I can't hide these feelings
I'm not sure if that makes me
Honest,
Weak,
Or self-centered,
But I don't want to be here

maybe if I sing myself a lullaby,
I'll feel better enough to sleep
...what a sad thought,
a grown man singing himself a lullaby

My momma always warned me
She’d say
“Baby doll liquor runs through our veins”
I was making a family tree for health class last week and a third of the people hanging from the branches had beer bottles clinking next to them.
My grandfather’s favorite hobby was downing a bottle of jack and carrying out the cliché tradition of beating his wife and kids
Just like his father did.
My dad learned from this vowing never to forget what alcohol did too his family
My uncle he drinks just trying to forget.
My mother has a similar background
She remembers riding into town with my grandma to buy her granddaddy’s medicine
It was only until she was older she realized the pharmacy was an ABC
The “medicine” cheap whiskey
As the elixir slid down my great grandfathers throat it trickled into the workings of our tree
Infecting its core
Yeah my parents would always warn me
Against the dangers of alcohol
Don’t drink the punch at parties
Don’t be like your uncles
Don’t end up like your aunts
But what they failed to tell me was depression runs through our veins too
They taught me how to ward off being a drunkard
But never told me to stay away from the dark spaces in my mind
They never taught me what to do about the numbness
And in my house people are more ashamed
Of going to therapy than alcoholics anonymous.
How do you protect yourself from something already inside you?
You see those relatives of mine
They were doctors
Preforming at home blood transfusions
Replacing the bad blood with good beer
The dark thoughts with white wine
Until the depression swimming through them was too drunk to see straight
We nurture our family tree with PBR and Prozac
Helping the roots twist and grow so they can grasp for the younger generation dangling from the lower limbs and I mean
Hey we all need something to make the feelings go away
And they say alcohol’s not the answer
But it sure as hell makes you forget the question
We all need something to forget the questions
And Like my kin I picked my poison
Because I felt it
The liquor in my veins I felt it
getting warmer
Hotter
Hot
This liquid in my veins it gets too hot.
I’m slitting my wrist to poor myself another shot
It’s not what it looks like momma
I just wanna feel that buzz and my blood is all I got
I picked my poison
I’m like my uncles
A crude copy of my aunts
I’m an addict
Just not an alcoholic

I remember the first time I heard a poem and knew it was poetry.
Sitting in an audience twiddling my thumbs wondering when this stupid class would be over I never
Expected to find this interesting
Until they walked on stage
Every one of them dressed in black
I knew none of them
Minds wandering as one of those strangers walked forward, leaned toward the mic
My apathy and boredom causing me to ignore him
Until he spoke
He opened his mouth and the words fell out
But these were no ordinary words
They were filled with helium
And as they floated off his tongue up to the heavens
They took the mask hiding this mans face with them
He wasn’t a stranger anymore
We knew his dreams, fears, aspirations
He was an inspiration sending sensations in the form of goose bumps up my arms
I listened as the strangers surrounding me dissolved into something more familiar
Telling me their stories
Hearing their sweet voices would cause the corners of my mouth to curl up creating this Cheshire cat smile
While I was too afraid to snap or clap
Not thinking my opinion was worthwhile
All I did was listen
You see
I’m usually quiet
These thoughts run circles through my head
Until the ruts they make hit the bottoms of my feet.
With stuttering lips and chewed cheeks
Shaking hands, pounding heart beat
I tried to be that old stranger who was now a friend
I tried to speak
But my voice was weak
The muscles controlling my sounds
Crumbling from years of mistreatment
Somewhere deep inside my throat the thoughts they get hung
On something
Until one night at four in the morning suddenly the flood gates opening
My words flowing faster than the ink I used to try and jot them down
And with unstable body itch and twitch
I stood under those bright lights
Saying
this is me
this is my voice
Poetry gives me a voice
And now
You can still watch my legs quake my face turn red my voice shake
And sometimes my words fill like lead rather than light
But ******* at least I’m trying
this is my catharthacism
Helps to feed my narcissism
Tell me
What the **** is wrong with loving yourself?
I love myself
Say it
Write it
Because proclaiming your love or putting it to paper makes it that closer to the truth
Just Fake it till you make it
If I didn’t I couldn’t take this world
And I want so badly to keep on living
Breathing Speaking Listening
To your poetry
Until there are no more strangers

Here I lay
With an itch to write
And fear of what I'd say

I love to get drunk and dance
Nothing gets me closer to free
If you want to dance, too, you can
But please don't complicate me

My dad, though he would not be my dad for two years, was left alone outside the newly-vacant hospital room
A cart stood inside, unmoved since my mother's bed was rolled away
He could not follow her, but his mind had not left what lay on the cart since her departure anyway
He was not supposed to do this, but there was no choosing otherwise
He entered the room and approached
A white towel lay over a small metal pan resting upon the cart
He reached down and pulled the towel away
His son
Tiny, not entirely formed, but human
His name was Spike
My name is Spike, too
He must have only been a pound or two
My dad loved him
And I love him, too
My brother,
I hope someday I'll meet you