I don’t know the weight of your words,
with what truth they carry,
but I assume the best
and that you have tied them up,
written them in fading ink
on homemade parchment,
considered them well,
etched them on the closed door.
I reach for the ****,
intending to see if it’s locked
but cease my motion.
I don’t know your intent,
didn’t know it then,
so chances are I never will.
Maybe you don’t either,
but, in this, maybe is a fracture
across time and
a life I wish to keep whole.
Closure is a blessing
when done with right intent,
but I don’t know you,
so I’ll take it at face value,
assume it is true and good,
and leave doors locked from within
alone.

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?

This will be the only poem here that I do not first write in my notebook.
Because it is not meant for me, it is meant for you,
this community.
A community where writers dare to write,
and judgement is not cast, no.
Where everyone knows and understands that the words are just that --
our own, and just words,
and that disagreeing, shamefully disgracing, and harming another
would only harm the community.
A community with hearts of gold and understanding in the darkest
of all of our  times.
We know that when we are feeling worst, or better,
our best,
we can spill ourselves onto paper, and then this screen,
or skip the paper (but I will only this once!),
and we will be welcomed with open arms
to those that understand
on the fundamental level what it is to love and to lose,
and to those that will not cast their own bias toward us.
And although I only post infrequently,
and love and share others' poetry even less infrequently
(I always and will always feel guilty about my lack
of contribution to this beautiful place),
I know that this is the place that has literally,
yes, literally,
the best people around.
Even though I haven't been around much,
I've never been met with a word that was less than kind,
and I think that the world should strive to be like you,
each and every one of you,
this community.

Do not elevate each other to Gods,
place each other on pedestals
claiming goodness only
and beautiful soul
without the means to harm.
Do we not know that
every light contains a dark?

All I can find within are
soft shades of blue,
dark shades of purple,
and unspoken words meant for
you.
All I can find without are
***-soaked nights,
promises laced in vanity
and unevolved fights meant for
you
but taken by me.

It burned, yes,
in the beginning. But now
the fire is only a means to
my end,
my final descent,
my final and only reprieve.

So I cast forth from these shores
in search.
These forsaken beaches which
weave sand into all of the cracks
of myself,
these crashing crests of water
which wear upon and split open
the sand-ridden chasms
of myself.

In search of lands
once known, twice lost,
and never found.

I beat and float along
in waters aride my haphazard craft.
Soothingly, up and down, as I am anyway,
for all evers,
in search.

While I look within
and tend to find that
with you I am without,
and without you, I am without
myself,
and without myself I am
complete.

And so it happens again,
the same words, but not,
same actions, but not,
same feelings, but not.
No.
All is unique in these
consecrate circumstances
we two (too) find
ourselves (with)in.
So these lines shirk the page
in a glorious,
albeit mispronounced,
declaration of what is
to come
and what so may
already be,
is it you,
is it me,
what if it's
both?
Will we see?
And what should provide such
inspiration
if not love
or hope thereof?
What could cause such
outpouring
of myself to another,
and her to me,
and ink to pages
as pages fill with ink,
but this?
This fair pairing
we almost are seeking,
which we bare our
hopes and dreams
and stars for the
taking. You.
You can be so many things
to me,
as much as these words
you inspire mean to me,
you can mean
more,
as many pages you will
(maybe, hopefully)
fill,
you can be more.
And as many things
you can be to me,
I must confess,
there are
many things you already are.

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.

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."

Watch me as I fall
without you.
I've spent years
perfecting this dark energy;
you are not the first
to leave me longing.
Watch closely.
I can build a statue
from ashes,
inhabit order
surrounded
by chaos.
Watch as I consume,
without myself,
myself.
I can fall,
but I cannot fail.
Watch.
You only scratched
the surface
of who I was
and am,
but you let loose this
agony -
my flood,
my fuel.

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.

I'm a loner, I know.
I love, and then I go
down the fabled dusty road,
with a broken pair of shoes,
knowing the dead ends, but
seeking the journey.
Many a mistress, but
only one love
and that's the motion of
trees passing and yellow lines.
Destined to sing alone in
a language only understood by
those in a distant future,
and, even then,
only partially
much in the way I understand
my own idols.
That's the life of a man
seen as a leader by those
whose purpose is to follow,
but those that do not know
the man is a slave to
himself and the music
he hears just around
the next bend.

Sometimes the darkness is all I know.
A man sits in a chair in a black room,
television casting shadows and
violent fantasies onto the walls.
He stands
and moves slowly
as if he were submerged in the muddy water
of all the wrongs accrued.
He makes his way into the kitchen,
eventually,
and the pain shoots through his neck
— fool —
he stalls
and leans against the doorway.
The dishes remain undone
while parts of the broken dishwasher
are strewn across the counter.
Dirt from the unswept floor
sticks to his bare feet
as he shuffles to the fridge
again.

It's no longer a mystery.
This...thing.
This thing that plagues my mind
with the ups and downs,
ups and downs.
and downs.
I've wondered so long,
the root of my insanity.
And now it has a name.
An identity.
They call it..
Cyclothymia.
A mental disease.
And truthfully,
I don't know what to make
of the newfound knowledge.
To be happy,
or to be sad?
It is strange
to think of it as a handicap
when it has become
an integral part of who I am.
And yet, I have wished.
Oh, how I have wished
it away for so long.
No, I am not this disease,
it is just part of me.
But who am I without it?
This thing...
This..
Cyclothymia.

Dangling, hung by a thread
unraveling
slightly faster than it is
repaired,
but only slightly.
Like letters that are just
barely
out of focus,
so close to being illegible,
so close to becoming just
lines on a page in a
packed-away notebook
that was once an alter
for self-possessed ramblings.
A hand, a thought, a smile,
just out of reach,
clinging to a phantom of a
former reality,
grasping at the dust
kicked up by
feet dancing deftly away
as they have always done.

Do not fall in love with me.
I'm dangerous.
For every wound I inflict upon myself,
I must inflict on others,
and to love me makes you a target.
I will lift you high above
all others,
and let you fall below
every other.
You will feel the
disappointment, hatred, and melancholic reproach
I suffer in myself
day after wretched day.

Selfish.
That's what I am,
even though I try to be
selfless.
I give everything I have,
and then take it back
and more.

I struggle
to find peace within,
for I know,
that if I calm my desire
to destroy
the self,
I will calm the unconscious
destruction of others.

And there are many things
I have mastered within myself,
within my mind.
There are many demons I have already
faced down,
destroyed, obliterated,
mastered.
And every day forwards me
a new challenge to forward
myself.
And I do my best,
and I long for the day
I do not hurt or hurt.
I try,
but
I'm dangerous.

Do not fall in love with me.

What if you are too good...
What if...I am too bad.
Maybe you're the yin to my yang,
and I'm the yang to your yin.
But what if it's just...
a clash?

Your beauty, your goodness,
overwhelms me, and my,
dark, dark heart.
I am inherently bad,
so then, how am I good...
for you?

You bring light to my life,
but all I have to offer is...
darkness...
Yet, you love me.
This I know,
because you never wrong me.

And, I almost wish you would,
so that these dark thoughts
would have warrant.
And still...you never would.
You love me,
in all of my darkness.

And because of that,
because you...
you are the most wonderful person,
with all your light and love,
because you are the only person to really love me,
I will never deserve you.

But I will try,
to overcome all my fears,
insecurities, losses,
and darkness,
simply because
I love you.

**I will try.

I am so sick
of this dark place.
So sick
of being sick
of myself.
I just want leave,
absence, temporary
vacancy of this
darkness. I want
to be free.
Let me be free.
Let me be free.
Let me be free
please, I cry.
And I cry.
I scream into the
dark. And the
dark screams back.
It screams,
you. You are nothing.
I know,
I know it is right,
but I hope to rid myself
of this darkness
anyway. I need
freedom. I need
peace. I need
help. Help me!
Take these chains,
break them,
slash them,
for I cannot.
Take this darkness,
lift it,
banish it and send it
away, for I cannot!
Help me, please!
And in the darkness,
only an echo.
Please. Someone.
Anyone.
Take me. Take
me from this
place. I am so
sick of this
dark place.

There is a dark place you will go,
a place where we've all been
at one time
or another.
A place where clichés come true,
where nightmares turn to reality,
a place where your worst fears,
your deepest insecurities,
will tower above you.
It is a place you will visit
when you have been drained
emotionally, physically, spiritually, mentally,
but must keep moving forward.
A place that does not discriminate
for anyone,
a place that is the great equalizer.
You will not be able to breathe.
Your lungs will be filled with soot,
your eyes will be branded in fire,
your mind will be captive,
you will want to quit.
You may even want to die.

But this place holds a secret.

You will fall to your knees
on tough soil and gravel,
blind,
and you will cry, you will scream.
The air will be as fire,
and your skin will be as ice.
But you will dig.

You will blindly ****** your fingers into the cold Earth,
you will search for a way out,
you will rip and bleed and tear,
and you will convince yourself
it is futile.
But you will not stop.

You will keep fighting.

This place holds a secret.
This place holds an opportunity -
an opportunity for growth.

And, yes, you will grow.

Days like today
when the world is too much,
and every sound grates against my nerves,
every responsibility weighs too heavy,
and the only comfort is in these lines,
where it is sheer force of will to move,
to work and seek and to love,
when it is much easier to fall,
to sink and sleuth
into the floor
and let it all go,
I cannot.

Dear Father,

     You don't deserve that title. But this is not meant to be degrading, so I won't explore that train of thought further. I don't know if you've realized your wrongs, your errors and follies, and reckless abandonment. I don't know if you're sorry. I don't know you.

     You're sitting in prison now. Maybe that's the right place, maybe it's not. But I know when I met you, this most recent time where I was old enough to process information, I know that looking into your eyes was like looking into a mirror. I saw the monster you passed on to me, passed into me, passed over me. I saw the same darkness, the darkness I've tried to reconcile my entire life.

     Maybe that's the difference between us. I am not ruled by my darkness as you are. If I had been under your influence, what would I have become then? Who would I be now? Was that what you intended - to stay away from me so that we would not spend years nurturing the darkness in one another? Is that giving you too much credit? Maybe you are aware of what lives inside of you as I am.

     I needed you. For years. I never saw a stable male role-model until I was a teenager, and by then I was years behind. I took so long to learn to "be a man," and, even now, I am still crippled with doubts and insecurities about such things. I needed someone to show me how to stand up, stand sure, stand my ground, stand up for myself. Someone to teach me to fight, stick to my guns, never back down, and to never give up. My precious Mother showed me many of these things as best she could, but we are more different than alike. As we have always been. She still did wonderfully, and I love her for it. She gave me everything I have today.

     I learned these things slowly, eventually. I've been down a long road. I figured things out, I learned a lot of lessons the hard way. I was knocked down, around, battered, bruised, confused, hurt, and lonely. I've been so lonely and scared. Like there is a child in me constantly trying to find his parents at a crowded supermarket. Panicked. But despite all of this, despite every single unnecessary hardship caused by your absence, I am alive, whole, and well. If for no other reason than to show you what I can be.

     I never needed you. And perhaps your abandonment was the only good thing you ever did for me.

                                        -Eric

Dear Sister,
Not Jessica, never Jessica
because we were never on a first name basis.
It was always so much more,
Sister.
My wonderful sister,
you have been my mother, my guide,
my friend, my crying shoulder, my rock,
my humor, my support. You have been
everything.
My sister.
And my only regret is that I can't be more,
I'm sorry.
Oh, Sister,
how I look back on our memories with such fondness.
The laughs we shared, the wonderful books,
and mind-blowing smoke.
The long talks about philosophy and politics.
We have always been ahead in those regards,
haven't we?
My lovely sister,
you took my hand when I was lost, when life
had become too much for me,
and showed me the path. You set me up
to become who I am, and who I will be.
I know you are proud.
You helped me discover what was important,
guided my moral compass when I trespassed,
taught me to love.
You made me see
things I never would have alone,
and consider ideas that the general public
frown upon. We've always been ahead.
Oh, Sister. My Sister.
May you live on
forever.
In my heart, and through me,
in the hearts of others who know not of
your presence,
dear sister.

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.

When you get something for nothing,
expect to pay later.

It’s been a long journey, yes,
but I am still moving.
I don’t understand how to accept kindness,
and I’m sure I’m insensitive —
I’m getting there.
I’m moving past years of resentment,
piles of bitter, stinking trash and ****,
to being able to give
as well.

I’ve always been bashful about those
being kind to me,
and doubly so when I am kind
to others.
I am kind without an audience.
Certainly it stems from feeling unworthy
if kindness received,
and feeling my kindness is an unworthy
reciprocation.
Sometimes it’s self-fulfilling.

Up until recently in my life,
I’ve never been able to give anything physical.
I’m still trying to understand if I’m
emotionally bankrupt,
so that’s uncertain.

My birthday is soon, and Christmas is coming.
December always forces these feelings into light,
but I’m still making progress on them
year by year.

I have bedded these thoughts,
considered them in your absence
and in mine,
and still am.
I am busy untangling them,
forgive me for my distance.
I've done what was expected of me,
but it does not make a difference,
so how can I know it was
right
when all I have are the times before
to compare it to?

I've learned a few things,
not in your favor
or mine,
so I ruminate,
contemplate, meditate,
toss and turn these thoughts like
coins.
Heads or tails?

I'll write these words,
twist them just carefully enough
to claim plausible deniability,
or whatever that means,
and then write a more honest
account when my tongue
is not poisoned by alcohol.

By this account, and days, perhaps,
of turning it over,
I will decide what I must do.
You must know that I take
careful consideration of these decisions
which affect how I spend my
time.

You must know that I love you,
perhaps in ways that are
not in the ways that you love me,
but I know that you do.
I know.
But perhaps that is the
fundamental difference.

I've tried my best to reconcile,
but when evidence proves that I cannot,
I must deliberate,
I must decide.

No matter what happened, it was your fault.
I was never to blame, even if I pretended to take some.

I understand how a person would be unhappy with that.

I understand that it's ****** up.

No words can describe my sorrow. I can't even try because...maybe I can't attempt the futile anymore.

Maybe I am not meant to love. So, I will stop.

I don't know who I could love after you anyway. My standards are too high.

I just can't do it anymore.

I give up.

I am defeated.

There are few words far and in between,
few ways in which to write,
and no way in which to capture
this love.
For I know the truth
and that we have been bound
across and through many
lifetimes.
We have given our all -
you to I and I to you -
placed our fragile hopes in
wanting hands.
I have swum
through the depths of your love,
reached no end,
yet will never drown
filled as though my lungs may be.
You are my life-blood, my hopes,
my dreams, and everything
I have ever prayed for.

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.

Take me into the depths.
Show me the underwater beast,
the Leviathan, the oceanic Medusa,
the wet, slithering, Hydra.
Let me breathe in the sick algae,
and bury my eyes in floating sand.
Fill my lungs with coral and stone,
and grind my feed to stumps
so I never escape.
Bind my hands with a seaweed embrace,
and let me bite the fisherman's hook,
fool such that I am.
Worthless drifting piece of trash
cast into the ocean tides,
starved of affection,
and bitter in the world.
Drag me down into the depths
and leave me there
where I belong.

Fallen leaves and Fall's color
brush against the longing in me,
tugging at dripping petals within,
seeing this season's change
with the absence of your presence,
without the branches of thoughts
I could plant and bear witness
come Spring.

Seasons bereft of you,
destitute in me,
and the unassuming way the barren limbs
pray to the skies above,
ask for when the grounds should again
be wet with life
and too when you should
step forth and give vitality
to this trammeled soil.

New blooms rise again,
the natural counterpart to the
decayed and rotted compost
of seasons since,
and so the sun shines longer,
brighter, and gives new hours
to your bright eyes
and seems to remind me of
the things we grow
together and the things
with which we begin this
love.

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.

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

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.

I can feel it.
The wind which caressed your face
brushes by me
and leaves me
breathless
again.
The miles are not real,
state lines and roads apart,
but not
in all the same.
The sun sets and I see
your face in the sky
and feel your arms
around me.
You are still so close.
Days pass
and we fly through the sky
while the moon bears its stolen light
onto the ocean floors,
and the waves carry your
laughter and your words
over the sand and grass and
into my ears and over my
mind
and the sun rises with
a gentle and calming touch
into my arms and over my
body
to start the day
and I find
that you are still
not so far away.

If
     you're
          never
               doing
                    something

then

you're
never
doing
anything.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

A lot of times I find myself wondering.
What would it be like to drive without stopping,
with no destination?
Could I go fast enough to escape my racing thoughts or
persistent insecurities?
Could I drive far enough to erase my lonely heart or
insistent fallibilities?
Could I find a place where no one knows my name,
especially myself?
Could I lose who I am in the yellow stripes and forget about
my life?
Could the turning of the tires maybe turn this wretched sorrow to
a lesser wretched emptiness?
Could the reflections of the headlights shine bright enough to
protect me from the darkness?
Could the wind blow far enough fast enough to break away
the limbs of old forgotten thoughts?
Could the traffic flow this way or that in such a way to help
me finally breathe easier?
Could the rain wash away the westerly dust from my dry
and thirsty skin?
Could the trees pass by more quickly than the details that I can't
seem to ignore?
Could the radio play every sad song so that the sadness my be
swept from my eyes eternally?
Could it?
Could I finally drive and push past the reality of who I am
and make it to something I do not hate?
Could I?

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

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.

Assumptionless we drift
through days, weeks, more,
brought to each other in
an arc over the bottomless
sea
where the horizon is met
with words hanging from
our lips.

Florid skies paint
the thoughts we hold
safely,
given in the midst of
rain falling along
the misty trails
where we entrust
a life to another.

I peeled some eggs today.
No metaphors or tricky language today, no.
I boiled them, drained them,
and let them cool.
I cracked the first one on the ***
and then held it over the trashcan.
As soon as I dug my thumb into it,
I knew they were perfect.
I had put enough salt in the water
to make them easy to peel,
just how Momma taught me.
I used the edge of the shell
against my thumb and applied force
perpendicular while using my other
thumb to hold the shell and egg opposite my target
in place.
I dug my thumb into that thin film
just far enough not to grab the egg,
but far enough to get the shell.
I had it off in a couple of motions,
only one minor flaw that was my
own carelessness.
I lost myself for a while.
Rosco came sniffing around,
my dog looking for a snack as always.
My phone lit up beside me -
it was her.
We're taking it as slow as southern molasses.
It's nice.
I cracked one egg and pulled the shell off
perfectly in half.
I was awestruck.
I mangled one badly
so I decided to eat it.
Yum! Still warm.
I made too many anyway.
Yeah, that's all.
I peeled some eggs today.

Seems the only escape,
Under all of this pressure, walking
In these shoes,
Craving some sort of release,
I'm cracking under all of the weight,
Dreaming of my one and only
Escape.

I long for you in the way the night
struggles to envelop the Earth daily,
in the ways in which I fear
my words will never be enough
for your crystalline heart.
I want to fall like raindrops
into your hair on Sunday morning,
when it is time for me to go,
and there are clouds in your eyes.
I have prayed for you eternally;
hold me close and I'll wrap you
into me as the daylight fades to dark.
Let us never know another lonesome night,
not until we are old and frail
and content with the life we have lived.

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!

Writing, scribbling, scrawling
used to be my way of unscrambling my past
my scattered sense of self
my passionate desires and longing

and now

I have become still.

I do not write as much or as often.

Why?

Simply put - my life is serene and constant
and full.

Full of love, free of the demons I’ve put to bed for good, built upon years and years of sacrifice.

I am busy with my roles - Husband, Father, Protector, and Provider.

Some days I miss the crashing waves
and the practice of pain into art,
but today,
today my currents run deeper,
more subtly, strongly,
and quietly.

Tired mind, tired body.
Chaotic desk, chaotic kitchen.
As sleep escapes the eyes,
but not the mind,
dripping ink half conscious,
stalling.
Staying away from the dreams
which bring tomorrow's
cold reality.
Sickness pushing into the mind,
into the body,
with a dusty desk and
haphazard room in the dark.
We go up, we go down,
never to settle
as does the dust
upon our bones.
Misplaced my peace
(of mind)
at my alter of confidence,
and, once again,
exposed my insecurities.