I sit and twiddle my fingers.
Trying to grasp for words,
That will accurately convey
For many years,
I developed dependency,
On people, parties, pleasures
For quick, yellow bursts of dopamine.
I own a gory past to say the least,
Some details too painful
To divulge in their fullness.
I finally faced myself.
I finally sat down with my past
And I finally stared it
In its ugly face
Radio silence, for days
Tears of the years
Spilled from my heart to my bathroom floor, for days and days.
I traced each repressed memory
Like one who cuts themselves
Would trace their scars
Internal scars are even worse sometimes...
I sat with myself
No distractions, no noise, no friends to talk to, just me, myself and our thoughts.
I screamed to the air.
I was utterly naked,
In front of my deepest pains.
Utterly exposed to the elements.
The fire lapped at my heart.
Finally, the sun rose
And spilled light into my veins
As the weight fell off
I changed my name.
“Who I was.”
“Who I am.”
“What I’ve done.”
“What I will become.”
on this september afternoon
the sun warms
the langobard museum
next to it
a noisy little waterfall
keeps flipping flat pebbles
across the quiet water
down from the fall
for a few hours
in the clash of centuries
Cividale is another lovely old town in the northeast of Italy. See
Victorious or defeated makes no difference.
Rising from the dirt, rising to fight on.
A village in dust,
a city in ruins,
a nation's weep.
Victorious or defeated makes no difference,
fallen on both accounts.
Faces and figures from another era,
unkown but familiar somehow…
Hopes and dreams in ruins,
with vengeance in their hearts and
compassion lying within their souls.
For hope might rise again, a beginning of another era.
Fallen watching from afar, war does not determine
who's right or wrong only who's left to remember...
Quite irritating and aggravating,
Hater tater tots come wailing
Prevailing in their scathing, vapid thoughts
Appreciating their own reflections,
To the likes of Narcissussss
Derailing your train of thought with their words:
Vile arpeggios of "you're mediocre" shift TO
crescendos of "you're incompetent" TO
diminuendos of "you can do it" in hopes of
making you feel better,
Although you know that bit of motivation from
them is a lie—a blatant lie
Quite condescending and stupefying,
Hater tater tots come to knock down your
door of confidence
Prevail in your defense of self-respect and
vow to protect your house of strength
Appreciating your own reflection,
To the likes of humility and empowerment
Derailing their doubts about you with your actions:
Victorious arpeggios of "I'll still write"
shift TO crescendos of "I'm better than my
past selves" TO diminuendos of "I know
I can do it" to stay afloat,
Although you know that the flaming
torch of criticism may burn you now
and then—blatant pain
Amid the tornado of public criticism that
your mind is rotating in,
Amid your deteriorating state of
Amid this negativity from
others that is pure B.S.
Bake the hater tater tots
Burn them with your self-confidence
Love your poems because you should appreciate your work the most.