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

“I might have said that I no longer believe in love, but today, I realized I was wrong; the love I believed in was never really there to begin with.”

You’re not supposed to fall in love and that be the end of things. When you fall in love proper, you don’t stop falling. Every day is a chance to find something new, to be with a new part of another human and to find out how that makes you feel. Perhaps today’s the day you find out that a person dislikes kale, even if it’s deep fried. Or that caterpillars can make someone scream into a previously unknown octave when discovered secreting away in a sleeping bag. Perhaps you see their face in nothing but star light and make a mental note to find more excuses to spend naked under a cloudless sky, or maybe you are laughing your head off as someone shows you just how inept a person can be at driving a stick shift.

But those are all happy discoveries, and that’s not what’s always going to happen. You will find yourself running 35 minutes late to work because someone lost your keys after a night out drinking with some old college friends, and you will be cursing every red light and slow driver in the left lane and you will come home, still fuming, looking for a fight because you need to let some rage out. The dishes will be unwashed and the blankets on the couch will be spread out everywhere and you will notice that the lamp in the corner has been on since yesterday and will ask if they think electricity is free, and you will end up sleeping alone that night, staring at your phone waiting for them to call and apologize. Instead, you’ll see pictures of them going out again, laughing and smiling with those same old shitty friends, and you end up creeping through old photos they have online, which is never a good idea. You’ll see the person you love in some photo from the past, kissing on someone that isn’t you. Of course, you were aware of the past, but it still stings in the here and now. You know it shouldn’t bother you, but it does, so you bring up how awful that picture looks, how stupid that past was, and before you know it, you’re unleashing an all out attack on their history. It’s not fair, but right now, nothing else matters but the pain in your chest. Nobody can change the past, but you demand a place in that history. Everything hurts so much, and all because you wish you could have been a part of their everything. It’s petty and stupid, and you know it, but that doesn’t stop you or the snide remarks, the arrogant tone of voice, the pointed comments that are alluding to someone’s past as being awful, as if every moment before you was a mistake. But somewhere, in all of that anger, is the pale heart of somebody who just wants to be loved.

This isn’t a movie, and you aren’t sure what would make you feel okay, so you just want something, anything… You just need something to get you through this moment. But it’s precisely in those moments, when doubt has invaded your everything, that you’ll have to answer the one question you’ve been trying your best to avoid…

“Are you still falling, or are you drowning, in your idea of love..?”

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

“What is love when we use it so much, say it so often, that it becomes nothing more than static waves, background noise to the nights spent yelling and screaming and drowning in this thing called love…”

Caught up, staring at the ones holding the upper hand, we find ourselves sliding off into another land, the never-mind jesters and forget-me-not winks of a foreign thought, a slight muse, a stupid, undeniably stupid dream.

~I wanted to hear something; not just words, but meaning and emotion. I wanted to be chased, but not if it meant forcing you to chase me~

I can see it clearly now; we are all simple minded creatures of habit in the end. What we have learned in the past defines who we are today. If we don’t like that, boo fucking who. Nothing can be changed, nor can anything be gained, by wishing for change. It’s a waste of time, casting out nighttime glances at the stars, as if those dead lights from a billion miles away can do anything to save a poor and pathetic life such as this.

~When we are drowning we try our best to stay afloat, but without something to hold on to, we eventually succumb to the waves. All of that effort of learning how to swim amounts to nothing but an exercise in futility. We wasted our time trying to find a way to survive the coming tide, when the real answer was much, much simpler; if you don’t want to drown, stay the fuck away from the water~

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

I’m lost in this shallow water, and I’m wondering if I should just lay down and let myself drown.

I am captive to this lonely heart,

For it travels where my body can find no haven,

And so my soul becomes the ship

Lost among the rolling sea foam,

Breaking the shores only to circle back,

Back to where it all began..

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

On good days I tell myself it’s a way to wash it all away and get a clean slate, and on bad days I try not to speak at all, to avoid drowning in my rush for some peace.

I’m beginning to see how it is

That the sea, so full to its brim,

So overflowing with creatures,

The very blossom of life, can feel

Blank, like the pallet of stars

Our God saw fit to place

Where we can never hope to reach.


Inside we hold a universe untold,

The light, hidden as unlit torches,

The bearers our hearts, our brothers

And sisters the sparks to catch

Our very souls on fire.


How does an Ocean wash itself clean?

The water flows with the Moon,

That mirror blush from a luminous star,

And clashes against hard creation.

Together, thus does earth turn to lemon sand

And the ocean spray become cerulean tears.

Now, how does the soul burn away sin?

Set out a heart, so that it may too

Someday become as forgiving

As the delicate cinders that become

The ashes, taken by a wind

To become the soot for another;

In that we see how our brothers

And sisters are the very soil

In which our own timbers take root.


Still, the Sea is not always against the shore,

As the heart is not always open

To the gentle embers of others.

In that sense, one can see how

Being in an endless ocean can seem


The depths await for cleansing,

A steady touch from mother Gaia

To let them know it’s okay to cry.

My soul stands and waits

On an edge, the last glass step

Towards the fiery stars that remain

Just beyond my reach.

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

I’ve grown accustomed to my own lack of patience, pushing aside the reality of my short temper by hiding behind a mountain of excuses, like my insufficient sleep schedule or my diet of razor blades and a nightly bottle of pills. But let’s break that down to it’s pieces, shall we?

My sleep isn’t so much a lack thereof, but a world of nightmares that makes nothing feel like real rest. Every wall is a mirror, and my whole body is covered in bright red scars, and everyone I’ve ever known is watching me and walking by and offering help, offering hands and tissue paper and tears and so much pity that I can’t help but feel like the smallest person to ever exist, and I know it’s a dream because I’ve been so good about never talking about my scars, just cat scratches and kitchen accidents, but even knowing I’m asleep doesn’t help, and I’m stuck sitting in real time, trapped in my mind, forced to live out my nightmare of having the world see me as cut and broken as I feel, made all the more real by the knowledge that if anybody did happen to see me with my shirt off, that this dream wouldn’t be a nightmare at all, would it? If anybody did see me, talk to me, have to interact with me, they would see, and find out, and ask so many questions I am ill-equipped to answer, so I would cower into a corner and cry and be inconsolable and God, I don’t want to put anybody through that, having to watch me break like that, never again…

So my sleep acts as a reminder that it would be better, so much better, if I just kept my mouth shut and stopped pretending I’m ever going to be okay, because scars don’t lie, especially as new ones keep popping up, so having to feel nothing but terror and shame, those are feelings I have earned. I used to avoid sleep to avoid the dreams. Now I give up and let the dreams take me, and wake up in a cold sweat, dry throat with blood-shot eyes, and I let my terror slowly fade as I realize it was all a dream, and I cry, like a pathetic fool, until I am all dried up, not a tear left in me, not an ounce of strength, and I let my head hit my pillow again, let my body fall against the warm sheets, feel the sticky spots against my bare arms and don’t even flinch because of course I know why my sheets are sticky and why I only buy red colored bed sheets and why falling asleep won’t be restful and why I still have to, because at least in that hell I can tell myself I’m not actually hurting anybody, right? At least I can’t hurt anybody in my dreams…and that always, it always leads back into the same realization…that I could disappear and never hurt anybody ever again, not myself or my family or friends, I could get to that point, be my own hero, save myself from it all, right? It’s not me being selfish, it’s me saving myself, right?… 

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

I’ve spent the past 4 years surrounded by nothing but noise, yet it’s still her silence that speaks to me the loudest.

She kisses with that glowing touch;

A muted, thin breach of confidence.

A kiss laced with smiles,

Wrinkled noses, a million words

Expressed in two lips

Meeting over an exchange of hearts.

The sort of kiss that fills you up,

Rushes blood throughout your body;

A kiss to replace the rhythm in your chest

That forever now skips a beat

With every glance she gives,

With every look you steal.

Now do you understand?

Love come to pass starts with a stolen heart,

And when the sun you share

Finally begins to dim

You are left as the moon; 

Stealing light as you try to become

A beacon in the sky once more.

Her kisses gently revealed

How much a fool has to lose.

Searching for answers now

Is stumbling through the dark,

Reaching out for hands to guide.

The problem with that is

Only those looking through the dark

Can now see as you try to shine,

Truly the blind leading the blind…

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

If ever I find myself falling in love again, I hope it comes as one big wave; I’m tired of drowning slowly in sweet nothings.

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.