I understand where you’re coming from. “It’s sick. Let’s fix it.”
I might be an animal, but you’re no veterinarian.
This horse might not be dead, yet, but you’re not the right person to kick it over.
Let sleeping dogs lie, even if they’re having a bad dream.

I’d rather be a horse; I’d rather be a dog, than what I am now.
I need help, but you’re not helping.

Please, please stop trying.
You will only make things worse.
You will only wake the dog.

Etymologically,
          paradise
is inherited from the Latin
          paradisus
and the Greek
          paradeisos
and ultimately an ancient Iranian root --
          pairi daêza.

In theory, paradise is a religious term. By that definition, paradise is a place in which existence is positive, harmonious and timeless. It is conceptually a counter-image of the miseries of human civilization; in paradise, there is only peace, prosperity, and happiness.
It’s absurd, though, how we provide ourselves with such a convenient idea, a carrot for all mankind to share in our relentless drive towards death. It’s absurd that we must rely on such nonsensical ideals to inspire us to adhere to literal, arbitrarily-dictated morals. “Thou shalt not do things we say you probably shouldn’t.
Except sometimes.”
“Actually, whenever, as long as you feel bad about it and spend a moment kneeling quietly and thinking something along the lines of ‘So, like, sorry -- my bad. It won’t happen again, unless it does.’”
The fundamental mistake here is attempting to delineate the existence of Man with an old book and relentless propaganda and childhood indoctrination and threats of post-mortem punishment, but more on topic -- why can’t one just live the right way without this kind of artificial motivation? It’s a juvenile concept that we’ve taken much too far. It marginalizes the human race -- “listen, Man, if you eat all your broccoli, then you can have dessert.” But what happens in this situation, when the dessert isn’t real?
What I mean to say is that maybe you should eat your broccoli because it’s healthy, and because, besides what society has attempted to instill in you, it might actually be tasty if you give it a chance.
Live for now. Care about people now. Because you don’t get anything afterwards; however cynical it may be, dessert is just a cold grave or a flame designed for whole incineration of your being. Paradise is now.

Where do you go
When
You got
No where else?

Have you come down from somewhere?
Is it because I’m going down, too?
What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?
Are you here for me? Am I vain for asking? Am I insane?

Let’s not go there, yet.

You change me. I turn to stone. I melt.
You deserve better. You deserve better.
You deserve stability. Is Heaven stable?
Will I ever find out?
Let’s not go there, either. Let’s stay here.
Don’t stay down here. Go home.

I care too much about you to let you stay.

Stop thinking.
Stop thinking.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
It’s always darkest before it shows you it can get darker still.
Clouds can still block out the Sun in the middle of the day.
You’re not out of the woods yet.

What a nightmare.

Insecurity.
Is that it?
Lack of trust, because of intrinsic insecurity?
I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

That’s a first.

I love you, but sometimes I’m crazy, sometimes I’m out of my mind.
But sometimes you don’t understand my crazy as well as I’d like you to.
Why can’t you just read my mind?

If telepathy was only an option--

...

...

...

Get it?

I just want a connection, man.

Here’s something.
When a man and a woman love each other very much...
That’s an archaism.
Everybody ***** everybody nowadays.
Girls, boys, girls.
Am I getting left behind because I’m anachronistic?
I just want it to mean something, you know?
Not societal pressure.
Not the standard physical progression of a high school relationship.

I just want a friend, and to build a closer connection.
I want to hold someone and feel the heat of their body, and know that they’re feeling mine.
I want to close my eyes and trust that their eyes are also.

I have this idea (dream?) of *** being transcendent, not terrestrial.
I want to love, and to feel...not to ****.
Am I making sense?
Am I the only person in the world who thinks like this? Probably not.
But I’ve got a sinking feeling that I’ll never find that other person.

I'd want someone, a friend, a best friend, who'd understand the connection I want to make.
They’d understand the closeness and transcendentalism, understand that it isn’t about societal rules,
or regulations,
or ideals.

I want making love to be about making love, not pretenses and cliches and other Earthy concerns.
Maybe I’m an idealist.

I don’t care.

This is what I want.

It really makes me wonder
Why we do these things.

You’re laboring under the false assumption that I’m willing to work at anything right now.
You’re laboring under the false assumption that any part of me is working how it should right now.

Here’s something: When you connect one wire to both sides of a battery, the plastic coating of the wire starts to sizzle and melt and smoke.

When I think, that thought leaves my brain for a while, pulling a new train of different thoughts behind it.
I have a small room, and soon, the train has laid tracks all around the carpet, along the hideous green walls.
Tracks everywhere.

I’m left with a choice I can’t make.
If the train derails, then I can’t think, and that terrible void comes back.
If I let the train lay tracks back inside my head, I turn into the battery.

Is that what going crazy is like?
Is this it?

Didn’t I already say I don’t want to go there?

There’s a reason I don’t smoke
or get high
or get low
or drink.

Don’t I seem ****** up enough to you?

We understand that stress kills you.
We’re here to help.
It doesn’t mean you can relax.

We understand that you don’t know how to communicate.
We’re accommodating.
It doesn’t mean you’re exempt from interaction.

We understand.
It doesn’t mean you can escape.

I can’t write poetry
Not right now
But I’m obligated to
I have to
Impress you.

I’m too
Narcissistic
To let you ignore me.

I’m reading too much into this
And
You’re not doing this
To hurt me
Or toy with my emotions.

You’re probably just occupied
Elsewhere.

Which is really unfortunate
Because whether you did it
Sentiently
Or unconsciously
You set a trap from which
I’m don’t know if I can
Or want to
Escape from.

And I’ve got to be reading too much into this
I’ll just try harder
Until you notice me a little more.

I’m not used to being challenged

But you’re probably just occupied
Elsewhere
Or with someone else

There’s more than one reason I’m not attempting to make myself coherent; I don’t know if I can. Could you?
Don’t answer that, you don’t know.

I’ve made too many concessions to your docility, your placid ignorance.
This isn’t entertainment. I’m really dying.

When the last fiery ember has burnt out, express your sorrow for the man, and make sure you stop at the lobby on the way out.
The credits roll, my name upon the dark screen.

Enjoy your evening.

I’d like to think it was a great poet who once wrote
“Got too much to care about; it sends chills up my spine: Too many feelings, with less and less time. Breaking my back and breaking my heart, these loves are tearing my mind apart.”
It wasn’t.
It was me.
This has nothing to do with anything.

I’m glad the galaxy doesn’t revolve around me; my lack of gravity would send everything spinning off into black.
If I spin faster, can I shake off the world?
Is her persistence merely delaying an inevitable departure, or is she here to stay?
And what about her?
Can I trust her, or am I entertainment -- her own personal car crash, her own train wreck?

Your cynicality is an inversion of your Romantic way.
Your alternate poles are respectively sadistic and masochistic, and it turns your world around.
Like a dog chasing its own tail, your paradoxical continuum will eventually tire.
Strong hands are worthless with weak knees, my friend.  

Maybe you ought to lie down.

You've played marvelously.
You've been what I wanted.
You've maintained the perfect amount
of          disconnection
of          apathy
of          nonchalance
and       disinterest

And it has driven me mad.
I've been writing songs about you.
You've got me the perfect kind
of          obsessed
of          committed
of          infected
and       controlled

I mean, don't get me wrong:
My rhetoric gives the false impression
That I'm not enjoying this immensely.
It's been a long time since anyone moved like you.

I could accuse you of cheating
But only in embitterment
Only because I don't want to be drowned
In rules I don't remember.

There's something tragic here.
But it's the perfect kind
of          adversity
of          affliction
of          infelicity

Of tragedy.

“L’amour n’est pas consolation; il es lumière.”

By as much as our might my diminish
We will harden our minds
We will seal off our hearts
For insecurity, perhaps

“Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît.”

She changes my reasons, I still cannot understand
I no longer try to comprehend
I no longer seal off my heart
For love, perhaps

It was Elizabeth Bishop
Indeed, the “Chemin de Fer:”
“‘Love should be put into action!’
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond, an echo
tried and retried to confirm it.”

Shall we take action, my love?

A gear that does not conform is a wrench in the works.
Remove the gear until it can be brainwashed, retrained, forced to mesh.
How to fix it?
How to force it?
The hammer?
Not a surgical tool, by any means, but this isn’t a surgical processus.
Accuracy requires thought.
The bludgeon is a much simpler tool.
A simpler weapon.
Certainly not as successful as perhaps another, but casualties are to be expected in such lock-step, industrial machinery.
It was the height of modernity a century ago -- but the world is changing, and the machine is grinding slowly into the primitive darkness of archaism.

The world is changing. Rearranging.
More and more gears are dropping from their cogs into the morass of the behemoth.
More and more are getting lost in nauseous darkness.
More and more gears.
More and more wrenches in an aging, beastly, anachronic and inefficient monstrosity.

Something’s gotta give.

It seems to me, my friend, that you have this perverse fascination with breaking your life.
No good can come of this.
You can lead a horse to water...

You're so beautiful
In a way I can't describe
I won't even try

You're so breathtaking
Language isn't enough, here
Inamorata

Simple syllables
An equation for feelings
I just like haikus

She’s kissing him.
He grins and touches her leg, right where you used to touch her.
You have to watch as he whispers to her, and she nods slowly.
You have to watch as her shirt falls to the floor.
His pants drop to his heels, and you have to watch her degrade herself.

A flash, perhaps.
She climbs on top of him, and loves, him, and they both enjoy it.
Of course.
The sacred skin you barely dared to touch, he defiles like fast food, or a rest room.
No thought.

**** testosterone.
****.
Love.
**** love.

Can you be jealous of things that have happened?
Envious of a ghost of the past?

Where can you hide when your mind is out to get you?

Can you trust me?
Think. I wouldn’t -- but is that because I know me?
Is that just who I am?
Are we at the beginning, or is it the end again?
Sometimes I wish life was a silent movie.
Everything would be black and white.
Communication. Words. Happy endings.
I wish I could trust a happy ending.

Is that just who I am?

I may have mentioned that she was “hard-to-get,” so to speak.
Well, indeed.
What an enigma, man.
She flirted sometimes, and was a stone wall the next moment.
Imagine trying to court an Autumn in Colorado; that was Madelynn.
She was not the first girl to say “no” to me when I first asked her to be mine, but the first in a long time, and the first to affect me.
I was used to predictable, insecure rabbits of girls, whose immaturities and self-conscious fears guided them into my inherent charms and snares; traps they had always desired.
Madelynn was la renard; a fox who put me on my knees for once.
I wasn't what she wanted.
The fox escaped.

I don’t want to go back.
I don’t want the rules, the restrictions.

Here’s something.
I play jazz because the lack of structure and the incoherence in design is delectable to me.
I admire the changes that occurred in each composer’s mind.
I’d like to think that they have shared thoughts with me, even if sixty years in difference.

Woah. I definitely was going somewhere at the beginning of this rant.
Am I getting less understandable?
Is my train of thought laying more hazardous tracks, threatening to go in a manic way?

I certainly hope not.

The bottom line is that I don’t want to go back.
Oh, look, that’s also the first line.
I’m not funny.

We’ve been over this.
There it is! I’ve changed subjects again.
This is a little alarming.

Am I jazz?
That sounds like something Sammy Davis Jr. would say.
God, stop it.
Stop. Stop. Stop.

You can’t do this to yourself.
Just go to sleep.

I think I saw you once, sitting silent on the swings;
Your pervasive empty made the cold that February morning sting;
The chains were dormant, and you had nothing to say.
I wanted only to give you something to care for, to make the chains sway.

I couldn’t approach, I had been frozen to the pavement.
I wasn’t used to this sort of Romantic sort of enslavement;
I think maybe I stared too long, waiting for some part of a smile.
But if I could ever get my feet up, it’d be worthwhile.

I wrestled quietly with ice that held me down to the gray --
I didn’t want to escape so quickly, didn’t want to scare you away.
You started to stand, and in my direction glanced askance;
I promise I could swing with you if you just gave me a chance.

part of the issue is that people spend so much time
          trying to quantify paradise;
                    trying to delineate
                              what exactly it would look like,
                                        and what the air would taste like.

that’s not necessarily plausible.

the imaginations of men
          are acquiescent to their
                    experiences.

                              as a species,
                    we form opinions based on
          societal designs that stress a need
for instant judgement.

we’re contained in
          an age of information and instance;
                    an age that has rendered
                    deliberation
                    and reflection archaisms --
tasks delegated to philosophers
          and poets
                    and writers for literary magazines,
                              and other ‘nonessential’ social functions.

“nonessential” because of a permanent,
          entirely pervasive air
                    of cynicality
                    and ignorance
          that has descended upon us
as a species.

I digress;
people decide
          what they delight in, and
          what they detest;
                    what they revere, or
what they repudiate,
                              based on quick decisions
                                        and first impressions.

                                        this is paradise

                                                            and there is nothing else to see

                                                                                don’t
                                                                                you
                                                                                think
                                                                                you’ve
                                                                                          seen it all?

Some things are straightening out.
Some things are looking up.
I’m standing up.

Other things are falling down.
Other things are twisting my stomach.
I’m doubling over.

I’m vomiting stress and secrets and anxiety onto the carpet, a dark and uncomfortable stain.
Anger pulls trust and confidence slowly from my lips; two more blackened regrets on the floor.
I don’t feel so good.

I wish I knew.
I wish I knew what was coming.
I can’t see the future.

Here’s something else:
Cats are enabled with an evolutionary trait called "tapetum lucidum,” also known as eyeshine.
It reflects light inside their corneas, and allows them to see in the dark.
But, if I also had tapetum, would I want to see what the dark holds?
Would I want to see what lies in the dark?
Would I want to see the future, if I could?

Instinctively, I think I would.
But the Romantic inside of me would regret the choice.
I’m regretting it now.
But some perverse way would persuade me otherwise, to look forward, so as to foresee mistakes I don’t have to make.

I don’t want to make any mistakes.
But I don’t want to cheat.
I’m a paradox, and I’m broken.
But I’m not a cheater.

I know the rules, and however much I don’t enjoy it, I will play by them.

Can somebody tell me what the **** is going on?
Of course not.
I thought we were doing so well.
Everything was on the mend.

What a lie.
False faith.
False hope.

Depression kills.
Mania revives, electrocutes, so depression may return, and work its art once again.
Cyclical execution.

I want to be saved now.
I’ve dealt with this long enough, haven’t I?
It hasn’t been graceful, I agree, but there is no grace to be had.
I want someone to hold me and to tell me they understand me, even if they don’t.
Is that too much to ask?

I wish I was ignorant enough to find religion.
Atheism leaves you with no stupid ideals to run to for a warped sense of salvation.

So what is happening?

A dear friend inspired me to write again. Because I have to know everything that everyone else knows. I’ve actually stared at those two sentences for six minutes. I don’t know what else to say. I have nothing else to say. I miss that depth of emotion that she has that I used to pretend to have. Depression has this interesting way of making me interesting to myself. Sometimes. I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I have to assume that some sort of ad infinitum theorem will eventually make me make sense. I don’t know enough words, maybe -- maybe that’s why I can’t get it out. Or sentence structures. Or maybe I’m not asking the right questions. What do I do?

I don’t like bringing my head down, but I don’t like being dry. How come the emptier I am inside, the more full each page becomes. I’m so intimidated by an empty page now -- but I’ve remembered how to care for people. Is simplicity preferable to complexity in this instance? Is it worth being less introspective; to be open?

I’m out of answers for questions that don’t necessarily need them. Why does her poetry make me feel like that’s not the right thing?

Welcome.
This is all we have for you.
Live now.
Nothing is waiting.
There is no reward for living with restraint.

                    So don’t.

                                        Do what you love.

                                               ­                                                                 ­        Play jazz.
                                                        ­                        Change the world.
                                                      ­                                                                 ­ Fall in love.
                                                        ­                                                                F­all out of love.
                                                        ­                        Change the world again.
                                                      ­                                                                 ­ Dream.
                                                     ­                                               Forget where you were going,
                                                        ­                                                                R­emember.
                                                     ­                                               Change your mind.
                                                        ­                                            Go anywhere else.
                                                        ­    Make someone smile.

                                        Drive nowhere.

                                        Do it fast.

“You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this.”
Well, you have not, and somebody’s got to.
There will come a day when social obligations will no longer be enough to hold me here.
There will be a day when my love runs out.
That will be an interesting day, but until then, I’m running out of “desperate cries for attention” to make up for your incomprehension.
You can only misunderstand me so many times.
Patience is a finite resource, and it is just one of the ways that I’m running low.

Here's something:
A car can only run on empty for so long.
*What happens when the road levels out?

Could you talk yourself into romance?
Would that be bad?

I
think
I missed
Having these
Little crushes
Late night thoughts,
Later night dreams of
Things that I didn't expect
To ever cross my mind ever
Ever ever again.

I wish I could express my emotions like you can;
I wish I could show someone I really am me.
But I don't know if I can be so personal --
Maybe I'm afraid to be.

It's easy to be a guitarist,
Because I can form songs with my bare hands.
But could I really be a poet?
Could I really use my words to show you who I am?

But I can't spend the rest of my life
          comparing
                    my poetry
                              to yours
Because your words have meaning

And I don't know what mine are for.


You know, it's possible I'm in love with being in love.
It's possible that I'm not even there.
Because I switch too fast from being so romantic,
To being someone who just doesn't care.

I think the difference is you're not afraid to be broken,
But I am, so I put walls up around myself.
I've only played the game getting fallen for.
I couldn't bear to be the one who fell.

But I can't spend the rest of my life
          hurting
                    everyone
                              else
Maybe it's time to change the way I play

And become the one who fell.

I promise I have reasons
For acting like I do.

There was something that stopped me to begin with.
I don’t remember what it was, but it felt like lying.
She didn’t trust me, because I wasn’t how I am now.
She made me who I am now.
But she’s gone.
So who am I?

There was something that reminded me why we were
I don’t remember what it was, but it hurts.
When you’ve broken someone’s heart, who keeps the pieces?
If I have them, what am I expected to do with them?
Because I don’t know how to fix that sort of thing,
And she doesn’t want me to, anyway.
What do I do?

There’s something that told me it was supposed to end.
I know exactly what it was, and it was too familiar.
I couldn’t always be happy, and she couldn’t either.
And now I’ve perpetuated that.
She won’t feel happy for a long time.
But was it worth it?
How soon can I be happy again?

There’s something that everyone keeps telling me.
They tell me I’m a bad man -- I’m the killer.
I’m not a bad guy. I can’t be. That’s not me.
I never meant to hurt anyone.
I just wanted me to be happy.
Because I’m always looking out for number one, you know?
What happens when I’m not number one anymore?

What happens when I care enough to heal the next girl?
What happens when I realize I have to heal myself first?