Sun cascading through the window,
The Mountains my blanket
Everything in its right place, and I in mine
For surely life is a wonderful thing
and I am no mistake.

Can a person be defined by a word? Can we, in reality chain a person to one word, or even a great sum of words? Can all that is encompassed within each individual human being, be summed up with a word, a description, a label? For the very meaning of word is a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principal carrier of meaning. Are words the most effective "carrier of meaning"? Or is it possible that there might just be something more, something deeper? This makes me think of the quote from The Mozart Effect, where Don Cambell says, “On the psychiatrist’s couch, the board of the local PTA, or at a job interview, we strive to assert our identity as strong, independent persons, our persona or public mask—all from the Greek roots per son, or ‘the sound passes through.’” Our very core nature is that we desire to hear a vocal confirmation of who we are and labeling ourselves and others with words, gives us a false security. The way we are labeled and seen and judged passes through us, it effects us to our core. When someone “fails” they are then in turn labeled a “failure”? My question is, by labeling a person who has made mistakes, or is even continuing to make mistakes a f a i l u r e , are we really encompassing all that is within them when we say the word “failure” and chain it around their neck? Is every action that they have done a “failure”? Do they not also have things that are successful about them, and isn’t simply their state of being a success?

I am convinced that we are all on the same level, one person no greater than another person. No person a mistake, no person a failure. For let us all challenge ourselves to not define people but rather feel them, seek to understand them. Let us really see them, for who they are, not for who we think they are or what we may see. Like the quote from T.S Elliot’s book Family Reunion, where it says
“I tell you, it is not me you are looking at, Not me you are grinning at, not me your confidential looks incriminate, but that other person, if person, You thought I was: let your necrophilia feed upon that carcass.”

Or the quote from the Invisible Man,
“I am an invisible man. No, I am not a ***** like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasm. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids- and I might even be said to posses a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless head surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination-indeed, everything and anything except me.”


These are both excellent examples of how our own judgments, preoccupation with our problems or ourselves, anything and everything, can distract us from really getting to know someone, to understanding them in the cell of their heart. For if we were silent and simply allowed the music of life surround us, we would listen and hear, the people when they spoke. For “to listen is to vibrate together with another human being.” And how eloquently Lao Tzu said that, I can’t think of a better way to describe what I am trying to say. What a provocative way to think about the simple act of listening. Think of feeling what people are saying as two harps being played in perfect unison, vibrating together. To really hear someone we must reach a place where we can be receptive to whom they really are, throwing aside our preconceived ideas.

How could we take the sacred and beautiful act of listening and distort it into something that is so uninvolved, so impersonal? How can we, how can I, constantly throw away the precious gem that is to listen, only to pick up the garbage of judgment and lack of concern? I’m convinced that constantly doing this has left quite a toll on the human race. When was the last time you felt that someone got you, really got you, or saw past your flaws or the masks you wear and simply heard you, felt your pain, knew where you were coming from, simply was just there with you? Chances are it’s probably not often. I believe that no matter the outward appearance or what people do that it’s the state of their heart that matters. We are all fallible because we are h u m a n, so when people in their own state of humanity, hurt us, let us choose not to take offence, but rather choose to see past our own pain and see their own pain that caused them to hurt us.

I believe there is beauty in our shortcomings, and humanity. Not that we continue to remain the way we’ve always been but rather accept that we are flawed and that can’t do this on our own, and then we will begin to grow. In our state of being humbled and broken, we grow, we change, we transform. Slowly and surely as the flower that springs from the cold ground and bursts forth from it’s shell and becomes something completely different, we as humans will break through our own “shells”. First we must admit that we have flaws for this process to begin. Being flawed is beautiful because it’s something everyone shares. We’ve all been hurt, but once we come to the place where we understand the pain behind the flaws and see how we can’t possibly judge anyone because we all have flaws, we all have failed.

We are all equals. We are all connected. We are all sons and daughters of humanity. We are connected to the earliest of times and the latest of times.

What happens to someone on the other side of the earth does in fact, effect us. I believe because we are numb to the reality of that connection, never listening, never feeling, that we miss the beauty of this great fellowship of human beings. When we isolate ourselves, not only are we denying ourselves that desire to b e l o n g that dwells in our innermost being, but we also can begin to elevate ourselves over another person. Which leaves me to wonder why we spend our lives awarding ourselves for being better then the person next to us, not doing what they did, when shouldn’t we be listening to them, hearing them, seeing them for who they are in their own brokenness, and helping them through?

We spend our lives harboring anger towards and event, person, or even ourselves and judging and comparing ourselves on a made up idealistic scale to define our worth. We are already worth so much simply because we are humans, and we are alive. Is not even a single rose still admired by the gardener? We are special, and if someone were to bring all the wealth of the world to offer for one person, or to measure the worth of that person, it would not even begin to compare to our worth, no matter our mistakes or who we are.

Just as we hurt and long to be accepted and approved of, so does the person that has hurt you or the person you see yourself as better then. Do we not feel our connection to humanity when we feel the sense of deep loss in our spirit, our innermost being, when our actions cause pain to another person? So since we are all one, all connected, why not shower people with love and grace and feel them, feel with them, instead of labeling them and trying to judge ourselves against them.

We have exhausted ourselves by denying ourselves the basic needs to be known, loved, heard, connected, and accepted, for far too long. It’s time for change, in both my life and the lives of those around me. We’re beaten and bruised from holding on to our anger, relentlessly trying to gain approval, judging our own mistakes and comparing them to others to see if our mistakes were ‘slightly less bad then those of the other person’. If we would set aside those chains that imprison us, and allow ourselves to feel the pain of others, allow them to see our own pain, then, although we will never reach perfection, we will grow, the deep yearnings and aches of our body crying out to be known and our pain from the wrongs done to us will stop.

If we’re willing to bare the burden of feeling with someone, or simply allowing ourselves to just be, exist, beside someone who’s hurting and be open to simply let the sound, the vibrations of their words penetrate our souls, then, and only then will our lives and the lives of others be drastically changed for the better. It would be infectious; spreading to every person we came into contact with, causing a worldwide revolution.

So what I’m saying is even after all this, I believe in changed lives, I believe that our impact on others is far greater then we will ever know.I believe that one single person, no matter how flawed, who stops for one moment and simply listens to another human being, and sees them as they are, then proceeds to reach inside their chest to reveal their beating, heart, alive and full of dreams, will change that person forever, whether we see it right away or never see it. It's the same in our lives, we may never see the fruits of our labor, but we must focus on the goal and not the distance needed to reach our goal. We impact people. When we judge people or don’t see them for who they are, they become dead to us, they can no longer change into who they were meant to be, or we simply do not hear them, the passions and dreams are not awakened, and in doing this, we are robbing ourselves the joy of knowing someone, investing in them, and seeing them change and they feel the effects too.

We all need to be awakened from being the living dead, to a state of constant awareness of our body and all our senses and the surroundings around us, the people around us. People as a whole are hurting so deeply, and I believe that one person can in fact change that. All it takes is one [broken] person to spark the flame and soon, others, much like kindling for a fire, will catch ablaze. I believe, that we must allow ourselves to climb into another person’s skin and feel, and see the world as they do.

We must realize that we are no better then one another, for we are all broken and need one another. I believe that no one is hopeless, no one a lost cause, for if we take the time to listen to them and care for them, something in them will change no matter what we may see on the outside. In this investing and caring, listening and feeling, seeing and believing, we will awaken in both the people around us and in ourselves the dreams which we thought for so long to be dead, and the world will see change like it has never been seen before in history.

I’m not saying that I have any of this down pat, I’m not by any means a model for not judging someone and seeing them and hearing them. If anything, I am the complete opposite of this consumed in my own problems and too busy to stop and feel. This is my apology of some sort to those i have hurt, and giving recognition to those who have helped me along the way. So thanks for believing in me. I believe that it’ll take some time, but that I can and will gradually change into someone who is aware of people around them, someone who is awakened. Even when my actions, are completely opposite of everything I’ve just talked about, there is still a part of me that is quietly reminding me to humble myself and see myself for who I am, no more, no less, and then see others for who they are. Somehow, I’m going to get to where I want to go, and I’m going to become who I want to become, I just have a lot of judgmental ideals, preconceived ideas, bitterness, pain, and self-absorption to leave behind to step into who I want to become. So I’m going to commit to this journey even if it means sometimes the only thing I can do is just be, in my failures and my success, and even when the pain seems unbearable, it is my deepest desire to stay on this path. I want to change and help the people around me, but before I can do that I have a lot of work to do.

I want to learn to be the girl that is so numb, that she can forget her past and move along as though nothing has ever happened to her in life. Just a clean slate; passing through life. Taking each day as it comes with no memories and no preconceived notions about the world and the people that occupy it. The girl too careless to react or over-react. The girl so uninvolved that she dare not take chances and risk ******* things up. The girl that is just there, un-noticed. Then I could play the part of someone that others can get used to having around. Then I could be content with myself.

k.d.

Writer, musician, painter,
singer, photographer, poet,
journalist. humanist, artist,
intellect, reader, advocate,

but somehow never enough
for the the uninvolved parents,
the relatives that only send cards,
the fair weather friends,
and the not-so-helpful critics,

but most importantly, you.

With very few people out there speaking
It makes me wonder how many have prayed
Forgiveness is what I will be seeking
For the apathy that I have displayed

So many have fallen, some who were teens
But after all, death is so depressing
I continue with my daily routines
With the emotions I am suppressing

Now I feel like I am being hunted
I have become prey to my moral sense
With ghosts of the dead I am confronted
That I am uninvolved is a pretense

Thousands die as I watch a news story
My conscience hunts and I am the quarry


© Christopher Chronister. All rights reserved,

Numb
Numb
Numb
So
            uninvolved
            invisible
It's the same routine
anesthetize me
Feel me
I'm done
            dumb
            numb
I feel the love-hate

Tell me, do you feel it?
Tell me you feel it
Tell me you feel

Numb
Numb
Numb

They still believe
             I feel
             I live
             I love

Numb
Numb
Numb

Feel my drug

The toy I am
The game you are

Let me feel
                numb
                numb
                done.

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

Samaria can burn for all i care.
unchecked **** existed there as well.

each of us is torn.

you dare proclaim: you love me now.
but acts of speech will not belie
your inner need.

i  will  not
return your spineless love
i only see you as you were
passing me
another errant body uninvolved
you haven't changed
your distant eyes avert
your guilt to span the globe
your condescending anger
poorly compensates
your shame

you chose a silence then,
seeing from afar,
you ran and wrote a story
as if my story were a gem
as if your facets claim a right
to make of me a cause

so now i lock you eye to eye.
you owe me nothing,
my pleading done
i'm only here to shout --
to poison what you see as well --
to crack you into seeing hell as hell

sweet weakness soothed you
just for being powerless

while i retched in corners,
alleys, on the train

my captors blinded me
to hide themselves

but you see.
and you flail with understanding,
broken more than me.
you mutter pridefully
you're 'bearing witness'
... but an aperture of musing
only fades into the smoke
you ****
into a screen

regurgitating pity
to be swallowed by your peers,
you have found your hiding spot
in brightness, plugging in

no longer even passing by

how i feel is irrelevant
compared to the vast beauty
of the open plains
of liquid gold before me
drowning in the changing waters
undecided whether they are black or blue
quite like me
undecided
   uninvolved
     un- enthused, emotional, clear
but where is my clarity?
for i've been travelling without it
in what seems like an endless time
and i cannot remember where i began
                        through grass
       through trees
                    walls            houses          
                                                                ­                       people

i've swept through them without notice
as if they were shadows on my ceiling
that i stare at instead of sleeping

sometimes i wonder if they're real
or if i conjured them there
to conquer this lack of feeling
maybe if this were a fairy tale
i'd have the shadows align an army
strong and steady
and someone would fight through
and banish them

but alas
i have grown accustomed to these shadows
and i am no damsel

She  swallow the sun, before the days begun,
keeping him in the dark, with her silly little lies.
He prays she finds love and he hopes that it's he.
He's scored  long enough,  he knows it's only in his head.

He watches from afar, while she's beside  him in  bed,
Pretty as a poem he read.
There, but uninvolved, someone is waiting round the bend-
This dream is just a page he read.

He's been here before, an old hand at goodbye,
years are moving on to a safe and cozy night:
where slide shows flicker on walls of unknown photo scrawls
and moments covered in dust,  
dead forgotten trust.

If only she belonged to a wasted life with him:
grounded, broken and free;
with few Hollywood lights hanging on her tree,
a sense of sanity.

She is held like a doll that can never love back,
plastic blue eyes keep him entrapped.
Compromising compassion compels him to her door-
He swears he's been here before...

Thank you for the invitation.
It truly means a lot.
but see, there is an indication.
the stable has been locked.

I can't consider diving.
I'm already waterlogged.
it's best to not be trying.
best to remain uninvolved.

I'm definitely nobody's prince,
I hope I am not charming.
my heartstrings are already tangled
we both found your poems alarming.

But keep on wandering along, friend,
professing love to random poets.
I'm busy with my own happy end,
and you'll find yours, I know it.

You holding the pan, hands shaking, pan seesawing
Me feeling doom growing in the air like electricity building
You crumbling
Me swallowing danger
Them coming through the door, a bed on wheels
Me thinking that was funny
Him in the background, acting uninvolved
Me standing on the couch, forbidden
You lying on the funny bed
Me wondering if they would laugh at your clown slippers
You…I can’t see your face
Me looking at him
Him sending me away
Me sleeping in the neighbor’s bathtub, where it was safe.
You. Alone.
Me. Alone.
Him. Alone.

How long have you been loading those
armour-piercing
0.30 caliber
bullets of regret into your mouth?
Do you fire them at will?
Does the safety
(of holding your tongue)
sometimes get neglected
(like you)?
When will you learn that holding your fire protects
not only uninvolved civilians
but also the ones close to you?
When will the war against yourself end?
Do you think a ceasefire will highlight the blood
that stains your hands,
the lives you took with your bullets?
The dead don't listen
but the living make you wish you couldn't
either.

I look at my reflection
In the mirror.
I smile,
it smiles back.
I frown,
it returns the frown.
It simply imitates.
It is not me,
merely a witness...
Unthinking
Uninvolved
Unaffected
Unknowing

I observe the mind,
a traffic of thoughts.
I get involved
and realize
I am not the thought,
merely a witness...
Indifferent
Insignificant
Inactive
Invisible

If you were still breathing in my universe,
I might see you as a
mediocre
being.

But it seems that, as you are;
uninvolved and out of sight,
I see you as I last saw you -
    a large, black, grimace
    on the face of true self.

Oh, I'm not angry or saddened.
In fact, I'm grateful!

But that doesn't keep me
from seeing all of your negative energy
as it swims around,
******* itself
into it's own black hole.

It's interesting how,
when I first loved you,
I was blind to your darkness.
and,
when I first hated you,
I was blind to your light.

Either way,
I was blind
during all of our firsts.

I do not hate you and I haven't
for some time.

But that grimace
is a tainted memory that,
no matter how many times I cross-examine it,
seems to hold as much truth as you do.

Who knows, really,
     who you are?

Who really knows anyone -
    loved, or not?
    hated, or not?

I certainly don't know you,
and I probably never did.

Next Spring I will move.  The Wisconsin
winds will sweep me from this house
of yours where I no longer belong.

You climbed the lattice of the cold
Winter.  I was your bounty.  Now
I can leave the brown sugar color
of this apartment. There are scrapes
on white walls from your wheelchair.

The family will not care and for that,
I will not ask.  

I am through writing thank you notes
and receiving the few callers who
patted me for your loss.

Spring is too far away for intimate
details.  The shaking tree limbs
will be quiet and the annual
equinox will welcome new growth
and knitted sorrows.

We were an uninvolved lot,
the children and you and I.  

So I will write again
on my calendar.  No one will ever
remember that it was I who took
your hand,

your heart,

your suffering

to the last
quiet sigh.



Caroline Shank

you get me
and that's not true
at all
and every time i say
the stuff that makes me
me
you scowl
or roll your eyes
let's fumble through the *** part
and get it over with
1 ****
i don't need your life story
i don't need a date to prom
you get me
is it true?
at all?
i just need you
to validate the parts of me
that make me
me
when i speak
you seem uninvolved
or somewhere else
let's just stumble to the *** part
my hands on you,
your hands on me
1 good ****
i don't need reality
i don't need you
you get me–
you don't get me
at all
and you can't find love
in a bathroom stall

A cosmic invitation in his slightly uninvolved eyes
shows me a shared future, or an immediate demise

It flashes quickly

he, lagging,
sticks around to keep up with me
me, bragging,
to no one of the secret we keep

loving and feeling, we'd fall right asleep
Underneath the same clean linen sheet

that look, ensaring
me into that "I-must-give-in" trap
his voice, daring
What do lovers do right before a nap?

Everything he says: an allusion to later
he likes to prepare me, just to make sure

Then before I know it:

His arm squeezing my neck
like its always been our thing
as proudly, I look
at my new wedding ring.

and then his body swings right by me
and the eyebrows he gave me probably didn't mean a thing

Let the uncashed lie
unimportant at the present moment
let them be my make-shift mutiny
Let the untouched wait
delay pleasure and torment both
Until the suffering transforms
Revealing more pleasure than I've earned
And so, suffering gives way to sorrow,
sorrow gives way to woe
Senseless action is given thoughtful meaning
Sequence is deemed absent and uninvolved
We can fool ourselves as whole
But let us not take in on our own
We must not let this go

for all his life he stood alone
observing
a sovereign being he felt uninvolved unmoved.
He had the intercourses in community college
humanities and social sciences, he still felt
separate.
He had a very neat flat, on the commons.
Kept it, oh, so neat. He kept on seeing all others as
being another course. Then when a day came he felt,
he saw a girl get hurt, I won't go into details, but,
his education did not help him.
He had to intervene. So he took his ball in his hand, bowed up
became a man.Was a hero for a moment, then.
He turned out dead with a hand full of nuts.
I am proud of him.

How disbelieving and cruel
That we are embroiled in wars
Yet no one takes charge
No one takes hold of the pain
Not until they've seen blood
Peppering the ground like a vineyard
And canyons like fireworks
In the air
Not until the ghost of Hiroshima
Haunts their backyards
Not until their souls jump out
of their doors
Not until the streets carpet enemy boots
Not until guns lay in tables with the evening coffee
Not until the television casts a shadow of panic
Not until then, even.
Not until gunpowders fuse in with the uninvolved morning dew
Not until everyone talks about it
Not until expensive towers devalue into rubbles
Not until a dreaded call about the dead stabs a mother's ears
Not until a child becomes an urchin on the streets with no memory of his father
Not until bones break, souls crush under the gripping theatrics of war.
Not until the eyes see what the mind does not believe.
Not until nightmares take shape in stories
And maybe not even then.

I can't say how I'm feeling,
But this feeling isn't right.
I was reminded last time
Why I'm staying home tonight.

My views are contradicting
Their feeling of what's right.
Their words cannot convince me,
As they're failing to provide.

It is with hope,
My words convince you
As I give my reason why.
It is not yours to decide
The outcome of my plight.

Smoke fills the air,
They whisper prayers.
Uninvolved, I stand up tall.
What I was taught are not the laws,
I will stay home all night long.

I’m in the kitchen at Lisa’s. Her little sister Leeza enters, her pale, freckled face redder than usual. “Liza is the bossiest sister..,” Leeza says, slamming the cupboard door after grabbing a box of Fruity-Pebbles-cereal like she’s choking the life out of it.

Lisa enters from the hall, her jaw set with tension, she waves her “La Mer” makeup bag, wildly, letting its very existence, there in the kitchen, function as angry exposition. “YOU,” she practically screams and then shaking with outrage, she begins more calmly. “You can’t use someone else's makeup and ESPECIALLY not their brushes!!” She had begun under control but with each word her message grew emotionally.

“I didn’t hurt anything!” Leeza answered venomously back, giving as good as she got.

I lean with my **** against the waist high kitchen island, slowly letting myself slide down to where I’m not visible, into a sitting position on the floor, as the fight quickly escalates.

Have you ever been a guest somewhere, when there’s a sibling fight or other parents start yelling at a friend? All you can do is try and become invisible - or pretend to text on your phone like you can’t hear the turmoil.

I catch a motion out of the corner of my eye, it’s their mom, Karen, motioning me, with a side-bob of her head, into the living room. I quietly, crouchingly exit the kitchen - the fight reaching full, nuclear bloom.

I join her on a white sectional, breathing a sigh of relief. We’re far enough away from the action to feel uninvolved. I like Karen a lot. She's warm, open and always seems to be suppressing a smile when watching her girls. She’s a lawyer. “You’re officially part of the family,” she says, as she takes a sip of coffee, “they don’t fight in front of company.” I grin.

Somewhere just below the tumult, I hear a dad’s deep, male voice, “Excuse me?” he says, and the fight is instantly over. There is a moment of deafening quiet. “It’s NOTHING,” both girls say, a second later, in perfect, synchronized, bored-sounding unison.

Black and red draped over ramparts.
Built by men in squalor.
Winked at us as we left.
It all behind.

Our parents lived outside these walls.
In a village far from here.
Could we return we might find.
That which we'd lost.

Friendship and fun.
Play that didn't come undone.
Whenever someone uninvolved.
Got themselves involved.

East of castle Sanguinair.
Blackened by the tide.
His men washed clean by victory.
Entertained by wine.

Came by the boatful.
Prideful, brash and boastful.
Little mind they gave ahead.
Spearheads laughed and bows did cry.
As helms marched ahead attached to mail and grime.
Many battles tempered fear with wisdom.
The knowledge that they knew.
Aided spear and guided shaft.
Passing through and through.

Once long ago it was but black and nothing else.
Now a splash of wine.
Had colored castle Sanguinair.
A color most divine.

Nearer to the edge
                             I see.
Crawling through
          eternity.
Searching for the master key.
This is our reality.

Communication has de-
                                         volved.
None of our real problems solved.
  We have become      uninvolved
while the whole world revolves.

Spinning further from cont
                                          ro
                                            l.
Turn 'round and view it as a whole.
  Mother Nature's gifts we        stole.
This is how our story goes.

Once black and white.
Once dark and light.
To complicate.
Bring on our fate.

Our halos tilt.
Intentions wilt.
Ambitions great.
Never too late.

Turn 'round to see the sum of things.
Counting on the dead tree's rings.
Refering to ourselves as kings.
Soaring on the deathbird's wing.

Sometimes I think
it would be so nice
to be a
Ghost.

Because then when I stand
to the side of a group
uninvolved
untalking

It will be normal.

Because what can a ghost do
except for watch others interact?

But now
I am flesh
that hides from other flesh
that avoids social interactions
that whispers
                     when she wants to scream.

Do you think one day he'll look at me?
Do you think one day I'll be more important than a screen? There are treasures to plunder, worlds to explore, battles to fight, people to be.
He spends his time escaping from reality and I spend my time wishing he would notice me.
Is it a wasted wish? A futile matter of want pulled by the marionette strings of my parched heart?
There is no void for him to fill in me for I'm not half a person I'm fully complete. I just want someone to see me and think I'm more important than a gameboy or TV.
Am I worth anyone's while?
Is he a man or still a child?
Do I even like who he is or just the words he's written?
We are strangers, I am too shy and have no right to be smitten.
Who was I to think our palms were made to fit?
When my fingers are broken glass
Cracking shards no one wants to risk
touching for fear of infection
Held up by my arms that are vines I am twisted and limp with skewed perception.
That there is not beauty in this patchwork organism. Disfigured irrelevant objects sewn together. I am the antonym of humanity because my beating heart requires attention and we'd rather offer that commitment to things pixelated. Cyber connection no flesh relation.
Distant. Uninvolved.
Short attention spans because we don't want our hands in the soil of struggle we want them pristine in the waters of victory. When was the last time you felt mud between your feet? Your skin thirsts for the drink of the sun but instead you feed it wifi lethargy.
Binging every day
Looking for a reason to stay
Alive to stay connected networked together the new social interaction when no ones really saying anything we just throw ourselves out there with such little respect for transparency
We've forgotten how to laugh and how to live without our phones on our hips.
Love documented in texts and dating apps. We don't love anymore with phone calls or physical contact.
We are armadillos, turtles, and porcupines with our defenses up ready to strike or hide at any moment if you get close enough. But I want to be a comb jelly, all my insides you can see. I have no hard exoskeleton and no tentacles that sting just a rainbow illusion that propels me.
Then maybe I will be I intriguing enough. For you to put down your controller and start coming undone. I am vulnerable, I'd like to unravel you one thread at a time, I am fragile but we can make a three stranded rope that will be unbreakable overtime. And occasionally you can run back to your inviting adventure world of virtuality but please promise me that I'll always be more important than a screen.

Delayed reaction
Bitterweet one-note transaction
Turn a blind eye
Voice it in a lie
From compulsive catalogs
Gift-wrapped by mythomaniac hands
Mixing false theories
With hour-glass sands
Because everyone can
And everyone will
Believe the scientific rulebook
And how the high heavens, they shook
So long as it looks pretty
And speaks in a foreign accent
Join hands in singing the praises
Calculating our own descent
Passively uninvolved?
Problem solved...

lately everything makes me wanna cry
so i'll fix it by going out and getting high
drive straight through 234 like russian roulette
to see if i'll get hit
i need another hit
and one turns into the whole bowl pack
i get dazzled in a daze of technicolor and emoticons
flying through my eyes like doves
i hope the black birds don't come
because i'm superstitious
throw salt over my shoulder
so satan doesn't come near
but what does that do when i have horns too
with a halo hanging on them like ring toss
i don't wanna do drugs anymore
i can hear my liver whimpering in the corner
begging to not get beat
but i use the belt again
and bash my head against the bathroom sink
sometimes i wish i died in my dad's bathroom
when i fainted from my prescription
funny how the legal drugs
almost always **** me
but i wake up alive after altering my mind
funny how peaceful heatstroke is:
losing sight
drifting sound
moving farther away like my ears are
detached from my head
last thing to dissipate is touch
until my fingertips turn blue
funny how burning off my fingerprints
wouldn't remove my identity
because i already wiped it out
with the ganj- and the grass
alternative medicine isn't healing
if it's being abused
and i'm so tired of feeling abused
even three years into the future
demons seeping through the cracks of my walls as i sleep
they haunt my dreams and flip them over into nightmares
but i will always go back to sleep
because i get to escape here but stay here
i want to astral project
and shoot my consciousness into the sky
instead of shooting myself in the head
i want to soar
and pick shooting stars out of the sky
and hold them in my hand with the same warmth as yours
i want to feel body heat on body heat
until i start to sweat and squirm
and you twitch in your sleep
i want to stare at space
instead of into it
when you can see the trauma
hollowing my eyes out
and caving my face in
from bashing it against the bathroom sink
and ripping my hair out
strand by strand
clump by clump
i would cut myself
but there's no spot on my body
concealable for when i feel better
i don't want to be reminded
every day of how i used to feel
because my mind already does that for me
i have good moments
so i tell myself after the bad passes, good will always come again

i am building a brick wall
in front of the mirror
because she's saying that when the bad passes, the good will come again
but what's the point when the bad comes back
an uninvolved father
stopping by every now and then
to use the tv
with the sound off and the static on
dissolving into the couch
like the lysergic odyssey melting on my tongue
absorbed by the grayscale of unhappiness
but i'll never say depression
because i'm scared of going back to therapy
backwards progress is not progress in my head, it's failure
maybe that's why i'm scared to go sober
because i'll always relapse