We live because no matter how much pain we may feel, we feel so much more. What is joy, happiness, that falling while reading a lover’s last note, that warmth from a friends smile after a night spent on failures, that fleeting sense of control that makes you feel at home and holds you back from everything you’ve ever had or ever will have? That doesn’t mean we have to know pain to understand joy. As the saying goes, the taste of broccoli in no way affects the deliciousness of chocolate. But then again, some people are allergic to chocolate, so maybe there is such a thing as karma in this spinning mess of a galaxy? Utter nonsense! And that’s the real beauty! You are thinking to much, friend! You aren’t feeling enough, yet you’re feeling to much; crying over spilled milk even though you’re lactose intolerant and don’t even know why you had the milk in the first place! You are an enigma, a completely unique snowflake that has no equal in space or time, yet a mirror copy of the million, billion, trillion hearts that have traced this land before you! You are what you were always meant to be, and that has to count for something, right?! You have meaning, and that meaning is not assigned by any man, woman, lover or foe, God or Devil, but because you are just you! You ARE YOU! Nothing like you has breathed this air, felt this rain, cried these tears, caught that fly ball, broke that pinky finger, burnt that dutch apple pie, dirtied that hat that means the world to you, fought with the mother who loves you in a way you can never appreciate, held onto that hand even when it stopped holding back, found a home in a hole that was never that bad to begin with; nothing like you has been or ever will be again. You are a moment. Moments are what make memories. Memories are those things you alter in that wacky head of yours depending on the time of day, weather outside and amount of poison in your blood, both in the literal sense of alcohol and the VERY literal sense of doubt. Those memories build up, fall apart completely, come together like a puzzle and destroy the world as you know it. Memories are the past, but do you see? The past can’t be changed you say? Then how are you able to bend it so easily? If that past, truly set in stone, crumbles and glues together like rice crispies and hot marshmallows, then why do people EVER think that destiny, fate, the future is written out in some kind of marker that cannot be altered? You are magic. You bend time in your head, create worlds just by opening your eyes, breath a universe through your nose, touch the face of infinity with those hands you think are too calloused and small and cut to shreds to ever have another human hold. Breathe kid! Sing like sound isn’t shit, cry like tears are diamonds and like diamonds are nothing but shiny stones to give to pretty girls and boys who need something bright in a moment, to change a memory, to change that fate, to beat up destiny, to light up the magic in their eyes so it can reflect in yours and then you see, finally! Cheer up buttercup! God him(her!)self watches your every move in jealousy! You are life! Even in death, you are life! You ARE YOU! YOU ARE THE MOMENT! YOU ARE THE UNIVERSE! So even if it’s overplayed, cliche, the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard, complete bullshit formed from meaningless words on stupidly white pages in a broken-spine notebook, you are the universe. Free to feel the deepest sadness, the sweetest happiness, the simple pains of simple letdowns and the simple joys of the perfect rainy March day. Breathe the universe.
She touches you with two hands,
And she cradles you in a lover’s whisper.
She outlines your face in her right;
Slow motions, etching into the tips of her fingers
The curves you never knew you had.
Her left makes its way toward your ear,
And the fire starts in your blushing cheeks,
Burning a red across every inch of skin
Her light walk leads her to.
Without a sense of purpose, nor known destination,
Still; her hands feel as familiar
As the glare from the Sun off windows ,
The scent of mornings in July, or else
The cold of snow that somehow warms
These bones during those terrible
Winter days of December Ohio.
Yes, she is that feeling
Of being lost out at Sea
And being home at the lighthouse
All rolled into those midnight touches,
Those kisses from fingertips
She has strung around my soul.
My body lies still in sleep, unlike my insecure soul. My dreams carry weight; they are the leaves after the autumn downpour, so common nobody stops to stare, but to each tree it feels like a lead weight just shifted onto the branches, making each leaf cry out in turn:
“It’s now the time for my colors to bleed,
Coerced into the season of letting go.
Embrace this slumber that takes us together
Into this living death we welcome as home.”
I’m not soaking in the sun anymore; the light dissipates faster and faster and comes later and later, and my back feels a little bit heavier with each passing night left hoping for the sun and living with the knowledge that it’s going to take longer today to see it than the day before. My time feels insanely short, like it’s skipping the even numbers on the clock, like the “tick” is not followed by the customary “tock”, and so somebody must be stealing my time.
~Or maybe you’re just done stalling…~
Disconnect; that’s the issue, so he can’t feel okay because he can’t connect the thought of “okay” with the corresponding emoticon on his smartphones obtusely glaring screen. The mask that he wears remains a deceitful facade; He is neither a hero nor villain, his dreams not so grandiose as to require such lofty titles. He is simply a loser who lost his own face in the crowd, so now even as he searches for some hint of recognition, every mirror becomes a window into a stranger’s world.
~Because seeing the pain from an outside perspective lets him pretend that pain isn’t his own…~
This porch is tiny, only enough room for 2 folding chairs and a small end table. I know that only from judging the porches of my fellow apartment goers; mine is empty, and will remain so. I spend some time out there, especially while it’s raining. It’s covered, so I can be outside and remain dry, able to reach out my arm and feel the downpour if I so choose. Some drops fall on my wooden railing and make a small splash, and if the temperature is just right, those drops burst into a small spray and they catch the wind and float as a sort of mist that touches my face. It’s really a nice feeling, this late evening rain. The flashes of lightning illuminate the sky for seconds at a time, showing the rolling shades of grays, and the thunder that follows is low and deep and reminds me of laying my head on someone else’s chest and feeling their heart beating.
I want to live in a place where my heart feels…weightless. I want to know the type of hug that feels warm, like summer air against your skin. I want to find myself lost in thoughts of fireworks and pancake breakfasts, snowball fights in January and chocolate filled Halloweens. I want to look forward to what I can be, what I can achieve. I have the type of heart that feels as if it is made of lead; to heavy to carry with me, and so I often find myself leaning on others for things I should only support on my own 2 feet. Basically, I feel a need to wish I was just like everyone else, to smile just because, to laugh without trying to hide something, without having to cry about it later. Do people walking down the halls of malls, the streets to different bars, parks and stores, do these people ever stop to wonder “why does every step I take feel as if I’m falling?
~A place where I reach for the hands of others instead of for the knife sitting on the table…
The scars are cat scratches and work mistakes, rough basketball and rugged runs through trails at dusk. The scars are warnings, screams of “stay away!” “I’m not worth knowing!” “I can’t be saved…”
If people were to have to face this, the reality that I’ve created in my own mind, I’d like to think they could appreciate my self-hatred a little more.
I’ve been here before;
That point where my wrist twists at the touch of pen to paper.
My body yearns for a release into words,
For that is the only time I’ve ever felt..whole.
Yet, once before, this very same stutter did occur.
I was falling, drowning, every other analogy for dead on my feet.
I was in a room that never made a noise,
Yet the blood in my ears was always a deafening roar.
I sat, hands clutched in some sort of death grip,
As if the air between my palms was the last bit of oxygen on Earth
And I wanted to save that last breath
For that time when my words would find me again.
Still, those words would be wasted on blank space,
Open fields, dusty corners of forgotten hell-holes,
For they would never find the right ears to listen.
So, the age old question came to mind;
If my screams to the ceiling are made on nothing but
These pages in black and white, with no one here
To hear what it is I’m trying to say, well,
Did I ever really say anything at all?…
I’ve been here before;
Blood covering my sheets from a lack of common sense.
Arms that are sore from cuts that are far too deep.
Legs that itch from the scratches they are unaccustomed to.
A mind so sick of being stuck in my head that it rips and tears at every thought I have, turning them fragile and me timid and scared and so angry at my lungs for continuing to work and giving my brain the oxygen it needs to turn every blink into a flurry of memories, poisoned and turned into tools that beg me to pull the trigger…
My words are failing me again, because they are at that point once again..that point where my mind has shut off every thought aside from failure, aside from pain. Once again I’m at a breaking point. Only this time I have much less of a chance of getting out alive. I made it last time by sheer luck; perfect timing of distractions. Now what do I have left? Nothing to distract my mind from what I realized 5…no, 20 years ago…I don’t think I should be happy, should be alive…I’ve only proven that more and more…so why am I still here?
Pierced through my skin, as sudden as a hornet’s sting,
The lingering sensation left on my hands by his stroke.
My lips wither outside of his taste; O does my body know
How to turn desire into true demand.
What once was a wish now boils in my blood,
Looms over my waking dreams, cradles in my gut,
Burning holes in my humanity..