...and off I went...

on the way to nowhere.
Fogerty asked me a bit about the rain,
Floyd told me about money,
Henley was worried about some boys
       because it was summer,
Frampton kept asking someone
       to show him the way.
I hoped it wasn't me, I had no idea
       where I was headed.
Until I stopped to write this.
And when I got here
the Animals told me about a house
       in New Orleans.
On the way, between songs
I figured out the meaning of life
but I didn't think anyone would believe it
       or me,
so I didn't bother to write it down.
Now,
I can't remember what it was.
It will come back to me again,
someday,
maybe.
My eyes are on fire as the sweat
       rolls down into them.
I'm watching the boats cruise by freely
from the confines of my car.
I think of how my mind is like the water:
always changing
and it never stops moving.
As goes life:
the only constant is that everything changes.
...and it hit me again, just now,
the meaning of life,
and it makes sense to me, but you
       still wouldn't believe me if I told you.
I have to get going anyway.
It's a long ride back,
but not long enough.

No words are spoken
there they sit
alone, together
in a dwelling void of life
except for the two of them.
Noise spewing from the television.

She thinks he doesn't care
that all he wants is ***.
He ignores her, she feels
and they only speaks when they argue.
She just wants to tell him
about her day and how she feels.
She just wants him to understand
but she doesn't know how to say it.

He thinks she is avoiding him
that she is a boring *****
it's intentional, he feels
all she does is complain, then they argue.
He just doesn't want to hear
about her day and what's wrong
he just wants her to relax, stop worrying
but she doesn't ever seem to listen.

Commercials come and go
one show leads to another.
She gets tired.
He gets bored.
And nothing is brought up but
the negative,
if anything at all.
Another night passes,
more wasted time.
wasted youth
passes
as they sit
in that empty house,
alone,
together.

Many a night I've sat
alone
motionless
thinking, 'is this what failure feels like?'
no money coming in
bills that need to go out
no desire
no feeling of urgency
no control
and little or
no hope.
Everything seems so bleak.
I never feel rested.
Lately I have to force myself
to sleep just to sleep.
I don't feel tired
Just tired of being awake.
the money dwindles
the bills pile up
work is the same everyday
and I lay here
trying to sleep
just to do it
and this, this feels like failure.
but it could be worse.
I'm not dead
(though, I don't feel alive)
so at least I can write about it
and as long as I can do that
I have not yet
failed.

Something shifted.
The world got way from me and I
can’t stop the turning.
I look and see those I knew
I know
I want to know
and wonder what I’m doing wrong
       what are they doing better?
Or do I just not see it right? Am I
missing something?
I feel a void inside where memories used to be
       I can see through myself.
Can you see through me?
Can you see it too?
       There is no cover for such a space
and there seems to be no way to fill the void.
Memories are not created as easily as they
used to be
       and I have tried
       oh, how I’ve tried
but it seems there was a point where
my mind
just ceased working properly
       and
things that were there at one time
       simply
were not the next time. I looked.
Searched. Searched.
I still look back from time to time to try and find something.
Blurred images melting into one another.
Grayed out photos of life
       Darkness where color should be.
Everyday trying to remember
trying to fill the void to no avail.
All for naught.

Sometimes I wonder
why
I'm even trying.
So I take another sip from the bottle.
My life changes
depending on my mood.
I don't deserve this I
tell myself
I shouldn't be here,
I shouldn't be anywhere,
I shouldn't be,
so I take another sip from the bottle.
But, it wasn't all my fault.
Other people made choices too,
I tried to do my best.
I tried.
So I take another sip from the bottle.
I only made my decisions.
They are what's wrong with me.
None of this would have happened
if it wasn't for them.
I pour my revenge nightly:
glass by glass.
But the glasses take too long...
So, I take another sip from the bottle.
And revenge is
a dish best served cold.
I deserve better than this I
tell myself.
I should be somewhere else.
I should be somewhere,
but I'm not,
and it's all their fault.
And one day I'll prove it,
but right now all I have
is a cold bottle of revenge.
So, I take another sip from the bottle...

Another lonely heart's been broken.
If only those few words were spoken,
so the other knew the way
he felt about her everyday.
Words were thought but never said
and if they were it might have led
to better things than whats become
to the lives of both of them
…
some say “it’s the thought that counts”
or “a picture is worth a thousand words”
but I believe what really counts
is everything that she just heard
NOT the thoughts that were never shared
NOT the picture never shown
NOT the writings thrown away
for, she might be here if she had known
…
love’s a very splendid thing,
or so they keep on telling me.
Perhaps someday I might find out
what this love thing’s all about
I’ll learn about it in due time
when I learn to speak my mind
for this heart, now, would not be broken
if only those few words were spoken…

“I love you, too”

I've had many things on my mind:
memories of forgotten times,
missing chances, some regrets
and looking at what I have left;

I'm no where near what I'd like to be.
because your not here next to me.
friends forever we always said,
I guess forever came instead.

I miss the fun we used to have,
all the times we used to laugh,
all the times we sat and stared,
never said a word and no one cared.

we fell apart and we chose our roads,
I messed up and your heart let go.
we knew we wanted more than friends,
but we traveled roads with different ends.

mine tried to hold but distance grew
until I lost my sight of you.
with every step I thought of "us",
in hopes "that day" would come to pass.

days and weeks went passing by
our roads would pass and we'd say hi
and then you'd walk away again
and I'd wave good bye to my best friend

occasionally our roads would cross
and we'd talk about the time we've lost
but only for a moment though
so we can head back down our roads

and every time I'd stand and wait
and watch you as you walk away
then I'd start my road again
as I wave good bye to my best friend

Sometimes I wonder if
I would have showed up
if I would have tried a bit harder
to be there
to respond more
that you may still be sitting
on that bench
writing to me.

"it happens to everyone," I wrote.
you were hurt
you wanted me but
I was half a world away.
I was no help to anyone
myself included.
"you'll get over it and life will go on,"
I wrote.  "just think of me and maybe
one day
I'll be able to come out and see you
or you could make it
out here."

then, I'm not too sure
but now, now I know
it was all a lie.

it was your sister who told me
about you.
it had been almost three weeks
since your last letter.
the next one I got wasn't from you
but about you:
how you jumped from the old stone bridge
the one you wrote your letters to me from.
the one I told you we'd sit by
when I came to visit

I never came to visit and now
I have no reason to.
perhaps you're here with me
maybe you finally made it out
to see me
and this was your way
of making it.

maybe you're here now
and that's why I'm thinking of you...

he tells a tale of life and love lost,
twice
to the same woman
and a third time to a second.
he still loves the one, but, doesn’t say
which one.
but I think I know, and they think they know, too.
they don’t, and neither do I.
another drink goes down and another story starts
and he finishes both quickly, neither meant much to him.
and another of each is there in an instant
both at my request.
his soul falls away, I see it in his eyes when he
speaks about this one.
about the day he almost died.
his lifeless eyes well up with tears
but, none break free.
he does not cry,
not tonight.
we close the place, go to his and have some drinks.
he has wine, I have whiskey. then we both have another.
and another.
I wish him luck and stand to leave.
he tells me to take my luck but that I’m welcome back
anytime.
but to bring the luck back with me,
one day
he might need it.

He always said you didn't
have to live that way to write.
That it wouldn't help,
but
it might not hurt.
I've never starved.
I've never walked cold, lonely, big-city
       streets at night, unless it was
       on purpose.
I've never been in a bar fight,
gone on a a five day binge,
slept on a park bench
or woken up in an alley, beat up and
       hungover with my wallet missing.
I've never thrown a glass against the wall
       in anger while screaming at some
       ***** I didn't like.
I've had some tough jobs
but not like him.
Music is different,
life is different,
time is different,
everything is different.
But I feel just like the guy.
I understand it,
I feel it.
And maybe that just means
that he was a better writer than I am.
And that's true.
But I'm just getting started.
We've both brought on portions of the misery
       ourselves, but it worked for him.
So, lets see what I've got...

Maybe next time I'll do some reading.
I need a desk to sit at.
Less sugar.
a new job,
more time,
enough money,
a pet,
a reason,
a real vacation,
a better idea,
another chance,
another bottle of wine,
a bit of silence
and some time alone;
then,
maybe,
just maybe,
things will start to look a bit better.
Right now though,
the cloud is too dark to see through
and
what little silver lining I can see
is tarnished.

seasons end then: new beginnings
another try at life's routine
a chance to step outside the lines
and follow a new life course.
the path to glory has been paved
and I shall make my way down it
fighting, tooth and nail, relentless
in my pursuit of greatness.
down that road I will forge a legendary
journey, upending all obstacles, simply
because I can, and choose to do so.
a trail will be blazed to the gates
of eternity and I shall be at the forefront
leading on, pressing through, living
until whatever being created me decides
it is the end of my time here, to which
a legacy so great and massive will follow
that I will not soon be forgotten...

People with big dreams
are fooling themselves
and making it harder
on the rest of us.
The rest of us with
no other jobs
that have to care about
what we do to make it by.
We have nowhere else
and the less they try
thinking they will be out
soon enough
to follow those dreams
the harder we have to work to
pick up their slack.
And they wonder where the
pessimism and depression
come from.
Well, it's your fault you
ungrateful , lazy, optimistic
sons-a-*******.

the first 28 years of my life
were spent
trying to figure out
what life was all about,
and I spent every moment I could
trying to do so,
only to realize
I have no idea what I'm doing

Some of that time, however,
was spent observing others.
Some of which are my elders,
some of them professionals,
most my age or younger.
And I came to the
realization that,
most of them, if not all
don't have any idea what they are doing
either.

Then I began to wonder
(and still do to this day)
if anyone,
anywhere,
has any idea what they are doing.
And I realize
that the answer
is
no.

I heard a song
on the ride home from work
about how
love is unstoppable.

Let me change my mind
and I'll stop love,
and stop loving.
That may stop your heart
when I stop mine.

And then where is your love at?

Stopped.

At least for me.

the sun goes down without caring about me.
trees sway in a breeze that doesn’t touch my skin.
Birds chirp to each other, unaware of my existence:
somewhere and old couple I’ll never meet are enjoying each others company,
a younger couple I passed by on my way home from work are arguing,
a cat just took a ****, and that cat will never see my face.
Someone in another state just made a sandwich I won’t eat.
Someone in another country just said something I’ll never hear
or understand.
Something on another planet just moved, ever-so-slightly to the left.
And I can’t move it back.
I can’t do anything.
And if I move, I can’t do anything from where I just was.
But you’re there, doing things I can’t because I am not there.
You’re one up on me. And as long as we never meet you always will be.
You know who you are.

The fingers bleed
and burn a little bit
but it’s all worth it.
To know someone else
sees things the way you do,
if only partially.
trying to fathom
how many people
may see what you’ve created.
Inspiration.  Courage.  Confidence.
In myself and in others.
It hurts to carry on sometimes,
but you keep pushing
because you know you have to
make it.
And if others feel they
can make it too, because of
what you’ve done, there are few
better feelings than
knowing you’ve helped the world
by helping yourself.

I am your friend, I am your son.
But do not claim to know me.
I am your lover, your spouse:
but I am someone else entirely.
You only know of me what I tell you of me.
My secrets are my own.
They are the part of me that make me
        do what I do
        say what I say
        think what I think
        believe what I believe
I am your boss and your assistant,
I am your father, I am your uncle,
cousin, waiter, business partner.
I am all of these things,
but I am no one you know.
Not unless I want to be.
But I don't know you well enough
to open up that much.

Something tells me I'm not cut out for this.
So, I'm not listening to 'it'.
Who says what I'm cut out for?
Who says what I'm built for?
People above me seem to believe what they say goes.
but they are only above me in their own mind.
because they put themselves on the pedestal,
they climb on their high-horse and then build the pedestal
ON THE HORSE.
They play king of the mountain.
"You there," they decree from their heights,
"you can't do that." "you aren't good enough."
"That's not the plan we have for you."
But I don't listen to them.
I can' barely hear them from down here.
Down in this hole I've dug for myself.
It's kind of nice but I can still hear them, I know they're still up there.
Yelling. Commanding. Touting.
"No, no! Do it like this."
And the masses follow.
The rest of us are as yet undecided.
Or too decided.
Either clawing and scratching our way out of the hole,
or digging ourselves deeper,
trying to drown out the noise.
My hole is almost finished,
not much further now.
I just want the silence. the peace. the comfort.
Everyone else can have the spots at the top.
I'll stay down here in my hole.
Soon, though, I can stop digging.
just as soon as I reach the bottom of this 6 feet.