I think too much on the outskirts of life,
never in tune with the waves and how they
sway back and forth like they're making a point
to give you something you are never capable of returning-
it makes me think the ocean has a sense of empathy
and a sense of humor that we will never understand.
I will never understand the way life blanks me out
the way boxes are made around our souls
and the way minds have the ability to think
way too many times a second which leaves me
empty-
not being able to picture the words I want to formulate
not being able to grip my sanity around the edges
of the skyline long enough to see the sunset-
these things are all optional
mandatory was never in my nature
and my stature has always been tall
which is why I stand in cities and see my own reflection in them.
The destruction and peace and corruption
living inside these streets of myself
but everything you need is capable to be found somehow.
Nothing is ever black and white-
which is why I see others in every rainbow
because everyone is flamboyant at best.
When the light hits their eye just right
and I see a sparkle of life in another-
I'm always reading others.
Spending time learning their pages
so I can write a synopsis out of their smile someday.
I am a writer, and on my best days a poet.
But most of the time these words are just a dishonest
depiction of what I'm feeling inside-
the things I don't really have the guts to say.
Every time I put my fingers to these keys
it's just a shade lighter of the stream of conscious
that likes to paint dark pictures in my mind.
Everything is subjective at best.
The fingers I use to touch these keys
and write these words are just machine
and I am the one holding the controls
until I lose control again
and I'm back searching for the consistency
I've never really had.
Because life doesn't tell you it's plans-
It comes to your house at 1am
and doesn't leave
not until you're hallucinating from exhaustion.
It sends you a 4am "you up" text
and expects *** after the first date.
It never asks how you're feeling
so you just have to wonder if it really gives a ****.
But life doesn't ******* give a ****-
it takes your words as a disservice
and makes promises it knows it can't keep.
I am a promise never kept-
always fleeting, always changing
mind never consistent enough for normalcy
privilege was never in my human nature
and eggshells have always been the shoes
I wear upon my feet
so I try my best on most days not to crack them-
not to worsen the shards that peg my soles.
I am wandering
constantly fleeting from the feelings
I never want to admit are there.
They are there-
somewhere in a place I haven't been in a while
where cob webs collect and the dust settles-
I have made a mess out of what remains
there is no consolation for me
just a collection of art most people don't understand
with inflection and tone that protray my words
in a way to which I hope people with grasp onto
I'm living for others-
to write the words they do not have the guts to say
to pin down the insecurities they bottle up
to let the elephant in the room
put on the best ******* show it can-
I would like to be the savior of someone's sanity
as seeing as I cannot be my own.
I will flourish and grow someday
but in the meantime I will use my light
to feed others until they feel strong again.
Alone is the dark corner feeling
the pit of your stomach anxiety ridden emotion
so burn the desire to feel it down to the ground
smother it with your blanket ray of light
and watch what grows from the ashes.
I did.