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

I think of you as still being here, with me. I feel your weight on my shoulder when I lay down alone, the scent of your neck filling my lungs, the cold of your feet chilling mine. I’m not lonely, I’m just alone at the moment, and this moment is bound to pass, eventually. 

I left you, ran away from you, rented a Dodge Charger, drove that bitch till the gas ran out, got on a sled with a full 10 Husky sledding team, road those bitches (a more appropriate use of the term here) until running into the Alaskan never-ending summer skyline, and STILL, when I caught my breath taking in that shimmering sunlight, I found myself holding out a hand and feeling empty when no fingers slid their way into mine. I say my hand felt empty because even though I did look away from that nightless view, my eyes felt cloudy, like the grass outside my parents house around 6:49am on a mild September morning; not so much wet, with drops falling off one after another, but moist, with the feeling that somehow a sudden drop in temperature has occurred, a chill down my spine, causing dispersion of the H2O molecules and suspending them in my field of vision. I was not crying for your hand, but without that weight my eyes did make the rest of the world seem a whole lot less clear.

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.

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

It’s not so simple, black and white and shades of gray. We exist as light, and can be bent to reflect the colors of the heavens themselves, at least in the right persons eyes.

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…~

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

On clear nights I stare at the sky and make a wish to those billion year old lights, and it’s the same wish every single time. 

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.

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

You know what they say, a little rain never hurt anybody, so I’ll be just fine. Trust me. 

Umbrellas are supposed to be used to keep a person dry in the rain. Okay, so to be very specific,  they are just tools to be used to keep things under them dry in the event of a downpour. In this scenario that would be you, which includes but is not limited to, your hair and ears and those owl earrings I bought for you at the bookstore, your flashy eyelashes and rosy cheekbones, the soft lines that serve as the outskirts of your wine lips I just love to see curve upward when we are talking, and of course that comfy ass, oversized hoodie you always wear when I ask you to come take a nap with me. We both know that hoodie belongs to me, but when you told me you liked it because it smelled like me and you wanted to keep it for the night so you could wear it to sleep, well holy hell, I never knew someone talking about how I smelled could make me feel so fucking loved. So now it’s “our” hoodie, just like The Muppets became “our” movie, Red Robin became “our” restaurant, Breaking Bad was “our” show, so somehow, even with all this sharing, all of these things that became “ours”, I didn’t see any problems with having my heart be all “yours”. Everything else was just stuff, right? I can get a different hoodie and burn the old one. I can start hating the muppets; maybe begin a complete aversion to all things puppet related, just to be safe. I can stop eating at Red Robin, or even just avoid all food places with names relating to red things, or bird things, or just stop eating altogether to save myself the hassle. I can stop watching AMC, or break my TV, or hell, just sell all my shit, move to a cabin in the woods and be a fucking hermit for the rest of my life. I can do any of that, or none of that, because those things were “ours”, so even if there stops being an “us”, those things will still be there, and they don’t lose any meaning, the memories remain, and that’s not a bad thing. But I made my heart yours…and I didn’t really give you a choice in that, huh? I was a dark soul, and you were my light, and I was so fucking happy to finally be…happy…I didn’t think I had a heart to give, and when you showed me I did have a heart, well I was so eager to give it to you, to force it onto you. We could share your heart, but not mine; I didn’t know how to share it, because I didn’t even know I had one…I didn’t know how to love myself, so instead I threw all of my love, every ideal of love I had compiled over my 22 years of existence, and I crammed it all together and I gave it all to you, without a receipt or anything, and what could a nice person like you do but accept it with that curvy smile and a warm hug in “our” hoodie and promise me you’d keep it safe forever and always? None of this is your fault. I’m the type of human who finally finds a heart, only to eagerly shove it into someone else’s hands and expect them to keep it safe and warm and loved for me. That’s not how hearts work. That would be the same as walking out into the rain and getting wet, then having a stranger hand you an umbrella and saying “Hey, this is your umbrella, it was just sitting there right next to you, so I grabbed it, but it’s yours. I have my own, so you just keep this one, it’s yours.” and then shoving that umbrella back into that person’s hands and replying “You’re so kind and you’re so wonderful, please, just keep both umbrellas, really, somebody like me doesn’t even know what an umbrella is for. I mean, if I had to make a guess I would say umbrellas are supposed to be used to keep a person dry in the rain. Okay, so to be very specific,  they are just tools to be used to keep things under them dry in the event of a downpour. In this scenario that would be you…

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

It’s November, and I’m cold, and Ohio feels extra lonely tonight.

She does a worn soul good, like campbells chicken soup

On a stormy, chilly day pent up all alone

In this place we call November, Ohio.

She brings back the heat to the center of your body

And you can feel it radiate to the tips of your frosty toes

Until time flies, until eyes close and open again

To a sunny morning and a smiling mirror.

She doesn’t give you rose tinted glasses;

She just paints you the colors you were always meant to wear

And suddenly you see potential and hope

And you find in your own reflection

That those wrinkles around your mouth,

Those crinkles by your eyes, those dimples

You always thought were far too deep,

They are all so very loveable, so very…you.

See? It’s simple, yet how easily do we all forget?

For me she isn’t the sun or the stars,

Nothing so far away, nothing so unreachable.

She is here, a moment, and for that moment

I am warm like fresh dryer sheets,

And she wraps me up and takes me from any place,

Always back to this same spot.

She makes time fly, until eyes close and open again

And November, Ohio is still outside

But her touch is right here,

And so even a stormy, chilly day

Feels warm in her glow, just like home.