(gulp)

couldn’t resist a minute more.

Relapse

I again…

After six months sober

Here.

in this pain I know all too well.

Ten years lost to this drug, my veins ache for.

First breath in the morning and last thought at night all consumed by it,

Every cell in me craves it.

That physical euphoria my body portraits.

Feels like someone has poured pure joy into every single muscle and fiber of my being.

It makes me feel so content

I am literally in love the entire world.

Every single bit of me is singing and buzzing with life and love.

It’s like the ecstasy of *******. That first, blissful, pleasurable pulsation of endorphin's and serotonin.

Is what I feel when I first take LOVE.

And then,

And then, the honeymoon stage is over.

Fights erupt,

never-ending debates,

miscommunications,

misperceptions,

no trust,

accusations,

lies,

“I’m done”

…

Again, it feels like a part of my soul is leaving my body.

Again, sitting here numb.

A toxic love

I’m addicted too,

And there’s no way around it.

It’s already deep intertwined with my veins.

Yet no matter the toxic tragic event that happened before, I sit here, and I want nothing more than to spend my life next to this soul.

To see his eyes unchanged as the skin around it wrinkling and old, is what my heart will always desire, to stare at those eyes for the rest of eternity.

Dead air…


















So here I’ll wait, until you decided to come into my life again and repeat this déjà vu.

Miscommunications will be my downfall
I say something
You misunderstand
Or vice versa
We both end up mad
For absolutely no reason
Bad goes to worse
And we end up here
Miles away
While feet apart
And nothing can mend
Our broken hearts

Is it just me, or is it difficult to speak

To people of differing nationalities.

Experiencing horrid miscommunications,

Distorting perception from reality.


I hope I am the only one

so none must share my discontent

Of speaking with language barriers

Between differening continents.


Even if they speak the same language,

Some things don't translate.

Apparently some colloquialisms

Can cause most to miscommunicate...

No, not beautiful
No, not ugly
Just more average than average

The only problem is that
I don't know, and can't control, what it's showing
Normal? I have no idea

And I know I'll never see it myself
I just wish I could
And know what to change

The biggest miscommunications
Happen with my face

Yes, I feel stupid: glaring at you and making you think I want to ****** someone, when it's only the sun in my eyes

No, you did nothing wrong!

Please see past the anger, sadness, or shock that you may see
That isn't me! I'm so much better

The moths think they are butterflies. They have never seen themselves in a mirror; they fly around the room, their wings whispering “I am beautiful, look, look, I am gorgeous.”
I can feel the moths brush on my skin, I sense the slight dust left on me when they depart. I don’t mind. They don’t know. They land on my hands, holding them, they make themselves into necklaces for me, flitting about in a circle around my neck, they sit on my shoulders and tell me stories of beautiful things.
I wish I could see the beautiful things the moths see. Through kaleidoscoped eyes everything is a magnificent painting: colors dancing, real-life objects turned into waving patterns of fractals. Nothing is real to the moths. They don’t see things as concrete, there is nothing to be taken seriously as to them life is nothing but a game.
The moths are real. They understand more about the human’s world than we do ourselves. I think the moths like me, they seem to never stop grazing my goose-bump ridden skin. I feel like I am a lightbulb in a dark room to them. I can feel so much energy pulsating through me, I must be exhaling florescent lights in place of the words that I feel I should be speaking out loud. Any words at all, the flow of captivating conversation will never be less than blissful.
But the moths can’t speak to me. They can’t hear my voice. They don’t need to, they understand.
These petite, grey-shaded, winged insects understand more than most walking, talking human beings. I can feel my connection to them like a static in the air, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. They travel to the brightest of places, and mentally, I am flying with them. We bond, through pure understanding of the other, coexisting blissfully knowing we are in the company of creatures with whom we are guaranteed a buzzing sense of community. We are the same creatures; at this moment I cannot understand why human beings continue to take totalitarian power over all other living things. Don’t they see that they are not threatened?
It is astonishing how our species sits on a throne, screened to the one glaring advantage the rest of living beings have over us. Humans communicate greedily, so much more than is necessary, on a massive scale and with such complications that miscommunications occur frequently, evoking emotion-driven actions against others whom we feel have wronged us. The moths don’t take revenge, and the trees never would act out unreasonably.
The other creatures continue to be ever-more calm and rational than us, understanding how to remain content at all times. They only stand in the background watching patiently, leaving all others to their own peace, and giddily accepting those of us who decide to venture into the wood and lay with them. Beginning a journey into the woods means losing all faith we had in humankind. That is replaced with a comforting wholeness we feel in ourselves. We must offer ourselves up to the trees, the sun, the mammals, the amphibians, every last biological structure right down to the moths. They welcome us to their world because they know we are the few who understand, who are completely willing to become one with them.
It is a backwards world I am living in. The ones I cannot speak to understand me. Those who can, use their ill-learned language to criticize and resent me as I fly, mentally, away from the corruption that has become normal.
But I don’t care. I’m reaching into the depths of my mind and and learning to understand the human brain in every way it works. I am going on explorations more beautiful than ever perceived as possible by the outsiders. I have souvenirs by the handful: a constellation painted in my mind, a stray cloud I picked up on my way home, a *** leaf flower-pressed in an orange and blue book, a notebook filled with our own kind of knowledge, friends who have found me in these woods, with whom I possess a happy-go-lucky unity unscathed by normal human tendencies, and an alternate breed of knowledge that lives peacefully yet thirstily in every cell of my glowing body.
The moths feel all of this. We become one with each other because I have become content with myself; those who walk in the woods possess no intent to hurt and the moths feel safe. Those who walk in the woods do not walk; we fly.
16 hours later.
I awake and there are no moths. There is no trace of them. There are no trees, no flowers; the alternate world I imagined is mockingly false. The forest is no longer vivid, for it has been hidden behind clouds of smog. The vibrant lights I once saw coming from my mouth are no longer animating my words.
In the morning this society I exist in is still mind-numbingly dull. But mentally, I am perpetually flying.

tell me something
how does one listen
if the other does not speak

how does one heal
when the other cares
about himself

how does one believe
when the other one
doesn’t support

how does one live
when the other is
tearing them down
and blames the one
that is trying for all
the problems
that life is unhappy
life is boring
and dead.
tell me something
when did you try?

It's all about contexts and
I only want there to be one.

All the "I've been done that's".
It's all miscommunications.
I haven't been done anything in a while.

Take me with you.

Caress the curvature,
and catacombs of your cranium.
As you sit back
and contemplate the complexities
of your mind.

Drift into a state of relaxation,
amongst the ebbing tides of a soft creation.
Below furrowed brows,
made famous by frustration,
into the depths of foggy thought,
I found my naval base.

An island,
transmitting infinite miscommunications.
Rhetorical bio-essence bounces off the constellations.
An angelic reverberation.

My mind begins to melt
Seeping into walls
Formed by divine hallucination

Exhausted by sheer elation.
Transfixed in a state of utter meditation

Living life on
autopilot,

Wishing I wasn’t
Going insane.

Look around me
And everything

Stays the same.

The neuropathways
In my brain

Have the wires
Crossed and
There’s

Messages that
Always change.

I’m left to
Figure it out
On my own,

Miscommunications and
Exiled from a
Place I used to call home.

I just don’t get why,
I keep trying to change,

But life pulls me to
The other side

To a place where
the stars never
had a chance to
shine.

I wonder if he knows he's all I think about at night
And if he wanted me, he really should've showed
Oh, a simple complication
Miscommunications lead to fall out



‘Cause like, I've seen this film before
And I didn't like the ending

Seattle, so full of angry and bitter memories
Failed love affairs, dreams and careers
Seattle the Black Hole! We call it
Stifling people’s hopes
Raining on everyone’s parade

I am happy for those who are happy here
And I feel for those who are not
Miscommunications fill the air
Much like the *** smoke fills the small niches of building entryways
The streets are flooded with STD’s and STI’s
And all around me I see my friends dying
Dying from drug addictions and failed marriages
Dying from being accused by their own judgmental minds
They are all dying; rotting from the inside

Seattle, the most beautiful hypocritical city I know

Most people don't go on traditional dates
They are too afraid to go on blind dates
Too afraid to go on multiple dates
Potential couples fear rejection
So they text each other how they feel
Being spontaneous has lost a lot of meaning
At least it will be a Facebook post
A Facebook post to show status
A Facebook post to brag about seeing someone
Texting can ruin relationships
Texting leads to miscommunications
People rush to put labels on their thing
Because most people are too insecure to not have
some form of security saying that he's mine

I wish I could go back in time
Where dating wasn't a constant battle
A constant battle of showing your interest
While remaining distant enough to avoid suffocating the spark
Where you didn't have to worry about a good morning text
Where if you wanted to talk to someone you would call them
Where it was just you and them and not all your Facebook friends
Whom always put their two cents into where you two should be at
Where relationships weren't built over text and then destroyed in person
Oh how I wish I could go back in time

I miss you.
Even though we barely know each other.
We've barely talked.
Just met.
Even though I saw you a week ago.
It was like love at first sight
Perhaps.
To me, at least.
All I know is that
I need you.
Even though the miscommunications that Happened
Caused a lot of stress and worry.
Even though you have two other "wives".
Even though this might seem stalkerish.
Even though I feel left out
When other girls call your name
Then look at me as if I'm a little fly.
I know you'll come through.
I promise to.
Don't forget me.
I'm sorry.

To the girl who empowers me,
With a laugh, a glance, an honest word,
an unprompted touch of my shoulder,
to do the things I otherwise wouldn’t bother to:

Never have I been so brave as to hold a ball python for my own fun til she spoke of a snake who’s half her height
like an old friend.
That is not a metaphor.
Or to do that one pull-up more
and maybe one after it,
if there’s even a chance it’d bring me a step closer
to being the person I know I want to be.
And I’m definitely not yet a person who’s built for pullups,
but with her looking my way, doubt seems like a foreign word.

She told me she wished
that she could someday be the subject of my writing,
yet it seems every time I try to prove
that love is action,
passion eclipses intellect,
my paper folds itself into an airplane and flies by its own accord,
and I’ll be ****** if,
of all the things I can’t control,
my own words will be one of them.

I know I severed us for a while,
tugged too ******* the Jacob’s ladder between her fingers,
wanting more in the moment than she had to spare,
til her eventual reply was noble truth:
that her hands wouldn't be vacant for holding
while she had so much to set them to work on.

Her hands, her beautiful hands, were booked,
sometimes literally,
with her thousand different interests and commitments,
and all I could do was lay in bed at night,
sometimes tossing and turning at the thought of the time
where she took me in her arms on a whim,
and I was unable to fall asleep
for fear that, if she permeated the film of my dreams,
she'd be more nightmare than not.
Yet with time, she spoke to me by her own inclination.
Whistled to me like the stray dog I'd made of myself
and lay out a spot to sit next to her.

I never realized until now how much I respect her
for never playing nice with the boy who,
assuming we’re friends enough,
calls me a useless lesbian.
I guess that pound of a joke had some ounce of truth to it,
for all the times where what she and I had
felt like one great web of miscommunications,
and subconsciously I see her as the spider
or she sees me
or sometimes it’s us both this whole time.
But if there's any certainty in it all, it's this:
She'd been in at least the back of my mind
for as long as I'd known her,
asserted herself right away
as the kingpin of my flighty wits.
And I still dream of writing something that makes her heart beat,
even halfway to on par with all the stories that race
through her head,
in her wild blood.
I wanted to be her latest passion for even a moment.
Because the honest to god gleam in her eyes
when she tells me what’s really on her mind
made me so selfish as to want to be that thing,
for however long
or not-long
it could last.

Yet I've sometimes seen that fervor in her eyes waver,
like they're trying to promise something better.
Little does she know
she's already the best thing for me
just by being herself.

And I understand that she doesn’t love me
not in the way I once wanted,
but having her for however long in my life,
before she’s off like a free willed honeybee
with so much better to do,
that is enough and so much more.

Because despite how I’ve tried to deny the facts of the matter,
I’m firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over my head if I ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when the whole of it
is all that actually matters.

This was that paper airplane
comprised of eight months of the cheapest blood, sweat, and tears
from the first moment she set up camp
in the farthest reaches of my heart,
to where I was finally past the point of dreaming
of any future
where she may not be as happy with me as I am with her.

For better or for worse,
I've straightened my spine and let the honest truth sail
knowing full well that she doesn’t owe me a thing.
I'm still not sure if I was coming clean
or stating what’d always been obvious,
when I wished for her peace
among these watercolor depictions,
for her to find the rest she so craved and deserves,
and to wake, inspired anew, in a cycle that suited her,
whether I was a part of that cycle or not.

To the girl who helped me find the gall,
and who's going, going,
gone on to better things:
Gabriel García Márquez says I love you with all my being,
so maybe that’s why I'm finally letting you go.

He was a compulsive liar,
A cunning spider,
That spun silken webs of lies,
People were drawn into it like flies.
With his skills and uncanny ways,
He finally had his says,
He spat easily poisonous deceits,
That made you clench your fists.
He was charming and charismatic,
In  weaving lies artistic.
For him lying had become a ritual,
Sort of habitual.
His descent was gradual,
Down to nothing from a pedestal.
He lost people's trust and credibility.
He was known for dishonesty,
As such he stained his name in society.
He was scoffed,"There goes liar,liar."
At first he excused his lies were misinterpretations,
Or may be  miscommunications.
His lies ruined his friend's life,
He lost the trust of his family,son and wife.
He realised when he had lied,
He had committed suicide.
He had burnt all his bridges,
He had dug his own ditches.
To have his life back,
He had to stop lying and bring everything on track.

ten years
of writing
and sharing.
of erasing fear
from what I share.

a decade later
and I am asked
to be quiet, told,
I talk too much.
figuring, if I talk
too much, too quickly,
I have learned nothing.

so I write.

this place is safe
pen on page
words on screen
no real name
truly facing shame(s).

words can hurt
but writing can change,
an outlook, an image,
a feeling, a tone.

there's something about here
me, alone, with these words,
that stops the constant curiosity
of what others may say or do,
because with these forms of words,
only beauty may resound.

no, "telephone game"
of, "who said this, she said,
he said," distorted and mangled.
re-angled! painful miscommunications
avoided so simply. LOOK HERE, look here!
if you misunderstood, read again, or interpret.
these words were written for me and about me,
inspired, perhaps, by others actions or words,
but honesty can happen in abstract ways
much like the daze that follows, when one
says and they say, so instead, I choose to
hurt no one, on purpose or by mistake
instead I will express myself within
this realm of word play!

The pressures are rising but also falling on my chest
I can’t get out from under the tide, I need a rest
Mistrust, miscommunications, misconstrued words send me over the top
The anger continues to build inside of me until it feels like my heads going to pop
Working it out through weights, sometimes that can help
I am losing control of everything, how do I deal with something I never felt
Money issues, past actions, future homecomings, it’s all a part of this course
Lost at sea, feeling like I am drowning, I am struggling back and forth
Can I keep my head afloat until help has arrived?
Can I retrain myself and my brain? How am I to survive?
I used to be so happy, the joker in all cases
Now there is nothing to smile about, all I see are ******* arab faces
I can’t stand these people and we are put here and cannot do anything about it
They can bomb us on the road or shoot mortars to our chu’s and we can’t do ****
I’d rather be judged by 12 then carried by 6 is something I think of everyday
But all the red tape ******* we go through, these terrorists lead the way
If you are going to send me to war, let me do my job
Come out into the sunlight and get away from the fog
You tell me to give another year of my life away to you and wear the uniform proud
I can’t even look you in the face, you’re a fake and ******* is all you allow
You send me out on missions every day and you sit there comfortable behind your desk
You come with us when there is a photo op so that you can get medals pinned on your chest
You won’t tell us when we are going home; it’s this big secret you like to hide
Think about the well being of the soldier and family, take a look down deep inside
Maybe you will find some integrity, some actions that match what you say
Maybe you can remember what it’s like to live the code of a soldier, now get out my ******* way.

Talk to me more about miscommunications.

Tell me more about
These jumbled lips,
Misshapen teeth,
Boxed-off smiles you're carting around.

Convince me one more time that you're so perfect,
Please.

Cut my wings and ask me to take flight,
Again, I dare you.

I was strong
And in need of redemption
I was lost
And deserved a response -

Craft another elegant lie about how you loved me
And I'll use it as fuel for these flames.

Tall, with chestnut hair and a native face
Tiny, with white blonde strands and Polish features

From the same womb,
down different paths

Their voices hoarse with cries of anger,
Yells, screams and miscommunications

"Go home!" she shrieks
"And you wonder why I'd rather be alone!" she yells

Everyone screams,
"Don't you know about compassion?!"

This
Body.

This humanly.
Thing.
It keeps me settled.
In a skin
too tight.
Or is it  simply
Too big?

This thing that takes me through the world.
When i rather
hover over it.
or fly.  

This thing that
Relays information.
I can never
understand.  

I try to make it
understand too.
In miscommunications
It never understands.

This body is a home
i haven't
moved into.
Where i know this is my place.  
But cant unpack my bags.

And its taking
twenty years.
To only
settle in.

All wrapped up in flannel
A bouquet, of sorts -
Of love, maybe
Pride, maybe
Effort, always.
It has to be hard
to be earned.
Jump for the flowers,
Make them come to you.
this body right now
Feels like summer
Like home
Soft, capable, and
mine.
This body right now,
My body,
Finally feels as so.
credit my clothes,
Grant them power,
Make them make me
but in all honesty,
this body is more
Than flannel-shirt deep.
A blossom, of sorts
underneath
of love, maybe
of pride, maybe
Of me.
Writing this
feels a bit like a prayer
sometimes,
Most times,
This self-love
gets tangled in
it's fair share of
Misfirings
Miscommunications
And doubts.
Without it,
I have learned
To feign
Self-hood.
But with it,
Now,
I can claim
This body.
I claim it
for love.
And mostly,
For pride;
whatever that is
For you
Whatever you are
To me.

If I was good with words, where would I be?
Would I be in the position I am currently in?
Would I be better off?
Questions I've always had,
Answers never recieved.
Seriously though,
If I was good with words,
None of my messages would be interpreted wrong
None of my confrontations would end with the wrong impression
None of my presentations in class would consist of me babbling nonsense
And I would always know 100% that everything I said made sense,
because I'd be good with words.
Now, I know, People still may interpret things differently.
Someone might take my, "good worded phrase" and assume something else
I cannot change that, I know
But wouldn't that be cool if we could?
It would save hurt, and miscommunications
It would allow people to understand and move forward
It would bring about more happiness in the world, and that is something I truly care about
If I was good with words
I'd give someone the gift of happiness

if your heart once skipped a beat,
That's a pulse missing,
No oxygenated blood flow,
Veins empty as heart left in vain,
Love have arrived.

We die a bit, skips a bit,
only to be reborn in a stranger's shoulders,
Love is the problem and the solution.

It creeps in like a seed,
For sure you will water it
With tear drop
from heart break to miscommunications.

The seed grows
The seed glows.

Words! Words! Words!
What are they

Unlived dreams
Unrequited love

Worn desires
that fail to die

Miscommunications

The very fruit of sorrow
fermented in twine and woven onto
innocent eyes

Does any word hold value
In a world made of steel and rust

Where ******* dreams thrive
And love is brewed with angel dust

Where actions are spit polished
Derived from conveyor belts

Where plastic is iced stiff
All the rest is good enough to forget  

A kind word blossoms with potential greater than the destruction of man

Yet, words what are they

Do we even know

Or use them selfishly
To ease our own pain
To create our own peace of minds

Words like a million pennies
All have value but waste away

I'm sorry you meant too much to me
I'm sorry for falling in love with you
For giving you the power to break me

You didn't ask for that
And you didn't want it

How strange,
      To be filled with so many doubts
To have so many miscommunications with myself
To be living with so much distance
Between me
             And the others
I can't fathom this life without me in it
I can't fathom this life without you in it
The you that I saw this morning walking....
Running
To work
The you I noticed sitting on a wall
Looking at me
As if you wished I wasn't a stranger
We aren't
         My friend
                  We aren't
Even though I can not (will not?)
          Speak
To you
                           My friend
So strange,
      To feel so close to you
And yet
       To feel like I'll never be able
To know you.