Magnificent
To be infinite
In the complexity
Of all that surrounds us

Desolating
I'm just existing
In the complexity
Of questioning everything

I think I'm my worst psychiatrist.
While a good psychiatrist would diagnose the problem,
I create excuses for why the problem is there.
And then I create excuses for the excuses.
And then I create excuses for the excuses that originally excused the excuse.
And then I confuse myself with my own logic resulting in more anger, more confusion, and you guessed it, more excuses.

And ironically, this entire poem is just a big excuse.

I don't want to face my problems,
Knowing that they are nothing to worry about.
I'd rather cower at the "power" they hold,
Than try my hand at solving them.

But my hands are smooth, unbattered extensions of the very essence of me.
According to every person and history ever,
I have it perfectly.

And my hands aren't used to venturing within my inner workings,
Searching through the slimy and greasy machinery for the root of the problem.
No, my collar is white and my slacks are clean from top to bottom.

From time to time as the sun no longer shines,
My hands become restless.
They yearn to take a look within, just a quick little check in.
And nevertheless, I confess, I allow my hands
Entrance.

As always, I wince at the pain. It shocks me through my core. My eyes cease seeing, I begin to question my being, while my face is dripping in tears.
My surgery continues on
for seemingly years.

There's no novocaine or amnesia to numb the fiery emotions that release from my body.
Instead I'm forced to endure the awkward combination of these combatting feelings.

Then I finally rip from my innards the tight grasp of my hands.
They breach the surface covered in dark, black blood.

I don't feel much better afterwards, no I really don't.

I just create one final excuse.
That helps me wither away into sleep.

I know myself as much anyone else
But I don't want to admit,
Just as much as anyone else,
That I need help.

There are so many things about myself
that I don’t think I will ever understand -
like the way I let the most trivial things bother me
and give them indefinite permission to send me
spiraling downward
until I become oblivious as to why I felt so
******* petulant in the first place.
And I unknowingly settle into my misery,
because it feels like home.

Or how I’m constantly offering wisdom beyond my years
(or so I’ve been told)
but I can never seem to take my own advice.

And I’ve always found it ironic
that I could sleep an entire day away,
but am met with restlessness and anxiety
when I’m attempting to sleep at night.

I’ve heard it said that no one knows you
the way you know yourself,
but I just can’t agree.
I don’t understand myself at all,
but maybe someone else does.

a rabid violation i was, towards those near me
a premeditated prowess full of diligent schemes,
a faucet i constantly found myself turning.

"You? Ha,"
he grinned.

"You're just like me,"
he said, his features glued to mine.

"Lost, and searching
only in your own reflection,"
his eyes narrowing
as my eyes focused.

"You can't possibly believe
you'll find what you want to find,"
said the boy in the mirror,
holding my gaze.

My saviour is a hunter, and he loves like a Sunday storm.

I’m singing in the blue room,
singing for him
and when I’m done, his applause
is the rain
battering,
a gale-force encore.

My saviour is the devil, and he loves like the sea in summer.

I’m skipping through thresholds
to reach him
and once I do, his arms
are the branches
caging,
a thorny embrace

My saviour is The Hermit, and he loves like the sting of a wasp.

Our nights,
nights we sleep sharing breath,
those nights are his.

Our mornings,
mornings he feeds me strawberry halves,
those mornings are mine.

My saviour is no saviour, and he loves like he hates:
all at once, with nothing to soften the blow.

There are 14 steps in my house.
He has stood at the top,
waiting for me to fall,
since I was a child.

I've seen this one angel hanging in town
she dances and sings and spreads happiness around
she's kind and funny and unique
She bathes me in light every time we meet
She grips my hand and walks with me down the street
this angel isn't mine, but she knows what I need
she knows my angles and shows them to me
she read the lines that I am hiding closely
she heats me up and melts me slowly
She brings  the light when the night is lonely
And when I look at her eyes I swear they're glowing
I know they're knowing I can see her probing
It's not easy hiding from these angles she's bringing
I want to speak, but the words are tainted
My brain is jumbled and my thoughts scream faintly
I know I'm being a selfish brat
Is it my fault that I can be myself with you?
Is my my fault that your essence is addicting?
what angle do I need to see to see you being an angel over just me?

Part I

There is a trail that I've walked a time or two
Wearing heavy shoes made of crackling fire
I've left behind only a charred unrecognizable road
And a sunrise as bitter as its roots

The trail parts swiftly, cleaving me as it cleaves itself
My route is camouflaged in winter's blanket
I spin on heels that have worn their welcome
And I walk beyond the borders of this dream

There's an old woman in a cottage
Who tells me I have a mist behind my eyes
"Brown is the color of failure," I tell her as I pass
And she flashes a half-smile that chills me to my bones

Part II

Late to rest, yet early to rise
Quarrelsome images tirelessly haunt my sleep
The old lady waves from the bottom of the hill
But it's too late to turn back now

I see a saddle of good weight resting against birchwood trees
Yet no sign of steed for miles around
As calloused palms meet calloused leather
I sense the spirit of its rider wash over me

The path now winds like a time traveling clock
My breathing hastens as my feet carry on
I hear whistling but I'm unsure of the source
Is it me?  Or is it something out of sight?

Part III

I come to a clearing at long last
Blistered feet have taken me far, just not far enough
My pupils sense a brightness I haven't encountered before
Instinctively, my hands shield my cowering eyes

The old woman is there, whispering to lilies
In a language my mind has no hope of comprehending
She pays no heed to my presence at all
Yet she knows that I linger in my bewilderment

She plucks a lily from the unblemished earth
And I see a brilliant steed at the center of the shimmering field
"Brown is the color of failure," she says with a parched grin
And suddenly my path becomes very clear

Part IV

I flinch as the light overwhelms my perception
Evolving now into an ethereal embrace
Though blind, my feet move without my mind's approval
And suddenly I am mounted upon the majestic horse

Like a snare drum, its gallop is steady and gallant
My sense of direction in disarray as I'm carried through the woods
I hear the woman's hands wringing at weeds in the distance
Despite how far from the clearing I should be by now

The horse tenses and sneers as momentum careens to a halt
I feel myself being thrown through air, time, and space
My brown eyes blink as oxygen floods my rested lungs
Gasping, I realize I'm as awake as I have ever been

End.