I've been corrupted.
I see the money, I taste the green.
Day to day, learning new
schemes.
I want more and more,
though I know,
enough is enough.
You don't have to want more
than you need,
but in a land of freedom,
I am still shackled by
debt,
and I just want to
be free.

You left me lost
lonely
longing
loving
insecure
incomplete

What do I desire?
A fundamental question.
Like asking what must
I be a slave to?
Music and the live crowd?
Finances and independence?
Knowledge and the books?
Words and the ink?
With many passions,
it is hard to choose.
And I must ask myself,
do I have to settle?
Why can I not have it all?

If I spoke to maim,
if I spoke with venom,
you would not last,
you would not stand.
Take care to know that it is easy
to disable the fettered mind,
but much harder to show restraint
in the midst of
arrows aimed true.
I do not deny who I am,
I know of my errors.
Take care to know and
learn of yours.

Do not mistake kindness for cowardice.

If you cannot even think of death,
how do you expect to ever face it?
What roads do you walk down
with face cast down
as stones you dare not throw?
--I am no different-- [strike-through]
I remain tempted to say
I am no different,
a common pattern in my thoughts,
but, in this,
I certainly am.
I am not scared
(anymore)
to hurt another,
monster such as that I may be,
are you?
And what unnecessary hardship do you cause
in your ******* excuse for
compassion?
You did not let me off easy.
You hooked and gutted me like a fish
unworthy of a reason why.
But, unlike you,
I am unafraid of being hurt.
Maybe we were too different
after all.

I’ve stared into the flame too long,
saw that which lit the darkness
and seen the darkness overcome.
I’ve been on the verge of death
and living a seemingly full life
for far too long.
It’s not that I’ve always gone away,
but that I’ve forgotten how to stay.

I will push and pull
for reasons undisclosed.
Could you still love me?
I am fragmented
and torn across time.
Can you see it yet?
I know it doesn't show
in the beginning,
and I always think
this time
I will overcome it.

Obsessive.
Obsessive.
Passive.
Obsessive.
Obsessed.

I obliterate these thoughts,
leaving them like torn leaves
flailing in the wind,
and some source,
undoubtedly of the past,
always replants these seeds of doubt,
their roots not yet destroyed.

It's in my pathology.
These neural pathways have
grown stronger and stronger
despite my effots
to dig them up with words,
poison them with reflection,
and hack them with an ax of will.

Still

it's not enough.

"I'd tell you everything if you'd pick up that telephone."

I've spoken many words to you
into the empty air.
I know I've said that before,
but my one track mind has our
song on repeat,
and I cannot forget
the connections we made.

I would show up at your doorstep
with wildflowers of purple and orange
if I knew you stayed there.

Some days I still expect to hear from you,
forgive me,
and love me like we never stopped -
we didn't.

That's not something you forget.

I would write letters to you,
confess my sins of then,
now, and more,
poor taste or not.

I've lied to lovers recently and since,
some of those lies
lies to myself,
but lies nonetheless,
that I had moved past you,
but how can I?

How?

A squeal and a giggle,
a flutter and a swish -
the chase is on!

Dodging dandelions,
rolling clover.

A swoosh a whip,
almost!
Not quite!

Over there!
Now over here!

Keeping pace,
keeping wild,
erratic and momentous.

Landing briefly here
then on the nose,
flits away,
chasing butterflies.

How did we go from
lovers
to being (in)complete
strangers?

And in these troubled times,
I seem to find that my love is no longer yours,
and yours is no longer mine.
And I stopped writing.
I'm no longer inspired,
by our love or my darkness,
I'm just sick and tired,
of running in circles,
no more can you hurt me.
And if we're both so scared of being loved,
why did we dare?
Flown too high,
sunk too low.
If goodbye is a must,
then what is to show?
But a love that shouldn't have been lost,
that is.
And a heart that screams don't be soft, no matter the cost,
but is.
Again and again,
I give and I give.
For it is in my nature
to live and let live.
It is in my nature
to heed and take heed,
to bleed and to bleed,
'til there's nothing left of me.
I hurt and I hurt,
until I give birth
to a devil that says
you'll pay for these wounds.
Trust me, trust me,
you'll pay for it soon.
So we plant the seed,
and soon it shall bloom,
and you shall read,
that a love once cherished
and a love that has been proven
to pass any test, any obstacle, it's shown,
is now a love withered and worn,
a love now gone.

If only there was someone
with which to share this.

Eyes, mind, and thoughts are weary,
laden with heavy dreams.
Family, friends, love, dog,
work, school, health, spirituality,
roommates, mortgage, Mom's failing health,
family passed, dreams, aspirations,
for me, for my family,
my future family,
mental health, staving off depression,
alcoholism, old and worn habits.
I'm tired, and it's all I can do
to keep my head up.
But I'll press on.

The writing challenge is to pick up the book nearest you, turn to page 68, and use sentence 11 in a poem.

Stephen King, The Drawing of the Three

You're not hearing voices that aren't there, the voice inside his head returned.



You're not hearing voices
that aren't there.
The voice in his head returned.
As it always did.
Tell me,
tell me what it is
you want to know.
He wrested with it
but submitted
as he always had.
I'll tell you everything,
how I surround you,
how I'm inside of you...
ARE YOU LISTENING?
He was, he was,
please let me go, please
let me
go
he pleaded
please
as he always did.
Don't you want to know?
These pieces inside you,
you know to what I'm referring,
don't you?
I see it all.
He did. He knew.
He always had.

Confront your uncomfortable truths.
It is your duty.
It is our duty, as humans,
for being uncomfortable is what
leads to
growth.

Forcing against the rock of
our own ego,
we must search for the light above,
reach for it,
and burst forth, shattering ourselves
and our perceptions of reality,
but, most importantly,
the perception of ourself.

Many times have I forced myself
to see myself, my thoughts,
for what they were,
and many times more I shall.
I have been crushed by myself,
fueled by self-hatred,
driven in ways that I thought
came from hate,
only now to realize the growth
of oneself by constant destruction
is not an act itself of destruction,
but an act of love.

And many times henceforth
I will be driven by the same feelings
of futility and impotence,
the same self-hatred as before.
I do not fool myself
into thinking that I am free from myself,
but at least
I am free.

And in confronting the truth,
so shall you too be.

I need a
loving touch.
I need someone
to care.