
When we tear them down,
and all is for not?
Push each other to the ground,
and why?
Because we are scared of being close
to another, we lie,
and say it is the form of us
which is broken.
Say it is the slumbering beast inside
which has awoken.
We tell these truths to ourselves
until they are bent.
Turned to lies,
it becomes apparent:

We've both led hard lives.
Been faced with obstacles and adversity,
and still we strive,
to do more,
to hate less,
to love more.
We try.
And by some small chance we met
and shared our broken selves
just so that we could finally let
the other feel loved.
And so it goes,
that time comes to pass
and no matter the material,
it shapes all things at last.

So I look at this as I do anything else,
a test of patience and of will,
the kind of test we have not failed yet.
Two broken people with broken lives
and broken hearts leading each other
through a broken world full of broken arts,
holding on to a broken love with broken hands,
expressing it with broken words from a broken mind,
and taking each broken day
one at a
one at a
one at a
time.

i have a habit of throwing things away
ill tear myself to pieces and lay them at your feet
i know its foolish
just leave me be
and i can turn this one sided feeling
into a no sided thought
like a magic trick
ill fall away
disappear into the black
leaving scorched earth behind
i dont mind
ive done it so much
loved too much
or not enough
its hard to tell
some days
i just cast things aside
put myself in a box
so i dont bite
tear my teeth out
trying to escape
my own making
i never learned to play softly
no one ever wanted to play with me
like a dog unsocialized
i can only growl and snap
and be pet
when wearing a muzzle
i have not hidden
who i am
who are you

I saw a long, lost friend today.
Years, it has been,
since he gazed and grazed
upon my flesh.
Years since the
candy apple red stained
him and I together.
Long have I avoided him,
long have I succeeded.
But no longer.
He kisses me with
sharp tongue
and promises of
the end.
Take me a little further,
I do,
know me a little better,
I do,
hold me just a little tighter,
he whispers.
And I do.
Shamefully,
I do.

It feels like it has been years since I've cried.
Of course, it hasn't been,
but it feels so.
It's hard to be sad when so many lessons have been learned,
when "I've made it," and I'm still moving forward.
But it's foolish of me to ignore the growing loneliness,
lest it chew my insides up while I keep myself
distracted.
But it's also foolish to trade the pain I inflict on
myself for a pain yet unknown by another.
It's a cycle, yes?
We bear our own pain until it is unbearable,
trade it for pain from another,
and although it grants temporary reprieve from ourselves,
it is and will always be pain.
I'm happier alone.
And that's not to say I'm happy.
I'm not happy, and I will never be.
From my observations, I think that to be true of most people.
But that's ok.
It keeps people interested to be unhappy.
More importantly, for our own ego,
it keeps us interesting.
But I digress. Or have I?
For me to be content in my being alone and unhappy,
yet not lonely,
I would need a companion available enough to talk,
but independent enough to leave and be left be.
But when attachment is added, as it always surely is,
from me, from her,
it becomes impossible.
Or maybe it's just impossible for me.
So I get to question all things,
tear away at my thoughts and motives as usual.
But there's nothing different from that,
to question, push, leave, be alone,
and be left with nothing.
Of course, something always must come from nothing,
so how can we ever become anything when
surrounded by anything more than

For you, I will wait
without the pressure
as I pressured
before.
No expectations,
only hopes of hopes
and maybe dreams
of more.

Deep in dream states
come visitors of the past
and beyond.
Perhaps to say hey,
maybe just to see how I'm doing;
I always enjoy their company.
We've laughed, cried, loved
and forgiven.
There is peace in our actions.
I like to think my visitors
experience just what I do,
and that, on some level,
we are still connected.
Maybe that is but a fantasy
or a dream within
a dream.

My misery shapes my world.
Always.
Rather it be with you,
I, or
Everyone else.

Please God help me
I'm trying
Can't you see?
What do I have to sacrifice?
What can I give you?
That's all I have,
can't you take something else?
I can't give that up.
Help me
please.
I can't give you that;
it's all I have.
Please, God.
Please.

If
     you're
          never
               doing
                    something

then

you're
never
doing
anything.

You were right
I was different, weird, odd
I grew up poor
My home was broken
As I’m sure yours was too
My first car didn’t come til I was 18 and in college
Paid for by a Pell grant
Alcohol drugs and violence in the home
No father to be seen
A drunk and abusive and mentally ill step dad
Clothes that smelled of cat ****
A working mom stretched too thin but loving all the same
Loved ones lost and mourned

I imagine we had more in common than we realized

I know in some ways you were trying to keep me down
But in some ways you knew that you could never
In the ways that dumb kids can know things without knowing how or why they know them and unable to articulate their truth
I was never meant to stay
You were never going to drag me down
Hard as you might try
Names, hurtful and crushing
Violence when no one saw
Hiding in shadows or in plain sight
Maybe that’s all you wanted was to know
That you could work your way into my mind
15 years later still
Still I search for an explanation
A ******* reason
A ******* apology
Something
Sure I made it out
I moved on
I left
But I still look back and ask
Why

Maybe we were just stupid kids
Maybe I’m the only one that still thinks about all those things

I do know one thing though


You can’t hurt me now

How many times do I have to regress
and regret all the times
I've faltered?
Should I relive and revive all
my sins and wrongs,
create and shape my own private hell?
Is it not what I deserve?
To bury the past in shallow graves
so the rain may reveal
the skeletons of my loves past
yet never gone -
what of the dirt on my hands?
Is it not plain to see the time
I've spent digging holes within?
How long do I continue digging -
until the soil beneath my nails
turns to blood in clenched fist?
Can I keep looking to the past
to reveal the ways of my future,
or is it in this present moment I am
to seek and see answers?
What words should I etch on tombstone
to harken what it is I cannot say?
To what spirits and lords above
and gods below should I
shovel so many final resting places,
and to which of these I've dug
is mine own grave?

Face your fears
or have them face down you.
How can you not even face me?
You run like a child,
do not.
Instead of fight
you take flight
and reveal truer colors yet unseen.
There must be a lesson for me here as well -
in what ways have I been running?
In what ways have I failed
to be truthful
in action and in words?
A question presented
and an answer revealed.
I did not flinch,
I did not waver
in the revelation of your feelings
truthfully shown,
but I have been cut deeply
and taken to my knees
in these darkening hours
to ask God
why?