As pure as water can be, in an affluent and wealthy country,
My soul has a Cornelian dilemma when it comes to purity.

How can we be good people when we live so easily?
Innocents are dying of thirst and I take a bath every other day.

Does it really count if one buys organic and fair-trade items,
When it is that easy, that accessible, and they are still hungry over there?

But what else are we allowed to do, that is not too compelling?
What can our money do, when all it does now constrain others?

I try every day to be as good, as pure, as I am able to
Though I still feel futile, small... and unrealistically optimistic.

There was once a horrid alcoholic
At least that what someone said
But maybe they didn't care
Maybe drinking was the only thing keeping them going

Maybe...
Because it reminds them of someone
Or how smoothly someone came into their heart
Someone filled their mind and body with warmth
Happy thoughts and feels
Allowing their worries to soar free
Relieving them of pain
Keeping their mind away from harsh realities
Someone made their life a living fantasy
A surreal ecstasy
Love that would last for evermore

Only it didn't
It isn't there anymore
Someone left
Now
The person is here
Drinking so that maybe... they can keep going
Unrealistically..

THE TORTURING VOICES




you see my dad was watching the cricket with us

and i watched it with him, and it was very fun, you see

we saw australia being beaten by the west indies, because

they were so cool, you see, we were the cricket boys

and no robber wanted to rob us, because we were into australia’s favourite sport, cricket

you see i heard a non realistic image of my father saying

brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a man’s kid

and i was trying to relax and calmly watch the match

and my family were unrealistically teasing me, mind you they were having fun

and the words they said were different to me as it was for them

brian’s not a mans kid, don’t get kidnapped brian be like us

brian’s not a man’s kid, and watched the cricket, ya know trevor chappell doing an underarm ball

mum called cricket, anything and everything which has everything you hate

well, i don’t believe that, i was feeling like trying to be a mans kid

brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a mans kid

and i was getting these awful visions, i wanted these voices to stop

you see people in canberra were doing it too, but they looked like fierce kidnappers

and i said you can’t get me, i am a sports watcher

so i went home and obsessingly watching the cricket and AFL and rugby league, rugby union

you name the sport i watched it, and i fell asleep in front of the sport

you see i have this vision that mens kids watch the sport, mens kids watch the sport

brian’s not a mans kid, ******* ya hooligan away from us

you see, i wanted at that stage a hooligan to my dad and i had someone grab me outside a club

and i kicked him saying, get off me ya kidnapper, you won’t get ya hands on me mate

and dad was watching the cricket and enjoyed it, but i got frustrated with all that teasing

i didn’t want to be kidnap victim and i hate being my families or friends little teasie

i battle voices saying how is our little tease doing hey

but i hated when people wanted to bully me, saying your family are like us, your not

i said i like sport and they said, no you don’t, your family does, and your not like your family mate, your like us now man

i told my voices to *******, and they said, your not like your family, your like us

and this made me into a little 2 year old boy, i hated that voice

i remember i loved watching agro, which was a funny puppet on channel 7, and the mens kids said

don’t watch agro, watch cheezeTV, which was the cartoon show on the other channel

and my voices going crazy saying, you are a crazy person, who is too old for baby agro

and you are not like your family, your still like us, buddy

i screamed out, LEAVE ME ALONE, i am a sports watching mans kid

and dads image said brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a mans kid

but it could’ve been greame thrones kidnapper or patrick dunbars kidnapper

i said voices,  ‘stop', i wanted to be like my family, they said you are not like your family, your still like us

and i said, they look cool, and you guys look stupid, please leave me alone

there is also a man who wanted me and my brother tied to a pole, but we felt we weren’t immortal, but cool

i went into pubs to dance and watch the sport and i felt like a cool man

brian’s not a mans kid brian’s not a mans kid, stay in there koomarri man, get ****** mate went the little homebody kid

as i was watching the canberra bushrangers baseball team played, yeah totally awesome dude

brian’s not a mans kid, I WISH IT’LL ALL STOP

1, 2, 4, 8...
Chromosomes and cells of mine,
They duplicate.

My personality divides
Any and every time.

Meiosis -
My rapid mutations,
I find that they
Fuel my psychosis

Unrealistically
High expectations
I let me rip me apart
I divide and split
Over and over again

This is the alien
That I've become
I'm never enough
It's never the same
Gaps of DNA through
Generations.

Meiosis -
I know this,
I know that I'm not good enough
As a single, a one,
Tear myself in half to
Give them two
When I'm done.

Mountains’ majesty

a cave of amethyst brews

confidence in its own perfection

near the peak peeking into the

crayon colored clouds.


Desire for a moment free from earth

where right above our heads

the world is colorfully candid

through a foggy wine-stained film.


Glossy sun through glossy eyes

entices the mind enough

to lift legs one thousand and two

steps up the mountain

coiling through indigo trees

on turquoise trails until

we pass the purple threshold

where it’s best to pass the time.


Pomegranate lips smile

stretching pomegranate skin

yours tastes like otter pops and ***,

mine I imagine is similar

with a hint of bad decisions.


This reality is unrealistically appetizing

contorting trails contort minds

peaking at the sunset so close

I swear we’re almost there.

The most beautiful thing I've ever read-
was a love poem that I found,
hidden between the dusty cupboards of my mother's room,
filled with things that just
"didn't matter"
anymore.

It was flooding with thoughts I waved off as-
"foolish"
with fake plastic vows of love,  
not unlike those crisp, shiny valentine heart rings,
only given to the most attractive every February.

Stories of parting,
from which shone a glossy sparkle like that of a fake glass diamond,
labeled with black numbers as something worth a thousand.
I've always thought that if you were going to leave someone, you should be aloof and cold.
If you make "warm memories", won't the parting just be that much harder?

That sunset that was described as being unrealistically
ethereal,
I tried to see it myself,
even hooking my feet around the cold metal bars of the balcony,
and pretending that I could fly.
But that sunset was fake too, I discovered.
A synonym of those medals that you eagerly await to get, but in the end,
aren't gold,
or silver,
but just a sheet of mocking plastic,
thousands of identical ones of which have been made,
in a factory choking on smog,
thousands of miles away,
in China.

There was always that villain,
who would try to break the lovers apart.
Sometimes,
the villain was described as, "dark", and "Irresistible".
I was puzzled by that fact,
mulling obsessively over the idea,
Why didn't the protagonist get with the villain in the end?

I was undeniably jealous, of the heroine,
who seemed to draw everyone to her with a warm light,
that I didn't seem to have, no matter how hard I tried.
She was a perfect damsel in distress,
waiting for her partner, who would always,
always,
without fail, come to save her from danger and the unknown.
They were both risking everything for what they loved.

"Stereotypical love poem,"
I scoff,
willing myself to throw that piece of paper away with the trash,
But-
to this day, the most beautiful thing I have read,
is that stereotypical love poem,
now tucked between two bookshelves,
which are full of things, that
"matter"
now.

Wake up  
Look in mirror
                      fat
Take off clothes
Look in mirror
                      why is my stomach so swollen looking??
                      ******* hate this body
                      especially my stomach
Weigh  
                      102.3
                ­      finally
Breakfast  
Strawberries
                      ­10 calories
Coffee and cream
                      34 calories..
                      too many
                      need energy, though
                      fine.
strawberries+coffee+cream=­ 44 calories
Weigh
                      102.6
                  ­    **** it
*****
Weigh
                      102.4
                 ­     better
Go for run
                      burned 400 calories
Hungry
                      can't eat
Look in mirror
                      the way my fat sticks out is disgusting
Weigh
                      102.4
100 sit ups
                      burned 50 calories
200 jumping jacks
                      burned 70 calories
Look in mirror
                      why am I not thin yet
                      don't fade out again
Passes out
Go to doctor
Says too thin
                      don't lie to me
Dinner
Peach
                      36 calories
Energy drink
                      210 calories
                      ugh
                      ne­ed it desperately though
strawberries+coffee+cream+peach+energy drink= 290
Weigh
                      103.1
                      ­hate myself
Stare in mirror
Stare in mirror
Stare in mirror
Examine body
*****
Weigh
                      102.1
200 sit ups
                      burned 100 calories
Get dumped by boyfriend
                      it's probably because I'm fat
Take shower
Get out
Look in mirror
                      you are disgusting
Go to bed
                      I hate myself


REALITY
scary thin
ate too little, exercised too much
unrealistically saw herself
died two years later of a self inflicted gunshot to the head and a starved soul
**note said: “I love you, but I hate myself and the fact I'll never be small enough for you”

The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino,
who brings chills down my spine every time.
Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside,
Especially when he leaves me high and dry
in the morning unexpectedly.
He’ll remind me that I’m alive,
And make me feel Zen for a split second,
Then he splits in a second.
Or
The Caramel Macchiato,
Tall with a sophisticated smile
And unrealistically hazel eyes
That read “bello” around his irises.
With a shot of expression—
He’s never afraid to speak how he feels.
But that’s just the Italian in him.
Or
The Pumpkin Spice Latte,
The most popular guy.
He’ll warm me up when I’m cold;
And make me feel like I’m his only one,
He’ll tell me everything I want to hear,
Then he’ll disappear without a sign—
At least until the next year,
Only to continue the same cycle over again.
Or
The Cappuccino,
He’s got a strong mind
like those French roast blends
With a secret soft side.
He speaks with fluidity and is
As charismatic as the rest.
He’s a morning person nonetheless,
And won’t leave me loveless
In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does.
Or
The Teavana Chai Tea Latte
He sounds fancy, does he not?
He’s different to say the least,
Layered with many spices,
And from cinnamon trees,
He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty.
Gentle, yet fatuously energetic.
Soft spoken, yet bold,
He doesn’t have to do much
To have me sold to his trance.

Now for me to decide what I want
As more people file in, deliberating the same
Line up as I, but they have more to
Choose from.
Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go
With last one.

What is life but a bunch of irony/ Ever noticed that, or had desire to see/
We live to die, yet die to live/ Grasping to life asking Him to forgive/
It doesn’t really come to mind/ that in the sudden blink of an eye/
Your life could be on the line/ clinging to hope, pleading to survive/
Thinking that you’re immune/ to a disease that anyone is prone to/
Funny though, how irony is everywhere/ you just gotta look for it/
Like how religion seeks peace/ but peace seems non-existent/
We denigrate discrimination/ but racism continues to disseminate/
What is race but a color/ when color is a creation of the mind/
What does color have to do with anything/ when we’re all the same on the inside/
More things are said to our back/ Cause we can’t seem to face our problems/
Instead of saying it to their face/ we steal their self-esteem and rob them/
It’s like the truth’s become a knife/ trying to stab at thin air/
What does that even solve/ besides the fact that air can’t be stabbed/
It’s pointless to say something/ if it doesn’t help solve the problem/
And then the problem with that is/ the problem is left unsolved/
Irony people, it really is everywhere/ you just gotta look for it/
With hopes for the economies growth/ the government sets us up with debt/
That’s like drinking while pregnant/ and not expecting a birth defect/
Or how people always look for love/ when it isn’t something simply found/
Why would you search for something/ that can only be felt, not found/
Its like looking for the gust of wind/ that knocked you to the ground/
And trying to punch it in the face/ by yelling really, really loud/
God gave us two hands to work with/ yet we expect things to be handed to us/
He gave us a brain to think with/ only to act before we think/
He gave us two legs to walk with/ but we expect people to guide us/
He gave us two eyes to see with/ but we are still blind to what is beside us/
He gave us a mouth to speak with/ only to speak with words that degrade/
We look for happiness in ourselves/ by taking it away from others/
What used to be considered ugly/ is what we now call beautiful/
Sticks and bones with skin that’s tone/ a body unrealistically curvy/
Eight packs wit luscious locks/ muscles that have muscles is considered worthy/
Having a bad *** attitude and no respect/ that’s how you get a girl today/
But, yesterday, if you lacked respect/ girls would simply say “no way”/
We take simple things for granted/ that others would treasure royally/
Like, take our water for an example/ you can find some everywhere here on hand/
But there are people over in Africa/ who can only drink water from their hands/
Because running water only exists/ to those who have the upper hand/
Really though, isn’t it ironic how we live to die/ it’s an interesting concept/
We begin our lives in a womb/ and we spend an eternity in a tomb/
We avoid taking risks/ because risk to many spells death/
But living life without risk/ will result in a death with nothing to give/
People live to be remembered/ but your death will be forgotten/
Ohhh, the irony of irony/ how something so simple can keep life interesting/
I mean, if irony didn’t exist/ change would be but a mysterious mist/
You can see that it is there/ but there’s nothing you can do except let it sit/
So let irony become an incentive/ show some grit and man up to it/
You only have one life to live/ so why not make it ironic and die for it/

Spending intangible dollars at the mercy of my ever growing appetite,
Instead of buying my ticket out of this perfectly advantageous country,
Which focuses solely on my beauty and money.
I neglect my inner advice telling me to drop it all and run,
To where I can breathe and focus on God,
Promoting a healthier way of living and improving humanity.
Momentary hope that unrealistically characterizes perfection
As a quality that I can mentally download and miraculously make the above, true,
Never seems to linger long enough to actually induce action,
Which leads to disappointment draining the motivation essential to recover my missing pieces,
Which pushes me to crave cash I don’t have, to pick up that dose,
That hushes the unwarranted guilt that seduces me into thinking that I’m not incredibly blessed,
And that I can’t handle what I’ve been dealt,
Blurs the doubts I have about my abilities, my self- worth,
Forcing me into a state of content that awakens my creativity,
While vaguely being able to make out memories of let down led by myself and my mother,
Who was a part of what was never good enough for my idea of a perfect family.
I’ve wrongly accepted that a mediocre life-performance is to be had while following the crowd,
While obsessing over flaws that are negligible to my true purpose in life,
And with that I’ve become stifled by the decision to remain effortlessly stuck.

have you ever wanted something so bad you'd give up everything just to have it?
a few years back, all i wanted was to be so ******* happy. i would've given up everything and everyone for that state of everlasting euphoria. two years after, the world has knocked some sense into me, and i realised you can never really be that happy, at least not all the time. so instead of aiming to be unrealistically happy, i wanted to feel something, anything would do. you see, when all you feel is extreme sadness, all you'd want to feel is extreme happiness. but when all you feel is nothing. when you're hollow, when you're so empty you can't feel yourself exist, all you'd want is to feel. all you'd want is to exist. to know what complete feels like, to know what feelings feel like. at the age of thirteen, this is all i've really wanted, but i knew that just because you want something doesn't mean you'll get it. (life's no wish granting factory.) (there are no fairy god mothers, unfortunately.) (you've got no one but yourself, i think.) (now, here's where you come into the picture stutter portrait stutter masterpiece, stutter reality.) so far long, i haven't met anyone with the potential to be considered a real friend. i mean, for the most part of my existence, my friends were picked out for me. none of them knew how to stay, not with someone like me, and i didn't know how to stay either. you weren't like all those other friends, you weren't someone, someone else has picked out for me, i wanted you as bad as i wanted to feel something and i think you were the only person i couldn't imagine myself giving up to that. you were the only person that i felt like holding on to. felt..? with you, empty is a foreign word to me. you are fulfillment in it's only form. you are what makes me, and you're the only one i'd allow to break me. (although you never do.) you are the only one i feel like giving every part of myself to, take all of me. don't give any back. i don't need any back because i feel you existing within me -in my thoughts- the only place i spend so much time zoning off in because it's the only place i get to completely have you. there's a thin to thick line between love and need and it's deadly (when it's both at once) but i've only ever felt alive with you. and even god is a witness to all the love I have for you and my inability to let go is enough proof to how much i need you. i need you in many ways other than needing you to be mine, in fact i don't think you can ever be of anyone's possession. i don't think you can belong to anyone entirely, because you are the universe and you are what keeps everyone going even when you can't keep going yourself. please, always keep going or else everything will die away with you. you're not everything a person should be but you're all i ever wanted in a person and i know you're not perfect but your mistakes don't define you either. don't let anything define you, because you're much too much to fit under words. i love that you're guarded, and you don't let many people in, but baby, i swear you're loved x100. you are wanted. (i'll aways be the one to want you most though.) i love trying to understand you. i love you for everything you are and everything you could ever become and i'll love you for now and years to come. so for this year, all i really want is you. you to be okay. i guess i finally found my euphoria and maybe you do end up getting what you want.

Unrealistically going ballistic on premature political whistle blowing of missing ballistic missiles.
Rumors round the fickle frowns trickling down around town,
WMD's never found.
Media drowns out our original intent with swayed day-to-day comments about potential evidence or contents of secret documents or undisturbed "security clearancegate".
Still secret and still unclear year-to-date....
our eroded freedoms now appurtenances as consequence.
The missing  missiles long ago hidden or moved like agendas with chess-master finesse.
Citizens chide "You lied!! Confess!"
Behooving you proves nothing in bringing relief to your beliefs,
thieving your freedoms and Commander in Chief.
Lectures on conjecture don't secure a future.
It's almost "Au Revior" american cars and mortgages, hype puts the scarred afar Stars and Stripes Bail Bonds Czars in business.
Meanwhile billions are spent to rebuild the countries invaded without consent.
The Banks are saved but don't repent.
Far enough away to keep my iniquity a bay for today.
I clearly see what is before me, but respond not to my thoughts as I was taught.
Septed in guilt,
wept in filth
kept in tilt
loss is coming,
should have flossed.
The long term costs tossed aside.
Just another day I drive away from the driveway rarely driven to lie longer or lie down somber,
striving for stronger days lost,
feels wrong though.
I still go.
Pay the tolls.
Stop and go.
Fill the daily paying role outside my dreams and goals.
Play generic background music while my soul's on hold waiting for the next available operator.
Just another day, a way to stay alive and not lie down in hunger,
paying for my blunders,
staving off my heart's quiet thunder,
my dreams and wonders.
I still get up. I still go. Bills to pay. Traffic's slow. I mute the radio.

-R. Craig David-Copyright 2007

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if my fantasies came true and we were together. I wonder how we would spend our days.
I’d wake up in the morning to see your face on the pillow next to me. To see you wrapped in the cream linen sheets
the comforter fallen to the floor.
To hear the rising song of our alarm and to have
you reach your arm over
slamming the top and turning back to me with a defeated smile.
I wonder
what it would be like to force myself to get up from that bittersweet moment and put on my blouse and skirt and
get ready to face the day.
Always asking myself
why
for the perfect day would be to stay in bed all day next to you.
I wonder
what it would be like if you cooked me breakfast with smiley face pancakes and a tall glass of oj. And the delighted smile on your face as I compliment your apron.  
And to see you drive. The wind blowing our hair from the windows
cranked down.
Your sunglasses sitting perfectly on the bridge of your nose and
your hand gracefully placed on the top of the rolled down window.
Running your fingers through your hair and me wishing to do the same.
The music softly playing in the background making the moment seem more and more unrealistically perfect.
Maybe we’ll shop in those trendy villages like blue back square.
Just walking the streets together, not really even entering any stores. Just walking.
Pointing out interesting things in the windows.
Maybe we even touch hands for a short moment
and if I’m lucky
our fingers intertwine
and it seems casual to you
unawkward
natural.
Maybe we'll go to dinner and we just talk over pointless subjects and a flickering candle.
Then I don’t know what.
Maybe we walk again.
Under the night sky.
Seeing your beauty in glimpses of the city lights.
Maybe it starts to sprinkle maybe not.
We laugh at a pointless joke.
I love your laugh.
I love your smile.
I see your crisp blue eyes as we walk past a neon sign outside a dull bar and I realize that I love them more than I could fathom.
They look into me and see every little thing about me.
The good. The bad. My fears. My past.
I can sense that. And I can sense that you understand.
That you get it.
I realize that those eyes are the purest and most beautiful eyes on the planet.
Maybe I feel the need to tell you that.
Maybe after we laugh and smile we both realize that this is the moment that happens in movies. The one where they realize. The one where they fall in love.
The moment that happens after dinner and drinks by the streetlight’s corner.
In a hip city of artists and thugs.
Like us.
Exactly like us.
And we realize that we must follow through with the movie.
Follow through with the feeling of realization.
And then maybe our laughs and smiles drop
not completely, not seriousness, just pause.
And then maybe we look into each others eyes and slowly slip.
Run my fingers through your silky blonde hair
heads lean in.
I feel your lips against mine
I am truly happy.
I want to stay there in your arms forever.
We pull a part for a second
Catching breath
Opening eyes
You smile
And that is what I live for.

The dream last night had seemed so real… But it was just a dream, right? Those shadows, the messages on the mirror, the walls, all the groaning and the shuffling of feet… That was all just a dream, right?
     This is all just a dream, right?
     Fairly ridiculous question to be asking yourself as you’re being chased through the halls by this… this, this thing. Whatever this is. Its neck is limp, head resting on its shoulder. Its grin is huge, its face coated in blood.
     Have you ever heard the children’s rhyme about the Crooked Man?
There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
Upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat,
Which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together,
In a little crooked house.
     This… thing, you’re being chased by, that you’re fighting off with a fruit knife, that you’re setting on fire and pushing into holes and still won’t die…
    This is the Crooked Man.
     I wonder if this is all the Crooked Man knew?
     His crooked house, his crooked relationships, his crooked… crooked body…
     His body’s only crooked because of the rope, though.
     Maybe he couldn’t handle being crooked anymore? All he knew was a crooked life, all he owned were crooked things.
     I wonder why he’s chasing you.
     It could be to drag you down, to slaughter you, to make you feel his pain… More than you already have… To make you end up like him.
     Your pasts are so similar…
     Or maybe it’s to warn you. To say, “Don’t end up like me.” To make sure that you don’t die the way he died. The way he staggers, his limp neck, head hanging loosely, his unrealistically large grin…
     Why did he make you put that gun to your head, then? Why is he trying to drag you down?
That’s a problem for you to figure out on your own. But you’d better hurry.
     By the way, I noticed earlier… Your neck is a little crooked.

(This one was based off the video game, The Crooked Man. Yaay, video games.)

the elephant in the room....  
...you need to lose weight


unrealistically optimistic
focuses on goals
ignores pitfalls
stumbles
astonished
fails


we could argue
we could fight
but not tonight
josephine


Now how about
some Leonard Cohen
from memory
happy christmas

You put a whole new taste to sugar
Those candy commercials couldn't label the sweetness of you
***** Wonka is drinking himself to sleep
Because you're the superior type of candy when I put you into words
I don't sweet talk to get something
I sweet talk cause its honestly true
Your precensce sticks to me like glue
All those books with Mary Sues
Unrealistically describes you
All the food in the fridge is expired
But not my love for you

I (fabrication)

Arthur Quincy folds his arms together
Sensing that interfering desire again!

Cant shake this fugue
Or forget the bad stuff he used to take/
Its a lingering presence/

The residual ash in his eyes blinking coffins & dazzling premonitions to the other smalltown poets writing in
Their kitchens to the sound of
Wheatgrass dancing outside in June and
A vacuum's warm considerate hum
From upstairs.

Post office on strike and
Cars being made with straw MAN he thinks
What happened here???
The day crossed out with faulty watches
And parkbench *** fantasies
& the crude laughing regular here
Sipping his tea
Wondering if he'll ever be as much a hit with the ladies as he was in the 1970s

Former beggarman Quincy lays himself out in an empty parking lot feeling invulnerable to the snow

As it collects over his shirt he whistles a happy tune from a date he went on before

The great sourness shelled him out of
Social fulfillment.

Now he keeps to himself
Making stories out of his bedroom and
Crying
crying for
His first love &
The laundry place shut down now wheres he gonna go/

Old Quincy used to smoke expensive tobacco but has since decided to save it for whenever he remarries. Or a brilliant morning where the neighbor sleeps in so he can sleep in too.

The view from his window is a continous rotation of wet crows who peer in and for a brief moment see the man's hands to his head making sure his hair hasn't fallen off yet..
House walls heavy with age
expose themselves occasionally
With an after image of past inhabitors,
The essence of their dry lips
Or olive cotton sweaters hanging from a rocking chair,
The enthusiasm of a corner lamp
Unappreciated by all
Past and present.

II (veteran romantic)

Arthur Quincy shelters his mind from strange ideas
Or conspiracy he hasn't "lost it" yet at least!

He has a hobby of painting the active society and
Expresses mood as colorful clouds
Floating out the skull of us to
Blend in an energy pollinating the
Deli and antique shop and yoga studio
V A P O R
to be swallowed by accident and catch the empathic disease of the
Depressed and jubilant simultaneous,
Makes easy living confusing and
Impossible to achieve in an absolute way!
He carries this belief
When interacting with others
Arthur Quincy understands
That balance is key to fulfillment
(so far as his life is concerned)

However, hardly anyone has seem him laugh and so assumes he doesn't have the ability to.
In reality he saves his joy and holds it to lift his lungs from despairing all day long to be released
Late afternoon in the comfort of home
As a display of feral bellows and supernatural ecstasy. This seems somewhat overromantic and exaggerated but someone has claimed to have had the rare pleasure of witnessing it!

Arthur calls the same address once a week, an anonymous voice speaks from the line opposite and while mysterious
It is clear he adores this voice. He adores the unacted subtlety and passion in this voice.
He smiles when he hears this voice which is simply enough.

Nearby those naive poets use Arthur as a muse sometimes too directly
Often referencing rumors of his hermetic life
Or retreating into his headspace
Unrealistically blowing his experiences into fable
And turning even his stirless sleep into a fabulous fruitbasket of language.

On the surface he appears forlorn and
Bitter with the winter gradually molding to his skin. Like anyone can tell you he has felt this before! Haven't you? But through all the stories and impossibilities of Arthur he is reserved in his
Knowing of important things. He is reserved in revealing that he not only knows how music sounds but where music comes from. He never reads the newspaper out of habit to feel in-the-know. He never lies about his feelings or his intentions.
Arthur exists in the
Glow of himself
And persists on breathing the glow of the street,
He is a wordless poet and veteran romantic.

III (funeral)

One day Arthur passed away a few weeks from Thanksgiving.
His name put on the paper he never read
And examined by a young girl
Who was only hearing of him now.

"Arthur C. Quincy/ 73/ passed away this Saturday. To be remembered as a quiet and misunderstood man envigored with the lightness only percieved by a rare and special few"

This description came as a surprise to those who knew Quincy as the claustrophic and uninteresting grump
Who's sidewalk idlings were unexplained and strangely hostile.

He saw the sky and its shifting canvas,
He saw the distant cats leaned on balconies impressed with the daytime ambiguity in firestations and libraries.
He would conjur a grin
From the passive conversation between a mother and her son.
He once saw two strangers fall for each other on the bus! A conjoined sun had bloomed between them.

Just a few attended the funeral. Upon inspection of his house following Arthur's death, someone found a will left for Helen Ashbury. A 55 year old woman who lived a three day drive away in Michigan..An identity to his weekly telephone fantasy!
It assumed all of his belongings to her, among them a military grade flashlight with his carved initials, a photograph of his time as a lumberer signed to "Peter! All the best in Costa Rica" and a copy of W.C Williams collected poems. Where folded on page 206 as part of the poem "Orchestra" was highlighted

"I love you. My heart is
innocent.
         And this is the first day of the world!"

Eventually Helen Ashbury received the news of Arthurs passing, as well as these things.
At the sight of the poem she wept,
the man she only knew through a voice after years of correspondence.
Upon being questioned she refused to explain their meeting in the first place. That was a special time, a time which the public would misinterpret or slander with rumor.
While Arthur wasn't widely loved in the town during his life, he was a popular topic from death on. As more information came out! Serving in world war II and his companionship with a parisian ***,
Who shared the wonder of the rooftop and spoke on the value of tea as a food replacement.
He once met a girl there at a dance and in a show electrified with lust they moved to Lucienne Boyer without the knowledge of who would win the war.
He had a son with her, Who resided in France most of his life as Quincy regrettably
Abandoned their situation to
Pursue other things, in his journal he admits his wish to have connected with him more, referring to his leaving as the worst mistake in his life.
All of this masked behind his firm neutrality. His walk lacking suggestion and his wrist without the delicacy of a painter (not that people knew he painted and so didn't pay attention to anything like that)

He was buried by noon. Some say his son was at the funeral. People gave their partings, and Helen wanted so badly to say goodbye to him. Instead left with his curios and his infinite voice.

IV (i'll be around)

The following year at a yard sale Helen came across a series of musty and used records. In the stack of them was a Cab Calloway compilation. Nestled in his desperate wailings and hi-de-** was the track "I'll Be Around" a slow and patient song that Arthur sang to her once. She recalled that night with ease, and felt her shoulders sink at the thought.
The album was $4, on the drive home she watched the trees shake with the wind, their leaves transluscently pale at the angle she was going. She could feel a weight there in her chest. The weight of him, of his heart supposing itself onto hers magnetically. She rolled down the windows and let the wind surround her, blowing her blonde hair back and forcing her to squint a little.

"I love you. My heart is innocent"

she recalled the poem he left for her. Of course not written by him but it felt as deeply personal as if he had.

"-and this is the first day of the world!"

Helen lifted a cigarette out from her purse. The drag extinguishing immediately as it's trail left the car. A bewilderment slowly consumed her.

Broken promises are just hopes that don't work out
tear you down, make you frown, make you pout
they are the end to a relationship, the final "we're through"
Almost but never saying "I love you" or even "I do"
Like the baby bird which lifts off the ground, but can't fly
Like the child on his bed asking god "Why?"
One side just learns from the mistake, the other wants to die
Feeling so low, when the hopes were so high
Makes you sink, makes you wish unrealistically, letting you down
setting you up for another broken promise

Reality is;
The real that ruins our hopes and dreams.
The reason we cannot live our most deep and creative thoughts.
Life in its dullest form.

Something for us to snap back to,
when dreams become too much.

Messing with the pleasing inspiration retained from existence.
Making the vivid thoughts we want to make true,
become buried with us.

Lying there in a mind once unrealistic; free.
Bombarded by the captivation of reality in its finest.

Boxed up and unknown.
These dreams, feelings, and pure creativity,
never heard or witnessed by another living being,
and never will be.

All because a little phrase known as reality,
corrupted the mind,
and interrupted its better half; unrealistically.

When I think of life,
I don't think of my life span,
Or me on this long road on a lonely journey
I imagine life as this whole world,the people,the species
The whole space the earth occupies and beyond,
So big and so wide,the choices and options are endless,
Just like everyone else,I'm no alien here
And I have my own space.
So then I think to myself,who am I not to dream big,
I mean;look at the greatness and opportunities in this place called a planet,
Aren't they all there for everyone to dive at and pursue?
So pardon me if my expectations seem "unrealistically high",
Wouldn't want to change them anyway.
If they hurt me;it'll all turn out as artistic inspiration,
If they work out well,,.well it'll still be inspiration.

i have been to a place
in the back of my mind
forever i am there,
forever has no time.
its like my instincts tell me
not to follow my instincts
and ofcourse that leads me to a black hole
where my nerves and brain and veins aren’t even linked
and i laugh
and its blurry
and i cough and i win
i love and i lose
and i have no hands to lend.
they have evaporated into my finger prints
as i babble on and on
with the world surrounding me
and not a soul to lean upon
who will listen to my plees
and i lay here and i sit here
while i’m really on my knees

my mind is wrapped around
all and nothing
and i’m lost inside my self
trapped like birds without wings
and i never knew who i’d be
and i’m not sure who i am
if this is me in future past or present
or if i’m seeing what i see

the world is spinning here
in so many different ways
and this is not a day
it is a day filled with years

i scream out and the words are foreign
to myself and the ones who can’t listen
all the eyes are glazed
as the sky and grass glisten
unrealistically
and it confuses me
cause they gleam the same
and i can’t remember my face,
my morals, my name.

And humans enjoy pain. Because even when they are perfectly happy they always dig for what they don't want to find. First letting others tear you down, then you finish unconsciously tearing yourself down. Finally you're so unrealistically happy that you want to know all the negatives, Foolish human.

You want to remember error after error marring life. And knowing you can't turn back time you make yourself angry, you make yourself hurt with knowledge that even if you could-you wouldn't have changed a thing. Yet you smile that bittersweet smile as you look back. There's no voices, it's just you. Tearing yourself apart. Because that's what you've learned. That's what you do best.
Ignorant human

Why didn't you know? You're a meat coated skeleton made of stardust. Like thousands more. You aren't the only little human. There's more-there will always be more. Time cannot erase what it's shaped. Time cannot change another souls' will to make unforeseen mistakes. Mistakes that harm.
And you're marred. Marked by time. Marked by those mistakes. Aged.
You angry, insecure, foolish, ignorant, little human.

And even if you smile-Once more with this quaking pain you've brought on yourself. You chose this. And although all is forgiven and forgotten by those souls. You will always remember. You will alway regret. But you've been shaped-cannot be unshaped. You cannot turn back time. Once a raindrop falls it into the puddle it cannot come back out for as it fell time passed and the seconds aren't coming back.
So now you accept it, although it hurts you remember
Little idiotic human

And so now you have sunlight with shadows,
Nights with moonlight, happiness with agony, and life with death.
You're haunted. Filled with self hatred.
And you,
you're just a sick human who enjoys pain

Sometimes I wonder
All the time actually
   if it's bad that I think about things like this

You've given me very few reasons to feel
Any way that isn't bliss
   but I still find myself questioning
   things I shouldn't think

I ask myself
What it means to
Be In Love
   because in the end
   isn't it just a word?
   even though I know it's a feeling too.

I ask myself
   why do I always put you first?
   and forget about myself
Because I'm good at blending in
I'm good at conforming
   to avoid conflict
   and make myself more likeable

In the end,
I'm not outstanding.
I'm not really funny
                    or interesting
                    or unique
I'm not really very pretty either.

So is that why I conform?
To be what I imagine you want
Because I'm afraid of losing you
   even though you've never given me a reason
   to believe that you'd leave me
   if I were anything but myself

Is it really Love
If I ask these questions?

Will I ever find an exact match?
Someone who thinks like me
    or act as I'd expect?
Because my expectations are unrealistically high
So I'd never find someone better, right?

I blame the movies.

and

I already feel

so lost

without you.

I understand the whole time thing I do think it’s for the best but I feel physically ill

ironic

considering contagion normally doesn’t last 1000 miles or maybe its just been dormant since we’ve touched

our intentions were,

no longer.

hesitant,

it’s not selfish,

caressing one another’s insecurities

with bare hands-

the lacerations in our skin were still too raw for our adrenaline to forget

and now that we’re crashing baby i’m sorry

it’s so hard,

dilated eyes,

bloodshot,

electric lights

dying out

but there is still a flame

I see it

we can burn these trees to the ground and be reborn from the ashes

too

we can apologize until even the sky sees that we’re blue

****

just listen to my elementary thoughts

and humor my wet-glue apology

please

understand

I still don’t quite know

how to cleanup  my messes

but

you never complained about the glitter I left on your pillow.





I remember

the night

you held me,

as I was dreaming

of reality

and living

unrealistically

you

made yourself too tangible

when you touched my arm

even after the embers burned out and after it left its mark

you remained.

I got accepted into college.

And

I don’t know what to do with my life.

I don’t know

what to do

without you.

Kirsten; like any wicked step mother you’d read about in children’s story books.
Her presented facade dissolved quickly with days passing since we arrived to reside in her home.
Ample kindness mixed with my first real impression of what narcissistic personality looked like.
Classically she had no children of her own at the time she was exactly the age I am now as I pen this unpleasant memory.
Oddly enough our body types are nearly identical though she was taller with short curly hair often chemically relaxed and dyed a darkened shade of red.
She was the only example of a plus size woman I’d ever interacted with; with a large chest I wished to resemble  when I grew up.
I was eleven at the time and extremely flat chested though I’d developed rosebuds when I was five being the overweight child.
Kirsten loved us- or she pretended detrimentally.
We bonded over the two plump tabby cats she owned though I detested doing the litter- being guilted into it because she had multiple sclerosis although argumentatively she’d have done the litter herself long before I came along.
Adult excuses though whereas her illness was real she didn’t really do much of anything after we came along.
Normalcy was just that at first- family sit down dinners around this white table with cylindrical chairs specked grey and white cushions.
I’d always be yelled at for crossing my one leg under my rear as I’d sit.
“You’ll break the chair that way, stop it” they said on the regular as I’d never remember.
Truthfully that position was comfortable and the chairs never broke.
One resided in my fathers empty home till a week ago- as strong as back in 2001.
Dad and Kirsten were heavy smokers at that point, chain smoking regularly in the front room of Dudley street though the smell would seep through the crevasse and deposit itself remarkably amongst the house.
She’d buy me identical clothes to her- one pink and white fuzzy sweater in particular then berate me for copying her. After all, a very narcissistic thing to do with me being  ******* eleven.
I loved that woman more than I’d care to admit.
She was my first motherly figure after being removed from the home of my severely mentally ill birth mother- she was still a form of normalcy though our relationship deteriorated unrealistically quick.
Before the family split up; we had a sit down dinner though Kirsten wasn’t present.
Having an MS flare I asked how she was when she trapped past the kitchen table toward the washroom.
Innocently enough, I was not prepared for the extremely violent outburst directed toward me- 12 at the time.
For the life of me I don’t recall the words though something like how much she did for our ungrateful family and I ran off to my bedroom without dinner crying from this unwarranted attack.
Everything changed after that point.
That was one of the only times my father emotionally soothed me; their life deteriorated into nightly fights and our fairytale life traversed into a puff of dust.
Kirsten was a dangerous reoccurrence for years after though the veil of particular wonderment was long forgotten.
I needed a protective female presence though I received a covert narcissistic *******.
C’est la vie.

Anguish is me. Suffering is my blood. Pain is my heart. Despair is my brain. Numb is my touch. Gone is my soul. All I see is meaningless. All I know is nothing. My thoughts are like clouds showering acid, filling the growing rivers of depression. Sprouting more and more trees of anxiety. Sending bile snowballs cascading down mountains of doubt. Confusion festering, enough to black out the sun of belief. Traumatic obsession blinding my reason. Uncertainty fueling my unrealistically present pulse. The Reaper is hiding just out sight. A carrior-eater perched upon my brow. Grief and misery controlling my destiny. No distraction will conquor this day. Nor the days to come. I will function - but only enough to exist. My purpose is naught. My intentions selfish. Empathy was not made for me. I am in a world with no one else, yet they can see me. This world is quiet. This world is somber and yet more inviting. I've shattered the looking glass.

So don't come looking.

Time is winding down, all excuses are laughed at and as we try to stand and relieve ourselves from our faulty ways the whip once again is cracked, you created the hurting heart and yet you insist at unrealistically showing anger, now as you drown in your on mistakes it seems that change will always go unnoticed, you followed the false, I sit back and giggle at your misfortune, the pawn you are.

Show to me the blank page I seek, I must rewrite the past for I will always shed the blood of the innocent if I continue to lower my head in shame, how will time exist if I can only dwell on my negligence to conform to the beauty of love.

My eyes fill with the disappointment.

My heart beats uncontrollably with every action of pain.

My soul has become hidden as these moments are cast upon me.

Self-destruction is my own.

Will I ever emerge from this shallow shell of pity.

Don't come to me wanting me to fix your deceptions and hatred, I for once will stand back and let you fall, now as I extend my hand out to you know that the willing can be drawn back to the hollow if your heart remains locked away.

Watching you fail to recognize the purity shows to me that my purpose is coming to a close.

An infant spirit can be cunning but at the same time can also be controlled and manipulated quite easily if it is allowed to do so, the smell of fire is always evident that you are near me.

I shiver alone in the occupied darkness and announce to all that yes I am afraid.

Written By: Christopher M. Schultz

I’m good at picturing art. It takes a whole other form in my head.

I understand situations like I understand art, with a meaning that’s born inside my heart rather than the mashed words that leave your lips. It is as if the originality was lost on my ears as it makes its devastatingly slow journey to my neurons and is just as sluggishly fabricated anew. 

I observe like art, shapes squeezed in two dimensions, flapping around in the non-existent wind. Watching people gives me the same sense as knowing them in a way that I can only see the flat, unrealistically,  linear side of them; one I could not begin to fathom the depths off. My mind also has its own sick way of making itself the only three dimensional being in this packed yet lonely world; perhaps to retain its state of constant solitude or perhaps its survival instincts kicking in.

I sense objects like I sense art, with intensity that sends shivers down my spine; one that is undeniably imposing, for an object also consists of humans. And it always amazes me how someone with so much depth could be so detached from simple but still intricate,  mundane sensations like how it would feel to bury once face in another’s shoulder and smell the very scent of them while being free of any discomfiture.   

Living with the perception of art is the most beautiful gift of all but sometimes I wish I was blind.

Unrealistically enamoured with you.
As in, we are an unrealistic pairing.
As in, if you ever /were/ to reciprocate my affection, we would both have to pray that my stupid crush-obsession turned into something real.
As in, before you discovered how emotionally stunted and unhealthy I am.
As in, maybe I can’t feel real things for other people, and maybe trying to touch you would only reveal you to be smoke.
Unrealistic, unrealistic, unrealistic, unrealistic, unrealistic.
As in, I think you’re wildly uninterested in me;
I think I’m the opposite of your type;
I think I confuse any type of fondness for a faint glimmer of hope;
I think I should ******* give up;
But I have an addict’s brain and it keeps chasing the idea of us round and around and around, wearing grooves into the earth.
As if by doing so I can tire myself out of the idea.
As if by doing so the cracks will bleed into reality.
I think I should ******* give up.

It hurts my heart to think that a man as beautiful as you are could love a girl as broken as I am
It terrifies me that you hold me to such high esteem when my lyrical appreciation of your beauty is far less in comparison
It feels as if you do love me more and you do love me better but who can really tell when I can’t even tell you what’s really in my heart
You’re incredible, unrealistically perfect and that’s about the furthest I can get before my thoughts escape and become tangled in the web of emotions you’ve spun in my mind
I find it strange that somebody like you could feel something like this for someone like me and I know you’ve told me a hundred times why you feel the way you do but it doesn’t add up
And no, it’s not that I don’t believe you - for once its not that I don’t believe ‘you’ because when I see you smile at me or feel your arms around me or enjoy the taste of your mouth I know that this is real
I know that this is real

"You need a good education to live a full and happy life."
                  "You'll never make it without a degree."
                                 "Be reasonable."
                                          "Have a plan B."
                                                     "Be realistic."

What's realistic to me is different than what's realistic to you.
        I don't want a plan B, my heart is set on one thing.
               If being reasonable means working a dead end job,
                     consider me the contrary.
                            No degree means no me? What about Brian Adams,
                                Adele, David Bowe, Thomas Edison and even
                                    nine US presidents with no degree and
                                       amazing lives.
                                         Some people I know dropped out of high
                                          school, barely know how to sign their name
                                        and living their lives to the fullest.

So do not tell me what to do or who I am or who I have to be.
         I will be me, even if that means I am a starving artist at fifty-
             three.
                 Even if that means I am couch surfing half my life while
                     finding my dream job.
                         Even if that means I am unrealistically hopeful my
                             whole life.
                                At least I am not a pessimistic, discouraging, sad
                                    being. Like you want me to be.

Birds in big cages
So beautiful and rare
I've drawn on pages
To show and share

Am not an artist
But I've done few sketches
Vectors and shadings
Only real eye catches

To me, it looks funny
My drawings are terrible
To see real ones, you need money
Oh and my sketches are horrible

Some say, I've done good
My drawings look like birds
I guess, it's just my mood
Being unrealistically absurd...

©sim