This logical brain I've developed
Is calculating and critical
I can't help myself from
Reminiscing of the days
When my experiences were less verbal
And more tactile, visceral and
Magical
I was so easily tantilized with
Life, with
It's abundant beauty never failing to spark
My endless curiosity

I recall
Pressing a conch shell
On my delicate child ear
And listening intently to
The recorded echo of waves
And sometimes i thought I heard the calls
Of seagulls within the interior of
The shell
And I wondered if it was even possible
For the shell not to only have the sound of the waves imprinted within it
But the sounds of the animals that dwelled within and without as well

I used to be really spellbound by the concept of God and Jesus
And mother used to tell me that they both live in my heart,
And I was completely flabbergasted,
Because not only did they live in my heart,
But she told me they lived in everyone's heart
And I imagined a young bearded man
With long brown hair
Clothed in a robe and a purple sash
Just chilling in the interior of my heart,
Like he'd made a home out of my heart

Now, I'm not completely sure
How I feel about faith and God
Because there are so many options
I find myself asking:
Are they all true?
Can it be possible that only one religious path is the right way, and the rest are wrong?
Yet I feel like the more I seek,
Though my rational brain cannot
Come up with an explanation
The more I actually feel
Sought out and
Comforted by a God
That I yearn to know more about

Just the other day
A metaphysical ball of misery
Was lifted out of the pit of my stomach
When I cried out to God
Running through dense woods
Like out of a movie,
Only me and God
Me trying to run away,
Like always,
Because the pain of this world
Is too sharp
Sobbing,
Yet,
God is redeeming me.

I've been making changes everyday
Since I decided I didn't like the way
I felt and thought
And I only realized today
Seeing myself in the mirror, that I'm different
I speak different now
I smile different now
I think different now
I'm different

It's like, I'm different
But exactly the same
It's hard to describe
It's just I have so much less pain
Before i was stressed and
Hurting
Always disconcerted
But now that's lifted,
I feel loved, light, gifted

This is for all the hopeless, that see no point in
Continuing on in their transient misery
Well, this is my testimony
And I hope you take it to heart
And treasure it as a keepsake,
It serving to remind you and convince you
That your ailing heart
Won't ail forever
Things change, life gets better.

I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever, point is I hanged myself today and I'm still hanging.

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that someone will come home and cut me down but then I keep remembering that if i knew someone like that I wouldn't be up here. Bit ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read somewhere that, like, anything funny is, in some way, ironic. But I don't know if it's funny or not. I don't think my brain owns "funny," you know?

I feel taller. I like that.

I've never been away from my shadow for this long. It had always clung to my feet, parting momentarily for a quick dive into the swimming pool. But never for five hours. I like it. There's three feet of space between my two and the floor.

I wanted something this morning. I may be stuck. But at least I'm three feet closer to it.

I was not blessed with rhythm,
Was not born to set things free,
Still working with the wine and the ****,
No longer dancing cheek to cheek.

She was the puzzle piece that did not fit,
The sound of the rain, the snow, and the sleet,
The white-noise lullaby that permeated summer
And invaded all my dreams.

Now I’ve given up on love and war,
I have nothing left to fight,
No reason to stay sober,
It keeps me warm at night.

It gets me loose in the crowd,
It keeps me spinning in my place,
Think I spoke to a beautiful woman last night,
Only, I can’t remember her face.

I know you feel it too, my friend,
On your phone in a crowded room,
Checking your exits everywhere you go.
Yet you stay for the company,
You stay for that minuscule chance
Of a late-night spoon.

You stay out for the hope
That you will not miss out,
You drink to forget,
To white-wash self-doubt.

You hear the beautiful music
And although you’re set free,
There’s an ache in your heart, saying,
No beauty could come from me.

I was not blessed with composure,
All the subtlety I lack,
But no man is perfect-
We’ve all got a hideous *******.

I’m a slave to my *****,
I’m a slave to my cravings,
Cigarettes, *****, and late-night food,
until I've spent all my savings.

I’m a slave to the working day,
To the white-noise thoughts
That rattle my brain,
To the chemical feast
And the paltry remains,
The scratch-card defeat,
The guessing games,
I’ve grown up now
And I’ve grown up strange,

I am not blessed with charisma,
I am not blessed with a tongue
That can say what it means,
It just runs and runs and runs...

I’ve been walking in circles and complaining
That I will never find my place,
So many fruits to pick out from the tree
That I stop and stare,
Watch them all go to waste.

I was not blessed with rhythm,
Was not born to set things free,
But you’ll come to like me
If you sit a while
And spend some time with me.

Throw the window open
To bring cool air to a room
Which gathered heat
With all the thoughts
Bouncing off the closed walls.

Night. The sky, a bruised purple,
The clouds faint, infra-red.
The trees are cut-out silhouettes
Placed in the foreground of endlessness.
1.a.m. The night is still.

There is the hum of a plane in the distance,
Last train now long past earshot.
Thin blue curtains play at the breeze,
Tickle my shoulder
As I kneel at the ashtray,
The windowsill altar.

Ornaments reveal themselves
In the black gardens below.
The gnome with the broken tambourine
That kicks up in the current,
The wind chime on the Apple Tree;
The bell on the house cat’s neck.

Staring into space all night
But with this view
I do not have to strain my eyes.

Do not linger on the details
That are lost in the shadow.

Always made time for the moon.
The quiet one at parties,
Only came alive at night,
In the company of those who drink wine,
Swallow pills in the morning
To see the day through.

Room scarred with scorch marks,
Stains from drunken falls.
All those endless nights,
Dead bedsheets,
Waiting for the chemicals
To push my head underwater,
To find sleep.

Windowsill vigils,
Awake with the moon.
Kept myself alive
For these pockets of time
Where I do not need to talk.
Where I do not need to move.

I
All lovers past
fade into footnotes
in the book of your life.
II
You are the central character,
the setting,
the plot,
the conflict
and
the resolution.
So
Don't ever let
a mere footnote
take over the "your story."
III**
It's your **** story,
and you deserve
a happy ending.
(unclogged of your past.)