Hello me,

I'm you. I'm the older you after multiple suicide attempts, and lost in a haze of ***** and drugs.  I am also you who sought and searched for some meaning and belonging, only to find hypocrisy and pain.  But all that aside, I wanted to thank you for not giving up on life even though you wanted to.  Finally asking for help when you did, even though a part of you didn't care anymore.  Thank you for letting hope grow in you one day at a time.  Thank you for letting me love you, so I can love me today.  Life is pretty amazing today, and we would have missed out on this beautiful journey because we were so locked in our pain. Now, you and I can share our story of pain and suffering to help someone else.  We don't have to stay in a hopeless state of mind and body.  Thank you for having the courage to surrender and admit you couldn't do it alone anymore.  I love you very much.

Love,

I'm You

Venturing into the heart of insanity,
(my mind)
I fear that i will lose myself.
I hear the blood rushing in my head
(Will it ever drown me?)
As its the only sound i hear apart from myself.
Alone with my thoughts,
(Wish me well..)
Maybe this is what i want.
Insanity. Chaos. Something.

What if
I'd said "hello" at that one party

What if
I'd stayed and talked to you at the bar that one night

What if
I'd made more of an effort to talk to you

What if
I wasn't so insecure

What if
I wasn't so shy around you

What if
I tried

What if
I started conversations

What if
I actually showed my interest

What if?

Would it change anything?

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts

and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door  
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore

all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets

He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound