Why do we Hallmark our holidays and fabricate ceremonies?

We guilty non-obligators celebrate all things that can't be true,
forcing smiles in rooms full of elephants yet no one’s a candidate for sainthood.

I tell myself I’ll do better than they did, but doing better than they did
still leaves roles un-played and dreams unfulfilled.

I may understand life from the top to the bottom but I live in the dash between the hair of the dog and last call.

While people without broken bones wander around on crutches,
we who were broken as children walk on feet-less legs,
a trail of pain follows wherever we go.

Its inevitable for us to get stuck between bitterness and agony while all the while we fail to make sense of what it is we're living for.

I don’t want to be celebrated I’d rather be understood, so maybe then the searing heat of loneliness we never speak of might die a slow death.

I only wanted for you what was better than what I had
not knowing that without the bad there is never any good.

Every left hand turn leads to something right eventually
and when we exist for only ourselves the world is not round rather flat and we tend to fall off the edges into pandemonium and unhappiness.

Its not what we have it’s the pursuit that keeps us going but I need to not want in order to feel what I feel.

To sit still is more consuming than any long term project.

When I have it all I have nothing,

an uneasiness with the easiness of stress free living,

a simmering flame of doubt about all that's gone wrong in my life while things that happened 30 years ago feel as fresh as tomorrow.

I read an article today that said the drug ecstasy can take away depression but we all know lots of pills can do that.

The bottom line in all of this, I wish I had a reset button, a restart after false start, a wake up to reality call, I'd throw away the wigs I wear, powder coated cover ups,  and let my hair grow long,

get back to the basics,

maybe start with Bukowski,

celebrate the simple things in life.

On my bed,
The sheet climbing off the sides,
My cover a pile at my feet,
And a transparent stretch on my face
That blocks the light from within
But not without.
Tiny dots across the window
Glows like fireflies in the cone,
A dark, dark room.
(Rough edges.)

The world outside
A buzz of flies
Waiting to die,
You could use a gun
To shoot at them,
And they would thank you
For all the destruction,
The blood so little from them
You won't even have to wash them off.
(Is it even red?)

There is no glory
There is no pain
In the killing of lives
Tinier than our egos.
The buzz flows
Like the wind,
Or the air in the conch
The blood in your vessels.
If you don't put your ear next to it,
You won't even listen.
(Silence.)

I was twelve
Probably ten,
My brother held his breath
While he explained the Schrodinger's cat.
I listened the same,
I cannot and will not say
I understood it
Because you can never tell
At which age
Things became what they are now.
How can you tell, its your mind that grew
And not the thing itself?
(Questions.)

is just a
day an oasis
in eternity

Overcomplicate me.

Make
Mountains
Out of my dust.
When I inevitably go,
Don't let me
Go easily.