It's winter again.
That time of year
when I fall victim
to my hopeless
melancholy.
What eases the pain?
Pouring my soul
onto paper at 3am,
while you softly
sleep next to me,
completely oblivious
to the catastrophe
laying beside you
and of course,
alcohol.

I see myself as rain

awakened
in the soil.

A rebirth,

a mind alive,

a mad, feverish heart.

What to do?
What to do today?
We have talked about Confessional Poetry
but I realized that I have none to confess

I am no Sylvia Plath
I have nothing to distress about
I have no daughter nor Daddy
no love to suffer to and fro

I am no Annie Lennox too
I dare not put my hands on you
you..
you are a vegetable
I compare you with a green vegetable
you are off no use
of no feelings
nor hatred.

Oh, what to do
What to do.

Through beauty, you have spoiled me
And I run from life and death,
Hiding from foreign love.
Lest I pay for my sins,
******* in your bed,
Begging for the ropes to to cut through my acne - spotted skin.
Then in my bed,
With no arousal left to stain the sheets,
I let spill the tears,
From naive memories of the hands which touched me then.

Sonnets are post-modern confessional poetry,
And my love the subject of them all.
Like a sun,
Forgetting to light half of the moon,
Your unbuttoned shirt often slips my mind,
Slips into my mind during languid afternoons,
When I haven't quite digested my lunch,
Or your smile.

Can I leave?
But I am trapped,
The key in my pocket,
Rusting.

There are times I find where religion would be quite useful
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash

I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream

She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.

Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.

No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.

Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.

Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.

Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.

But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.

And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.

What a guy I was!

But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.

Walter chased me into my house. I owed him five dollars I did not have and I thought I would trick him by getting out of his car quickly and into my house. I was fifteen years old.

Walter was quick too and when I turned to close the door and lock it, he was there to force the door open. I ran up the stairs and down the hall and into my room and Walter was just behind me, stride for stride.

I turned around and he slapped me.

I was small then, for fifteen. He was big for seventeen. I thought about what happened all night. What I should have done and why I did nothing. Mostly, I was ashamed.

I decided from that day forward, if I had an ***-kicking coming, I’d take it nose-to-nose. Better that than be chased into a corner like a dog that just ****** the carpet.

I learned from the Smiley brothers too. They would call my mother fat, and she was, but so was their mother and I’d let them know it right back. This always resulted in some fake pride and threats by the Brothers.

I came to understand that the weak take it, they don’t give it, and that I was The Weak. The Smiley Brothers knew it, Walter knew it, I knew it.

Time passed and I kept growing, bigger than the Smiley’s. Bigger than Walter.

I ran into Walter years later, as adults. He had the kind of defeated look that I assume a plantation owner would have after having done business as equals with a former slave.

But, I harbor no ill-will. I thank Walter and I carry our past with me today.
When I’m going to confront another man, Walter walks in the room, not me. When I make love, my amorous and mischievous sister is the lover.

Yes, she’s there, pushing my lovers, the way she pushed me, curious to find out what she can get them to do next. Oh, how good it is to be in control, to be the one with the whip, to be deliberate.

Like hyenas roaming the African plains, I too have come to understand leverage. But, I’d rather be the elephant than the lion. I consider myself fortunate.

After all, I’m a big guy that knows what it’s like to be small. I’ve been the tether ball and the pole. I’m gentle with my bigness and I’m good at feigning hurt for those that need to believe they have that power.

And as my path narrows, I find myself thanking Walter for the slap, thanking the Smiley Brothers for teaching me what’s worthy of a fight, and loving my sister. Above all.