Darkness calls on us like the Siren's Song,
with the optimism of Candide, we charge on
because we know "things are exactly how they should be,"
But we're ignoring the fact that we cannot see!
We cannot be free!
No wonder Yossarian went so **** crazy,
trapped with no way out...
Like the old woman protecting her individuality in her burning house.
In this day and age,
Individuality burns out faster than paper in flames.
As fragile as Hamlet's mental state,
****, it's gone.
We're left as scared and self-conscious as J. Alfred Prufrock.
Questioning ourselves,
We don't dare disturb the universe.
Forced back by scrutinizing hands
through the shrunken entrances of our comfort zones,
Left torn and scarred
because they don't accept who we are.
I walk the halls with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,
Watch identity evaporate without concern.
Ignorant voices, the poison dripping into my ears.
I walk the halls a ghost.
They think I'm weird,
Maybe a few screws loose,
but I'll tell you what...
"Crazy" Orr is the one who escaped Catch-22.
Though I fear there is not an Odysseus within all of us,
I fear we are not prepared.
For when Darkness calls on us like the Siren's Song,
temptation is seldom overcome.

6/13/14

The morning is slow
I don't want to speak
Just let me be
Alone

Let myself fall into seclusion
Thoughts in my head drift
Mind left empty with
Confusion

Left in fear of my subconscious
Erase the dreams
Why does everything seem
Noxious?

I believe
sometimes...
when the sun rises
it carries along with it
the darkness
from the night
it once was
and swallows
the bright horizon whole
with it's looming
black clouds
equal of mystery
and of torment
and I believe
that a gray moon
in the morning sky
turns the tides
chaos
disarray
silent slumbers
suddenly unfold
into nightmares
that don't end
when awoken
and I believe
day
will never be
the same for me again
the rising sun
used to be
Hope
for new life
until
every morning
began to carry with it
the hollowness
of a lonely
night sky

we were all born crying.
wailing, raw pink lungs
gasping,
choking, on new filtered air.

but maybe, we cry not because
of a cold chill
and fluorescent state of confusion,
but simply because we've been born once again.

maybe we cry because our past lives
will never repeat themselves-

no more grandkids, the splintered back porch with the hissing screen door,

no more ten day vacations at the spare house in Spain,

no more dates at a drive in, the 1981 firebird where the windows would always steam,

no handprints along glass,
footprints on the subway.

no more
"welcome home" kisses from your dog,
"goodnight" kisses from your wife.

when we are born,
maybe we cry because
in that simple movement toward new light
our hand lingers along the wall behind us,
and flips off the switch.

every painful lesson,
heartbreak,
first times,
failiure.
all of it recycled;
repetition that never comes to end.

maybe, we cry because
we have forgotten the words
of the song we know we've heard.
the one you once danced to
at your wedding;
the one they cried to, at your funeral.

maybe we cry because
we have forgotten the color of the ink
scratched on our past suicide notes.

maybe, because
we think the gunshot did not take us
to heaven.

but there are angels
and they don't wear halos and stroke harps-
they roam the earth.
instead of showing you the light,
they teach how to form the flame inside yourself.

we were all born crying.
and it is not from loss or fear itself;
not because our soul is homesick
for the house it can't recall-
we cry for the warmth of our mothers worn hands.
the new rhythm slow in her chest,
amber hair falling
from the foreign ***** of her shoulder;

we are just one soul on this journey
body to body, heart to heart.
maybe we cry because
in that moment, we ourselves realize
that each life is, a miracle.