Airport

Covering my face with my hands, there is an incessant in-pouring of light. I feel like I am in a casket. My brain seems to be swelling, in tune with an invisible pendulum. Waves of nausea flood my body.  Small children thunder around in front of me, like hysterical nightmare projections.

I have never enjoyed being in Airports. They are morgues with an added buzz of visitors and commerce. The sterility of the interior design and the nervous excitability of the passengers sets me very quickly on edge. As a salesman for a major international e-commerce company, I am required to fly often.

To avoid excess stress and anxiety I prepare meticulously. Nothing must be left to chance. I am regimented and purposeful during my preparation. If the luggage allowance is 15kg, then I make sure that my suitcase is dead on that weight. I reweigh my suitcases on several sets of scales. Checking there is no error in their calibration.  I do not carry any prohibited travel items. I ring airline customer support several times to double-check. I rummage through my suitcase repeatedly. I allow no error to go unnoticed. I google articles about travel preparation, checklists, essential travel items and I read articles about anxiety related to fear of flying. Neither my emotional state nor practical matters are to take me by surprise. I am like a samurai undertaking pre-battle rituals.

Check-in is open. I funnel through to the check-in desk. There are several people before me; their movements generate a low pitch buzzing in my head. They are hyper-kinetic, speaking at unreasonably loud volumes in an indecipherable language. My arms vibrate down by my sides, my tongue thickens. I feel warmer and more vulnerable. I start to think about the first meal I’ll eat in Rekyjavik. I have panicked thoughts, recognition of myself in these thoughts is minimal. I swing around to check that nobody is standing directly behind me. The several people check in without issue. A man in all black clothing, I presume, a security guard intercepts me and asks me to go to desk 13. Although there is a sign hanging down from the ceiling with directions to check-in desks 10-15, I am unable to locate desk 13. I double back on myself, I ask the check-in assistant from desk 12 where desk 13 is. She says that it has been temporarily moved to the second floor of the terminal. Desk 13 on the second floor doesn't in the slightest resemble a check-in desk. A burly individual with an absence of ****** expressions or an officious manner mans an oak desk. There is no conveyor belt for the luggage, only a shopping trolley. ''Ermmm can I check in here?''. The man whom lacks an officious manner nods curtly without removing his eyes from the newspaper he is reading. "Documentation''. I hand him my documentation. ''Passport''. ''Going to Reykjavik?'' ''Erm yes''. ‘’Follow me’’.
The man, who lacks an officious manner, leads me a door behind the check-in desk that doesn’t in the slightest resemble a check-in desk. A young child with golden blonde hair in white robes pushes the shopping trolley behind me. We enter a room that is high like a cathedral and tiled in exquisite mosaic tiles; alternating gold and white into infinity. The ceiling is so high it seems to disappear off into a void. Sat down at a bog-standard mass manufactured desk in front of me, is a man who must be at least 13 feet tall, he has enormous ears like an elephant and is speaking in rounds of what sounds like the same phrase. I do not recognise the language. I am ceased from behind by the blonde child and the man who lacks an officious manner. The man with enormous ears like an elephant screams ‘’I hate Iceland’’, the blonde child laughs uncontrollably grabbing his stomach like he is holding his insides in. The ceiling begins to close in and a space opens in the floor. The man who lacks an officious manner says in a sinister tone says ‘’Do you think you would be forgiven”. I say ‘’I have got a ticket, I’m going to Iceland on business’’ I feel a prodding in my lower back and then darkness.

The effects of poverty on children
&
The development of maladaptive behaviors
a.k.a survival instinct to
in victims of childhood abuse
&
In children of mothers with mental illness

See:  Schizophrenia births ******-                               affective bipolar set-up borderline personality

&
Of Broken promises and
Of divorce
on toddlers
Subject to
Hypochondriacal
Dissociative identity disorder maniacal
Munchuasen syndrome
&
Development of anorexia in girls whose mothers
tell them they are fat
And not to eat
At the age of 3
And do not keep
food in the house
&
Of memory loss on survivors of ******
**** perpetual at brother's behest
Sibling rival/sociopath/hater
Initiate secrets to swallow later
Same same high school juvenile
English teacher hebophile
Lies beget lies with no adult supervision
Predators penetrate without permission
Especially favored males
above suspicion

Back to back with

Court ordered
reverse abduction
Too much too late
Overt overprotection
premature prepubescent
irreversible independence
****** up DNA lifetime sentence
Survivor guilt/too young to choose
Either way at 12 years old you lose
Tough love authoritarianism
Vs.
Prodromal adolescent survivalism
Now no court dare insist
which insanity trumps which
Coupled with
Biological mother "crazy" trash-talk
Teenage runaway as soon as she can walk
&
Development of trust issues
Normalized by chronic
neglect and abuse
Hyper vigilant of subtext
Double super mega
Abandonment complex
Stockholm syndrome and PTSD
Dissociation in abductees
(Comfortable with recreating tragedies)
Within exploded families
Where the truth is an accumulation
Of what is not acknowledged

diagnostic checklists
Symptoms life synopsis
Doctors office doctors office
Taper off, titraite this
between pages tranquillized
Quoth the holy DSM V
Artificial life artificial life

As dirt swept under the rug
So much dirt makes a pile
So big a pile makes a child
A child makes too much noise
Ignore her
Tell her to shut up
Make her shut up
She is a liar
Put her in the closet
Do not feed the girl child
She needs too much
She is too much
Takes up too much room
Even in the womb
It's ok if she goes away
If someone takes her one day
If she dies
If her brother wants to **** her
And tries
Pretend she is dead

Mother didn't do anything
Wrong after all
No proof
No evidence
Just a child never born
To steal the glow of
Psychosis from the flaming eyes
Of a mother crossed
Who also never saw adulthood coming

Through the delusions, the chaos
Inherent crime without cost
You can't blame us
Born and raised already lost

Generations of children
Who make bad adults
Potential unfulfilled
And it's nobody's fault.

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A life lived in black and white.  No time for middle of the road.  Lines drawn straight and narrow.  Passion, only with rules.  Love, only as stated.  A heart filled with admiration, adoration, and caring.  Nothing missing from the list of "supposed to".  All boxes checked off. I's dotted and T's crossed.  Perfect on paper, perfect to onlookers, perfect in bed.  Never a thought of something missing.  All boxes checked.  Not able to settle into a life.  Unable to blur the lines.  Must be good, always good.  Mistakes happen, but not on purpose.  Not by choice.  

Always the good one
Right is the only option
Mistakes...still happen

Before we fully become, life is full of confusion.  Who we are and what we do are enmeshed within our surroundings, our perspective, our emotion, and our lives.  Pulled together, yet fighting every step of the way.  Beyond our understanding of purpose or passion.  Afraid of everything we are as yet unable to understand.  Trying to get through to the next phase without falling too hard.

Peers skew vision
Rules confine the innocent
Love hides unnoticed

Grown into a life of checks and balances.  A nice life, a good life.  Loved by many, yet alone.  Always alone.  Able to love, willing to love, believing love is what is being lived.  Unseen circumstances. Friendships remembered.  Longing, pulling toward one another.  More than passion could ever be.  More than who we thought we were.  The need to be right, to do the right thing, is stomped unrecognizable by emotion.  The past melts into the future.  Is a life unfulfilled, yet loving, enough to maintain, or is love supposed to be so full of passion that it takes you outside the box?  

The thought of a life
A love left unrealized
A world in a cage

A chance to live in happiness. Fires burn in body and mind.  No sorrow, no regret.  Pushed by one into another.  Two hearts alone run to each other.  Holding fast to all that is real.  Yet casualties will line the road forever tainting all that could be good.  Checks and balances. Pros and cons.  Does one give up happiness to maintain the perfect facade, the perfect family, the "perfect" life?  There is no perfect.  There is only what is.  The possibility of happiness could be short lived.  Hearts broken and bridges burned.  Broken families, broken lives.  Happiness could be tangible.  Happiness could be real.  Pros and cons.  What price shall be paid.  When should love lose and happiness not be a goal?  Choices, pain, there is no fairness.  There is no black and white, there are no boxes in which to fit.  

Straight and narrow life
Checklists, I's dotted, T's crossed
Thwarted by passion

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
A dire lack of coffee
And a groggy feeling that stays with you
Sometimes throughout the day
Telling you how lovely it would just be
To find a bed and immerse yourself once again
In a dream where things would be better -

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
The sun bustling through your windows
Hitting your face annoyingly with a
"Wake up! There are things to do."
And you check your phone and the ring it makes
Buzzes through your ears and you just want it to stop, stop, sto-

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
When you wake up to birds which poems say to appreciate
But really, you're not in a Disney movie
They chirp too much and it hurts your brain, unlike what the poems say
And it doesn't help when you wake up to urban noise pollution
And you can only wish you didn't have to wake up to this at all
To responsibilities, checklists, and a living hell -

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
But there are indeed a great few
What I found out recently, what loving could do
To this sleep-deprived heart of mine
It seems that coffee, darkness, a lack of birds, and silence
Are no longer needed to get me off this bed willingly
Because I've found the reason to

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
But when you realize you're waking up to a reality that holds this great few
You begin to see the beauty in tiredness, light, birds, and sounds
That you've never seen before until now
Because just like how there will always be bad things in life
There are good things too

Love.
Hope.
Cookies.
Cats.
Smiles.
Your favourite songs, books, and poems.
Your favourite shows.
Your favourite poetry site.
Your favourite coffee.
Your favourite food.
Your favourite voice.
Your favourite people.
Your favourite jokes.
Your favourite smile.
That certain somebody you're thinking of right now -

I know.

And it takes waking up to see that.

So although there aren't many good things to say about mornings,

I suppose...there are enough to get us through next one, don't you think?

Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get O.J.T.?
Why need repair manuals?  That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!

Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all that mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!

What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right?  And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.

Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.

Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary?  Thesaurus?  Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”

Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!

tired eyes
weary sighs
empty checklists and picket lines
hands that ache
lips that quake
statements and proposals that i cannot make
calculations, calculators
stairwells and elevators
cold cement
old lament
spring leaves
endless seams
single mothers coddling crying infants
millions stare at the monitors, entranced
worn out books and worn out lies,
these are my final goodbyes

All that could warn fell flat.
I heard your story, saw your eyes.
Taken back by it’s depths.
The long tunnel eyes, I thought,
could see me back.

I can't find my red flags!

Now I’m shaken with embarrassment.
Sick with silliness I don’t even believe in.
An evil, baffled laugh: your detachment.

How did I get this far?
Your broken rib cage split open.
I saw heart!
Caught.
A snow covered bear trap.

I don’t know why I’m here, or why I’m maimed.
The ghost dances again, and again.
Who are these people you’re pinning me up against?
Does it give you solace?

And you wouldn’t release me?
Articulate it, please, why shouldn’t I go?
This cage still carries the remains of the last doe!
She prances around - but
In your head
And in mine.

Imagine another time, and another,
it’ll be their dime, not yours, remember?
Here, Instead, how about we craft them together?
I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine.
Projecting fantasy.
No persons, just loud symbols,
and a lot of real time.

How could you be so broken up about your own false dillusion?
How could you be so hurt that a human was, after all, a human.

Alas, after even this, I couldn't find them.

The sick joke is as sick as it can get.
Let’s just admit it.
This time, not hers, or yours, but my wings be split.
The individual who has been there through all of it.

Fashion together
Passing checklists of bias
it, not she, is close enough!
And I’ll be there to make sure you’ve got it.

Justification comes like a plague
I’ll forever hold my peace.
You would too.
You know you would, too.

You will see it, your creation, and it will be good.
No Holy Other could tell you otherwise.
No difference between yours and His! Right?

They have to be the one this time!
Take them in their prime.

And so I see through this glass dimly lit:
An individual to cup my lonely *******?
Just take me. This whimsical gem.
“I trust you, oh man on the farm, I trust you!”

You saw my fruit,
saw that it was good. Good to eat.
Soil that was warm an inviting.

And for years now you’ve been safe.
Safe and well fed.
You’ve traipsed the land.
But never owned it.
My early labor hidden.

There was nothing to stop it.

"What good land! Better than ever seen!"
“But what other field am I missing?”

A treasure revealed that was not ripen.
Seed dew moist with shaking burden,
A violent exposition.
You wonder why this fruit is so bitter?

I thought I could trust the hands, and what’s seen.
But they pealed open the rose bud and destroyed the flower.
Now my eyes will see as far as my roots go.

My new myopic.

The ***** will ****, and they will, too.
With devices that stick like sand-spurs.
Crafty.
We move but we don’t know why or where to.
So crafty.

In my naiveté I trusted the prudent deceit
and we both walked in an illusory state.
In my naiveté I trusted the naive!
And saw more then I’d ever seen!

You don’t know where you’re going,
So why resent me?

I am a stranger seen through a window dimly lit.
I welcomed you into this garden:
You scrambled and fit.

Madness unbridled.
“No, this isn’t it!”

******! I can’t find my red flags!
Just a needle and some thread.

Why am I here?
Come what mend?!

You came, ripped up what I knew of myself,
An inkling, with no defense.

Oh that my Master would come back
to His field and see what has been maimed:
The man on the farm and the flower!

I’m grape vine rose bush.
You take hold and smear me!
Disappointed that your 28 years wouldn’t grow me.
To be wine, or sweet perfume.

Skipping across time lines and opportunities-
further detachment from the reality created.
World within worlds all based on lies, fear, and hurt.

I’m not what I am in a farmer’s hands!

Oh but one day you'll finally bow
to a lonely and thirsty plant.
Whose only hope is now eastering.

After the longest precession of my life:
an ending so abrupt.

Please just look back.
Purge the cage of bones, pedals, and raisins.
Find land, and love it.
Because what made this land so good
is the millions of little deaths
that fermented on the top of her skin
and given: a shaking burden.
Worth that can't be cheapened.

Just take care of her this time.

I’ll have closure then.
The bear trap, clean.
And the doe’s ghost, prancing.
I’ll know that what I’ve seen in your tiger eyes
wasn’t just me looking.

The young grape vine rose bush, pruned.
My red flags,
pushed them back into the soil,
and let go the thread and needle.

days dangling
persisting mists keep paralysis
locked upon these lips
priority checklists insist
there is much more to live for than this

but a pack of 20 is gone long before
the night arrives
to heighten my hollow feining core
eagerly willing to endure more
if it brings an end to the internal war

then moved onto 100's
it's the percentage of how certain I am
that all corruption
is never ending

these invented coping methods
-lists of pros and cons with cigarettes-
are not getting me any closer
to blending
only extending
the mending process
of which I wish I was commencing

I bet instead
I'll keep pretending
that this demise is intended for me
still I know I'm only guessing
and growing further away from
social structure
that has been made,
but made to rupture

In the veins of the giant lies the truth
along the rocky lines that meet the busy sea
where foreigners forget to look
Within the veins of the giant lie the lonely trees
beyond the maps and checklists
there are winds that speak
the past, the present and future
there are winds that whisper
the nothingness of you
laid bare against eternity

Don’t talk about it
Don’t spill it yet
The little sparks and paraparaxis
The little moments I think about too often

It’ll be there when we laugh with others
It’ll come back greater with every moment left unexplained
And It’ll last through the mud we trudge through now

Don’t speak about it
Don’t tell anyone you know
Don’t tip the bottle to showcase it’s glow
You’ll only spill it
Just let it sit, don’t let it flow
Not just yet
I think we both know

You’ve got checklists and talks to have
I’ve got my past to bury in the persistence of someone new
It can’t just yet be you

The following is art.
The following is the hardest part.
#hypnosis
#hipster
#anexampleofpie
Sometimes I think that the more I learn about the world, the more I can change in it.
Other times I wonder if ignorance is key to immortality.
Still... I come to the conclusion that thinking a thought is far from scientific and so I save the idea for another day, life, or year.
The more I think, the less I know.
The more I change, the less I grow.
The less I stray, the more turns gray.
The more I wonder the less I want.
The more I pray I may have my day.
Hears the lesson let ears be taught.
Part one: forest rhymes with city.
Lessen the key, break the lock.
Set scene; forestry.
Like a dog in the fog on a log I encountered.
"I have my ways" in a voice that I pondered.
"A road yet wandered, is kept in heart." Said a voice on yonder.
Cheek roses.
Chill dusk.
"To be fair; (I replied in a civil new tongue.) A hair unkempt, is stray, in part."
The dusk settles.
Inept new learning styles to teach kids~
Grass changes.
Dew rises leaving Seattle in a smokey haze.
A part in half.
North, staff, remember.
~set guns to phase.
Behalf of setting the scene of Charlie's untimely demise I will now take you to the world he called home for an unmarked amount of...
Electric May
was the name of the foggy day where the confused man chose his path in his-
dollars turn to
~this is just a phase
My mind's own whistles.
~is that even a phrase?
garden
train station
Is this all a dream?
#clay mation
Science-tag.
Theory? Fickle.
"Get out DA way."
Said the man in an overcoat that was dressed like a pickle in a displaying emotional fashion.
"My soul's new crystals.
woman twelve o'clock"
Part two: crystal rhymes with missile.
-set around Christmas time where man finds for the first time he is dying.
He stands tall.
"It's all okay."
Clumsy wind tickles.
>October dreams.
Coal burns nickel.
Seasons loss, soon to pass.
Eccentric quarter.
Fall (wiggle) down well.
Never fickle.
Never can tell.
Restless.
Meanwhile twelve turns to one.
"Better out than in I always say"
-shock, wobble, Spock and a movie reference.
Part two of one half.
If I die today.
Tomorrow revived.
If the machine unkempt,
I stay alive.
Checklists.
Life...
(Box)Insanity,
(Square)clarity,
(Check it)equilibrium.
Heart breath for a second or a millisecond more. Fire burns inside so I'm knocking down the door. Witches stay alive so we nail them to the floor.
Bored?
Civil unrest.
Always wanting more.
Super protest.
Poor Saint Nick.
Antics protect.
One.
Indecent holler.
Blue stands for
Tolerance.
Gun.
Pie.
Iron meet the ants.
Hollow for sure.
"Miss?"
The true floor now chants.
Forever unsure.
"Behind your eyes you (never) seem to rest.
I'll find the gleam men cannot test.
Meaning I'll find you when the stars are cheating.
I'll lose the road.
I'll burn the start.
Fire to Spider-Man.
Our web's apart."
Reckless.
Smart.
Wise or witty.
Tell me oh reader...
What rhymes with city?
#Spock
#winning
Fun.
Pity.
Pun?
A CITY.!
In parts

Problem solving is about mental checklists:
1. Getting the "groceries";
2. Not getting munchies.

In divine revelation, two explanations go together if they are on the same subject.
If not, they usually are counters of each other in my heart, unifying only in wisdom.
Or, they can never morph their qualities into different ones.
Same for linear algebra.

In Plato's pedagogy of music, philosophy, then physics, math progresses from simple sound differences, to logic, to matter and space, because these mirror denser aspects of reflection requiring greater precision.

You don't need to tell them
That a ***** fell on the floor
Tell them to listen some music
To cover all the noise

You hold a cigarette at hand, you're a criminal
You hold a cigarette at hand, you're against society
You hold a cigarette at hand, you look like a poor darling
Better be cryptic than normal

Why the hotline isn't even free
And why is it only an hour long

The laws of the calling of nature are not helping

You and I use a lot of that
You can tell that I'm not validated as a child
If only I can kick a person's leg, then they won't show the bible to me
If only I can make a person throw up without seeing me
If only I can make a person feed their hand to the fire and burn there to see how it feels

How much of this is oversharing? How much of this is artistic?

I know not everything's my fault
Yet I feel bad I feel bad
when people apologize
The next fight or flight second move is to gaslight me
Trying to glue all the chinks together
Then wait for an hour for a jar to grow

I eat a sandwich of truffles
I don't think they're truffles at all
If only I can eat a paper of daycare rules just like I ate that sandwich
Did you know that sandwich I ate wasn't mine but yours?
Truffles I digest but don't remember how it taste
Meanwhile, a beggar jumps in joy for a dollar

I tried painting the Venus goddess herself once
It turns out that's the girl from The Ring
If she was only as pretty as the eyeliner of hot topic wednesday
We all know that old men love youthful wednesdays that dance dance on their lap until they die

Self-awareness isn't enough
A spoonful of sugar isn't enough
When you have checklists
When you have contests
When you whiten your teeth with coal
When you have a devil that wears prada
It's an illness, not a personality

You don't have to suffer
But this is my suffering

Just to hear a good tone, I'm baffled someone can play a guitar
Meanwhile, I can't manage my own emotions

There is no perfect decision.

But no one would believe in that guru's book of improvement
Only the end product
before I fake laugh.

Once in a while can I mosh pit singing the lyrics to my own concert?

Gauging the stability
         of minds that fit not into the
Bell Curves or catalogs of symptomatic Checklists in Diagnostic books bound
                         By blood......

I've tempted my rebellious mind,
But I lost my sense of wrong and right.
That can be abused in a world,
of white/black thinking.
Learning to be an adult,
Not a kid innit.

I don't want to be the right and wrong,
I'm a deep grey mush trying to grow up.
Your poison filled me, like a sadistic goodbye,
I'm sick and tired of wasting my own time.

Hold them closer, people ask me,
But I ain't here to suffocate nobody.
Try to analyse my life with checklists,
But I'm managing fine, just let me.

Not everything can be written down,
I just wanted to learn to let it all out.
I feel like a fool living in this game,
I wonder how much my palms will take.