Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“It was her chaos that made her beautiful.” – atticus

Her chaos defined nothing, because that is what chaos means. Her beauty wasn’t bound to the idea that she ran through life as a wildfire or some gulf hurricane. What made her beautiful was the light she could give to herself that seemed bright enough to bring others out of darkness. Her storms were wonderous to observe, but it was the sunshine after that created the chance for love.

Why are people obsessed with the idea of loving something we cannot define? Is it because we lack the right words to capture what it is that captivates our hearts and minds so thoroughly? Chaos…that’s a terrible word to describe anything. It’s a word to describe a high-speed car crash, or the feeling a soldier experiences on an active battlefield. Chaos is laziness, because everything that doesn’t fit into a person’s set idea of “the plan” would be chaos, and since people are terrible at planning, everything always seems to fall apart, at least a tiny bit.

Her chaos is her unraveling, and that is so fundamentally different from her showing herself to you. It’s not beautiful to fall apart. There is nothing pretty about crying into the arms of your friends at 2AM after you tried to say goodbye. There is nothing captivating about being so angry your skin flares red like a firecracker, with a voice to match. It’s raw, and real, and it’s all of us on our worst days, and it’s on those days we all wish for love, for someone to just hug as and not let go first. It’s our chaos, and we shouldn’t hide it from the world, and we especially shouldn’t hide it from ourselves, but to say that is what makes us beautiful?

I want to be beautiful because I take my nephews to go see the new Star Wars like a good uncle, and we pig out on candy and soda and we laugh the entire car-ride to the theater and back.

I want to be beautiful for the project I helped my co-workers finish 1 week early, where my skills on Excel were put to the test and I came out on top, and I was praised and proud of myself for not only getting the work done, but because I know I was useful and I haven’t felt useful in so Goddamn long it almost made me cry.

I want to be beautiful for taking the time to let that car merge into my lane to get around that small fender bender during rush hour. I am always the car that lets people over, because I’m never in a rush to get anywhere, and people always wave and smile and it makes me think that I’m doing something right, even if it’s small and nobody will remember it.

I want to be beautiful for keeping calm on the phone when the bank messed up my credit card (which was a real problem, but I understood that it had nothing to do with the person on the phone and they were so relieved when I expressed this that they thanked me because they had already had a very terrible day and I’m happy I managed to give them a tiny bit of relief).

And she wants to be beautiful for all those moments, every single one, not just the messy ones. She needs someone to be there for the chaos, so be there, but don’t think that chaos is her beauty. That implies when she finds a way to quell that chaos she will have lost a vital part of herself, when in reality she will have just learned how to tame some wild beast, and that is to be applauded.

“It was her chaos that made her beautiful.”

No.

It was HER that makes her beautiful.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I want to let you hurt me, so I can pretend it was all my choice.

But that’s the coward’s retort, a way to displace blame from you and a way to justify my self hatred. Tell it like it is; we didn’t work.

I was needy, clingy, desperate to prove I was worth being loved when I already knew that wasn’t something I needed to prove.

You were eager for love but hesitant in the “forever” we kept on saying. Reality came crashing down on us and you realized what forever really meant, and you saw the end and decided this was the point to say goodbye.

I took it hard, which I was allowed to do.

You left and found something new, which you were allowed to do.

What wasn’t okay was how I became obsessed with forever, how I tried to use that to manipulate you, to get you to stay when anyone could see you were heading for the door. I spent all of my time making excuses for my shitty behavior instead of just being myself. I wanted to change to be whatever you needed, but you didn’t want me to change, you just wanted a change, so with no direction I just lost myself. I expected you to guide me, but that’s not your job, and it never was.

What also wasn’t okay was how you attacked me at every turn for things that you knew would hurt, even if they were contradictory. You called me a liar for things I didn’t lie about, and went on to use the most traumatic event we shared, the abortion, to cut me as deep as possible. The abortion that I had to schedule, that I never wanted and held my tongue during the entire process because I knew it wasn’t my place to make that call even though we had talked about having kids, even gave this pregnancy a name… I sat through a meeting to confirm everything, was asked by a counselor about how I felt, and I had tears in my eyes but said nothing.

You knew how I felt.

I didn’t smile for a month.

I was stupid and spent a month doing nothing but trying to comfort you without ever speaking my mind, telling you how I felt, because I just hoped..Hoped you would ask, because the way you looked at me I could tell…you know how I felt and just didn’t want to deal with me…But you knew, and when you got mad you used my pain against me. You told me you were glad you got the abortion, regardless of the reasons you gave, because I was a liar, because I would have been a father who can only lie, that I would have been a terrible father, the worst father…you said I would have been the worst father…you said that to me, and I knew you were right. You said you were glad my child never had to meet me…and I knew, right then, that I’d never have kids. I knew it, and you knew it, and after everything you knew about me you knew how much that would hurt…but you did it anyway.

So yeah, I broke. That was 4 years ago. I never got better. I stopped knowing how to be anything other than a failure. I work, I go home, I get high, I cut, I ignore everyone and everything. I am just proving you right. But I don’t want to prove you wrong…because I want to make it a reality, an excuse for why the abortion had to happen. I want to blame myself. So I just became pathetic, and I’m just proving you right, which is beyond stupid, but it’s all I can do…this is the best I can do; empty pill bottles and bloody shits, shaky knees and unwashed mountains of clothes and dishes. A personality that only knows sarcasm, to push people away. A phone that’s left off, and all attempts by the outside to contact me are ignored. But even though that’s what I’m doing I can still see that I want to be social. I actually want friends. I miss talking to people, and ramble on and on at work because of it. I think it’s a trait of depression, or loneliness, that co-workers might ramble on. It’s because at work they can pretend to be something other than alone…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

We all have a crown, they just aren’t all made of gold and jewels.

“You can be King!” they proclaimed, eyes on fire with hearts to match.

“You can have greatness and adventure, enough to fill any heart! Nothing is outside of your will! Desires are merely unclaimed rights, for even the wonders your eyes have yet to see, even those views belong to you!”

How appealing, a world of no limits. If you want to taste the Sun, just express that wish and smile as the light rushes to spill across your lips and dance over your tongue.

“Your will is as the Universe, expanding with all creation, for you are all, and all is for you!”

A world to call my own, knowing it wants me, so long as I wish it so.

I want to be the one who would want to be that King. I want to have that desire for more, anything or everything more. Just…something…I just want to find out I want something…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

Can I call you? I know I shouldn’t be asking that, because I’m trying to forget you, but it’s hard. I want to drown out your noise with some music, but it’s doing nothing for me. At the end of the day all I want to hear is your voice, right next to me…

Parting lips push on the air, carrying the weight of your words towards my person. It used to be that the air you gave to me was the lightest thing in the universe. I could float on the things you said to me, glide next to the secrets you entrusted me with. It’s sad to think about that feeling now, because I can only think about what it must have been like. I’ve lost the feeling, and you’ve lost gentle words for me…no, it’s not that you lost them, it’s that I made you take them all back.

So where do I go from here?

I want to blame you. I want to blame you for this heavy burden, for my lack of self-respect, for my need to fall apart. I want to place it all squarely on your shoulders. I want to convince myself that this extra weight was your fault, so it should be your burden.

Except I know it’s not your fault.

This weight is normal gravity, I’ve just broken my own back, so I can’t stand up for myself. You stole nothing, you just stopped accepting things from me, because I had nothing left to offer that would appeal to anybody. You added nothing more to my burden. I wasted myself away into paper-thin ribbon, then threw that ribbon into the sky. I watched as the winds died and my ribbons fell. I watched as the rainy streets soaked each strip, then carried them along the curb and down into the sewer. And while I watched my dreams drown I was struck with only one thought:

I don’t care what happens to me anymore.

I have deleted every contact in my phone. I paid off my car loan and ensured I have enough money in the bank to cover my rent through the year. I made sure every gift and souvenir I once held dear was given a new home. I wrote my parents a letter, so they should be okay. I wrote my brother and sister a separate note, so they should be there to comfort our parents. I’ve written a letter for my friends, so they will know they are all wonderful people, which they should already know, but I want to make 100% sure. Finally, I wrote a letter to myself. It was the easiest piece of writing I’ve ever created, because what else do I really need to say to me? I know the who, what, when, where and why, so a long letter is not needed. All I need are simple words for a simple man, to capture my life in 1 sentence, and then I’ll be off. So to sleep I go, leaving this final sentence as my legacy:

It wasn’t all bad, and you tried your best, and know you have earned this nice, long rest.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

It takes some time, and then some more time, and even more time, and even more, more, more… I just have to believe it’ll get better in time.

There was a girl I loved, in a way I can’t really express in words. More than just pretty, beautiful, stunning; she was light itself, curving around galaxies to catch my eye. She had the kind of voice where you never deleted her voicemails – no matter what she had to say, it was something I wanted to live. I never felt like I had to pretend, so I would say every joke that would come to mind, and she would laugh with me and laugh at me. For the first time in my life I could smile to myself, knowing someone adored my terrible British accent and was impressed with my encyclopedic knowledge of all things Hayao Miyazaki.

Not every moment was perfect; fights happened, and we both cried, tore up our throats as we woke up every neighborhood stray, went to bed after a sunrise wishing we could take back those words, as if they were accidents. Words are deliberate, and nothing can be erased, but everything can be fixed. So maybe we weren’t always perfect, but every moment, the highs and the lows, as long as they were with her it was still magical.

Perhaps I’m placing those feelings onto high a pedestal, and maybe I’m just seeing things in rose-tinted glasses, but even knowing everything I do now, with 20/20 hindsight, I wouldn’t change the course of my life – Because if I did, I probably never would have met her, and everything else could have ended up the same regardless. So even knowing how this ends, I would still pick her all over again…I’d pick her over me Every. Single. Time.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

Etch these words into my skin, so I may never forget. I steal my light as a paper moon, only glowing after sunset.

He creeps into your mind at the most inopportune times, stealing away precious brain cells and holding in the CO2 that you’ve built up in your veins. Whatever warmth you had seeps out through your open chest, replacing the justified anger with docile tones and heavy shakes. You feel leaks, tiny pin pricks along all the spots you kept secret, the spots that he now owns. Time erases nothing, but diminishes everything. He’s hands haven’t been there to stroke your senses, yet a single glance brings back a nervous tingle in your stomach, and the world melts like chocolate left out in the afternoon sun. You want to run away, but the sight of him is as quick as summer lightning, and his sound echoes like distant thunder, and you’ve always been a fool when it comes to storms…

You will lose yourself in his winds and rain,

And you will claim a home inside that hurricane.

But that home will be nothing more than a dream,

A space where his violence will swallow your screams.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, Uncategorized

The silence carries with it weight; oxygen now exists in my lungs as heavy air, my throat unable to swallow such a solid mass, unwilling to give passage to that last breath, as I wasted it on words you never heard.

I speak through my actions, louder than my words,

Yet my words seem to scream off this page in a way my body never could.

I write down the truth I’m either too afraid to verbalize or…

No, that’s just it: a fear pays me well to hold my tongue,

Demons, both real and living only in my skull, keep me buried,

And so I, and others, label myself a coward.

The phrase “I must change” translates from my pages into

“I can’t be bothered; I’m not worth the effort;

Some people have to be losers; I deserve this pain.”

Strangers don’t repeat this to me, unless the unknown eyes

Staring back at me from corporate purchased mirrors

Count as people unknown.

I’m self aware, for all the good that does me.

Again, actions speak louder than words,

So knowing equates to nothing if only notes,

Scribbles in blue and black, are the sole reaction.

This is the hardest part to explain;

Why would a self aware person purposefully aim to fail?

That fear is so great that it would eat away at success?

Yes.

My fear holds not just my tongue, but my chest,

Keeping my lungs from thinking they know how to breathe.

My fear fights back my senses and leaves me numb,

And I forget anything aside from the sensation

Of an devoid stomach despite it being filled

With empty pill bottles and unchecked guilt.

I can write down why I feel that guilt;

I have no tangible reason to want to die

Yet I always end my day wishing for it,

And I hate myself for that.

What does some 20 something punk know about death?

Pathetic.

My actions are a coward who begs for death

But can’t pull a trigger.

I can write down “I need to be different”

Then run down the halls and through the hills singing

“I’ll fail anyway, why fucking bother”

And so of course I lose before I even try.

I realize I am lacking and continue to be the same.

Am I just trying to give myself more reasons to hate me?

As if I needed that.

Perhaps just a tangible excuse for others?

Of course.

I’m a writer, so I’ll write it down.

I fear death, but what else will calm my soul?

I fear love, so why love myself?

I fear my inabilities, so just act as if I never realized.

I know I should, but that means nothing;

I get no praise for hollow words.