Life for me has been no crystal stair.
No steps of marble, granite or gold lay apt for my ascension.
No—I have climbed through thickets and thorns.
I have persevered—I have triumphed.
Yet it seems, despite these hardships,
life has always afforded me second chances.
The delicacy of my actions,
the sensitivity of negative repercussions
scarcely affected my younger self.

Opportunities always seemed to present themselves.
Though money and its evils have graced my experience,
my soul remains relatively innocent and refined.

Though I have, on past occasions,
become enveloped in the physical substance,
I quickly learned the long term suffering that these ideations efface
far out-shadows the temporary pleasure of the immediate.
I have overcome afflictions both physical and mental,
and lingered in the pleasure of remission.
Quickly to be reminded how easily diseases can emerge
when disregarded.

I’ve learned that of all things in life—
love, above all, deserves attention and sentiment.
Love, with all its purities and imperfections,
more often fruitlessly sought after than easily attained.
Love, above all other things, cannot be imitated, falsified or forged.
And though I spent some years deprived of this blessing,
I am none the more depraved for it.

I am lucky to say that I have loved.
My heart, delicately and handsomely entwined with another.
And that I am loved in return is a blessing beyond bounds.
Adoration and all its accompaniments are the greatest treasure in a lifetime.
For, what are treasures worth without anyone to share them with?
Any other accomplishments and joys are devalued without companionship.
And indeed, a faithful companion is most appreciated in times of hardship—
the throes, truncheon and tribulation of the everyday
faced alone can prove debilitating.

A great man once said “Life is a bowl of cherries.”
It took many years for me to understand the full meaning of this declaration.
But now I understand—
that each of us reachs into life,
like we reach into a bowl of cherries.
We know not whether what we receive
will be pitted and bitter
or sweet and juicy.
We will not know;
we cannot know,
not until we take a bite.
And if there is anything I have learned
it is to live and let live.
It is to reach into life, unbridled yet controlled,
with morals and constraint
and yet bereft of the fear of outcome:
the guilt of the past,
the impeccable omnipotent pressure of the present,
the trepidation of the future,
and the transience between the three.
The acceptance of this passage through time:
aging,
learning,
making mistakes,
making new mistakes,
loving:
this is how to live.
For, if we fear time,
which we cannot control,
we will always be afraid.
To live a life afraid is to embrace hardship.
Any semblance of hope or happiness
is abandoned with the acceptance and embrace of fear,
for fear, without use or cause
is the impetus of great misjudgment and injury.
We must, to avoid this,
relish in moments of happiness
and string them together
with the constant felicity and solace of companionship.

I am so hungry—though I will not eat.
I am so tired—though I will not sleep.
And to think just moments ago
I was breezing down the highway,
Speakers blasting, vibrating sweet
Rhythms along my thighs: It would
Make the sky weep.
I sit at a window and
for once my world is engulfed in total silence.
The sun shines through my window.
I’ve never seen a window so real.
Never have I fogged up the glass
with more zeal, as my adamant fingers
scribble an “M.” and it fades.
You see, I am just that—“M”
nothing defines me more acutely
than the letter
—how I desire to truncate
the remaining, straggling letters of its
completion—it is sinful.
Because, really, all I want is
to be alone, and ain’t that selfish?
Ain’t it selfish to desire silence
when the world is alive with the sounds of
love, song, laughter.
I reject those things.
Everything is temporary
and it seems easier to lose them
than to never have had them at all.
And, oh, it hurts.
So sick am I of being hurt.
Though it is easier to sacrifice
than to be sacrificed. And so I forsake thee,
sounds of the universe.
I shall sit in my quiet corner.
And lady time nor the remaining letters of my name shall be the wiser.

I haven’t seen You
since the second grade
when I changed my name.
when You lost me,
and things changed.
I started to wonder if I’d ever see You.
but You were too far gone.
You weren’t my father anymore,
You were just the man that made me possible.
however, I was just as manic as You,
just as addicted.
You left what You could in my DNA
but I cycled down my own path
and fell hard without guidance.
tripped upon things that only
the silence of the night can recollect.
alone in my third story bedroom,
I saw the world before me
each endeavored existence.
felt the night breathe its cool breath
into the slumber of my visions.
You and I were the same then.
there was not a shred of difference
I grew as a monster does by its own devices.
fueled by diseases I couldn’t even name
and though I had not seen You
nor heard your voice in the last eight years
I was the same as You. We were the same.

So many days now,
hush,
I hardly remember.
The scarce tones
sung so swiftly
from my sweet love.
Her thin waist about my elbow,
her thighs
pressed beneath my chin.
So softly how I once caressed
the thin and delicate neck,
and stroked so gently
the cords of her being.


Those are days long gone.
My fingers now,
curled with the stiffness of age,
are innate appendages,
restages
of their former days,
now limp with the ravages of time.

That is the pain that I have been numbing
The night I shared nestled beneath the sheets
How I wonder who I am becoming—

All those moments add up to be nothing
How quickly, indeed, life’s passions can fade
That is the pain that I have been numbing

To his touch—I am always succumbing
I’m forever drawn back to the same thought
How I wonder who I am becoming

His lips on my neck—ever forthcoming
There’s nothing left between us to be saved
That is the pain that I have been numbing

And yes—I washed the sheets, like any other fling
There’s nothing left of you— or me as well
Oh! I wonder who I am becoming

And with that, not only the sheets did I wring—
Yes—my soul has been left dry and wanting
That is the pain that I have been numbing
How I wonder who I am becoming.

There are some days, that when I look at my life
The days that have drifted by, piling up without care,
It seems as though I am still new to this world.
But we people are so used to conceiving the infinite,
That days number by without wear.

It is strange altogether to think that someday
All that will be left will be my lineage
If I am blessed with that gift at all.
And so I drift from place to place in this world
Wishing to somehow leave a stain:
A note to tomorrow
Lest I not be there again

I imagine myself, one of them, some of them.
I break down the shield that keeps me
in the shallow water.
That open vast expanse of you and I
that flows on forever
sliding in and out of boundaries,
of consciousness.
Life beats down upon me, as a hail storm
might beat upon the concrete
its cracks imbedded with the spark of life.
That brown and green of
Soil and its brainchild.
I am so alone and so together;
so very different than what life has become:
reliving and reliving
my experiences.