#escapist
I don’t want to consume art to escape my life
I want art that makes me confront my life
I want art that uncovers my blind faults
and reveals my secret triumphs.
What do I need to change?
Why do I need to change?
How do I need to change?
And why is the time for change now?
These questions help me escape from needing escapism.
Nov 4, 2020
Nov 4, 2020 at 2:58 AM UTC
To outrun this storm on foot is a fool's errand. So if I stop — if I choose to stay here and drench myself with its sorrows — press each bit against my chest, will they finally feel mine? Will they feel my aching for escape? Will they finally let me go?
Alas, maybe it's not a storm I'm running from, but something else.
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 2:18 AM UTC
gasp
heave
pant
the ringing in my ears
the lump beating in my throat
the sound of my heartbeat caught in a flame
that burns bright and angry
in my lungs
as i taste iron on my tongue
and blisters bloom
on the soles of my feet
like flowers in a summer's field
and yet the stench of sweat
the cling of cloth against my skin
raw and pink and thick with grime
but i'm running out of time
i won't ever stop to breathe.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
Blissful art those
that are ignorant.
They know not pain,
for they do not know what pain is;
and I wish
I could join them,
the children of the oblivion.
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 7:04 AM UTC
the dogs howl and bark to the beat of my feet
as i go
stomp
stomp
stomping away
on the damp soil
my heels dig through wet dirt
as i run
to somewhere i don't know yet
i have no destination
but the only thing that keeps me running
is the fact that my heart is still pumping
and blood still rushes through my veins
and i won't stop
until it does.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC
see now love
that's what happens
when you keep living in your head
life passes you
right by
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
I live in a room unlike the others
There is no collection of books lining the walls
No box of records lying in the corner for me to flip through
Nothing haphazardly littering the floor to keep me from walking
No unfinished paintings tucked away somewhere
No counters covered in dishes, and no full sink
There is no sink at all
Or any place to **** and ****
And I can only bathe
In what I want to wash myself clean of
I live in a room with walls of plastic
And an aroma of ozone from burning out
I have spent so much time running around the room
Because there doesn't seem to be anything else I can do
Right now I'm tired; I am resting
But I will miss that ozone
And I will keep on running
Like I have forgotten that there is no door
Or window to climb out of
There is only use in escaping what is in the room
I rest to escape the running
When there is too much happening
And the ozone burns my nose
I run to escape the idea that nothing ever happens
And nothing ever will.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
We'll run away together, love
To the shores of Italy
Among the rows of grape vines
Beneath the willow trees
We'll buy a villa in Positano
Red brick and marble, by the sea
We'll dance with wine and moonlight
If you'll run away with me
In the boutiques and cafes
We'll drink espresso and high tea
The pebble streets call out your name
Come with me now, let's flee
A one-way ticket is simply frugal
I'm sure you will agree
We'll kiss beneath the Elba stars
And create a new reality
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
you who floats in my psyche:
be wary of this place--
this ocean is uneasy
and it will swallow up your ship
in little seconds,
spit up the boards and drown the sails,
drag your crew to the ground,
their breath to the sky,
and you to shore
somewhere you don't know
where you'll build a new ship,
pack more rope
and stronger sails.
not every thought you'll brave
is deep enough to sink anchors into
and you'll quickly run aground,
but some will stretch down too far
and you'll run out of rope
before the metal strikes sand.
find a place you like up there
and hold fast to the ground if you can--
double check your mooring
before you fall to sleep
or hang a hammock up high
and float somewhere new;
watch unfamiliar clouds
laze above your perch
and listen for storms
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
the tides are impossible these days
moving in and out of focus,
leaning and falling back from shore
clawing the ground as they're pulled.
they sift through the rocks
like a child looking for shells
or burying his feet
as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness
before the cold comes for his ankles.
the water moves faster than before--
now that the moon's in an ice chest
shedding dust and gravity
somewhere in a ship far from shore--
and the men who caught it
have hopelessly lost their way,
victims of an all-too-sudden high tide
and violent, rushing winds.
it turns out it didn't take much
to take the silvered old rock down.
moonlight is spun like a web
down in pillars to the ground and water,
sticking to sea spray and the clouds,
suspending in the air.
a couple of fishermen caught it
while filled half-and-half
with sleep and moonshine.
they said it wandered near the edge
of the cliff where night meets the day
and when they threw the net up
the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope
and pulled it right down with them.
some light floats on.
broken strands of silk take to the air,
still attached to the ground and water,
though the connection's cut at the other end.
they're waving away today, in the sky,
like a luminous greeting:
hello, or goodbye.
people watching onshore say it's pretty
to see the moonlight like this--
they say it looks like a field of tall grass
pushed sideways and whirling,
carrying fireflies and ladybugs away
from the overgrown--
and they feel like the insects
buried deep in their own glowing forest,
talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
I speak to the world.
it talks back, but not in the same way--
it tells me to watch
all the little movements--
my eyes drink in slowly
the ceiling fan
it's shadow reconstruction
spinning on the wall
I listen as this life speaks.
creaking floor underfoot
it's words are lost on my heels
they do not understand.
bedroom window to the street
I can barely see through
the curtains are drawn closed.
this world shows me sense--
it swallows me whole.
night turns in the sky
like a restless sleeper
so I am awake
cool air greets me
from the idling fan
and the floor whines.
I cannot see the back yard.
cannot hear, feel the world
through the distractions--
these cardboard walls
the paper sky
my mannequin skin--
a projection of the time blinks,
red numbers resting on a black shelf,
in spite of my confines.
11:31 PM
I can not move it back.
11:32 PM
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:06 AM UTC
I found her sitting,
sunk into a broken recliner--
the one in the back room
with the tired arms; old arms worn down,
frayed like miniature tassels on the ends--
her legs were pulled under her
like they always are
when her thoughts are heavy
and she can't stand the cold
her suitcase lied open
not far from the doorway
where I'd come in
clothes leaked from the inside--
puddled on the floor around it--
and I had to watch my step
as I walked farther in to see her
she didn't say anything
when I came in
her eyes were unfocused,
staring at the opposite wall
where she'd given up earlier
trying to hang a picture up
the nail was already driven
shallowly into the tan
it was the sole decoration of the room--
not much to look at--
but she stared at it like it was the painting
lying face-up on the ground next to her
like it was enough of a respite
from the blank wall
maybe she saw something I didn't
in what wasn't there
some simplistic beauty, maybe
but I couldn't see it
all I saw were tired hands
she was the one who picked it--
that soft tan staining the walls--
she said it looked like morning coffee
when the lights were off
and it made her feel like she was home
back where the walls were paper-thin
and the backyard trees grew tall
she didn't ever drink coffee
but she liked the idea of it
liked waking up to the smell
and watching it pour
but she never liked the taste
I was close to her
close enough to smell the drink in the air
she held a mug in one hand
let it rest on her leg as she stared
and it wasn't missing a drop
I drew nearer and looked
at what leaned against the chair--
the picture was of a forest
and a village buried between trunks--
she told me about the place once
but she didn't remember painting it
she was sure she'd been there
sometime in a dream
and she'd met all of the people
read them like poetry
promised to keep them close
and forgot them all promptly
when she woke up
she led her gaze from the nail,
her sleepy eyes focusing
when I reached her
her hands were like ice under mine
and she spoke softly to me,
slowly through languid pauses
about packing up to visit the forest again--
about how she wished it would snow
and how wonderful the trees would look
if they were painted white
instead of green
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
I wish I could play the piano
or something else lovely like that
so I could come home every night
and play the keys that make you cry
before we sat down to eat--
I'd set the table
and you'd wipe your eyes
we'd eat quietly,
conversing through scraping forks,
porcelain against metal
and sidelong smiles between bites--
words are overrated anyway
and what's there to say?--
I'd watch the strays you missed,
liquid tragedy crawling down your cheeks
drawing mascara highways
and I'd imagine driving on one of them,
hydroplaning dangerously close to your skin
as a piano plays somewhere up high--
I suppose I'd need a boat instead
I wish I could paint landscapes
or something else beautiful like that
so I could travel to the mountains
on rainy weekends
and bring them back for you
I'd hang one on our wall
you'd watch the birds' still circling
high above the snowy peak
right before you fall asleep on the couch
I'd spend my weekdays
pulling stars from the sky
with old paintbrushes and older canvas
while I wait for the moon to fall into the lake
so I can swim in and take it home
I'd show up on our front porch steps
all sodden smiles and dripping clothes
holding it under my arm
and you'd let me track water in
all the way to the bedroom
so I could hang it above the headboard
where it'd stay for simple nostalgia
"remember when we caught the moon?"
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
sometimes
i forget who i am
not my name or location
just what sets me apart
due to desire
to be more like someone else
i just have to remember
i am an escapist
i am a vagrant
i am a writer
i am a pyromaniac
i am an inhabitant of purgatory
i am half living
i am an addict
i am a statistic
i am a radio wave surfer
i am a bridge burner
i am a coffee stain
i am two young lungs
i am the girl across the hallway
in an old jean jacket
with paint on her cheek
trying not to cry
and i hope someone remembers
because i'm trying to forget
that i exist
to make it unreal
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
I don't know if this is poetry
This is a wounded cry
This life of mine
Lately, is a bad dream
I tread lightly in the pools of insanity
I can't forget that ******* fortune cookie
It was our first date, and lovely at that
I haven't taken a lady out
Since Before there was hair on my chest
It's nice to be wanted
Away from lights
And one nights
On stages and bar corners
Subways and cafes
Anywhere my heart sings
Just makes the clown
Ever so similar to me
But that ******* fortune cookie
Curse if I remember what it said
Mine advised beginnings are the start of much labor
And hers urging to explore her options
I laughed and shrugged
And secretely cursed not choosing
Indian
Meanwhile, in neon lights
I drown another night
She says I'm way to serious about
An open mic
Somehow I always forget to go home
All my friends give me stupid advice
Hallmark lines, and hollow tripe
I love them the same
I think they have no understanding
I'm happier bordering reality
I tread lightly in the pools of insanity
After bad dreams
Its a defense mechanism
Don't judge me
Nightmare
She's sitting there
Looking so fine
Those lips I remember I kissed
Now pout and direct glare
From once loving, hazel eyes
And I ask for a stiff ***
And sit next to her
In retrospect I was my dumbest true self
I said
Why have you been ignoring my messages
Her offended look was enough to send
My heart to my stomach
The words that follow brief
I ask if we can speak alone
I have to know why
You want nothing to do with me
I held you so close
You promised me dear
Now
Not even a friend
The sweetest ones always go
I feel like garbage
I feel like an old music box
That should have never been released
From the attic
I feel like a typewriter dormant
And hollow, choking dust of 1955
Let me play then throw me away
Not even a friend to me
I got old
My one song
Now looked at in vain
I held you so dear
You promised me so sweetly
You kissed me with fire
You promised me
Not even a friend now
Not even a friend to me
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
I thought for a month the moon would never return,
But as young as I am, I still have much to learn
White light piercing black veiled skies,
What a sight, for a widower in paradise!
Vision, gentle now with this glory bright,
Death may shake the earth but I'm steady in flight.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
I will arise and go now, and go to Mount Djouce,
And I will climb and surely fall,
Until I no longer stand so tall.
Alone or with you,
I shall lay there;
On grass as soft as my bed,
To relax and stop the thoughts in my head.
I hope to have some peace there,
Away from everything and everywhere,
As I gaze towards the distant horizon,
The grounds a murky green and the sky is a perfect blue.
Perhaps I will think of you,
As I enjoy this beautiful view,
A blur of green and blue so true.
I will arise and go now,
And I shall exit without a bow.
I feel the cutting breeze go through me,
I hear the birds as they fly freely;
While I sit here in this room,
And silently await chaos to resume.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC