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’ve stretched out my soul to widen my shadow, the only part of me that seems to understand how much of a fool God must be for creating this bullshit.

The Summer flickers into the year with lingering regrets;

A medley of melted marshmallows and perfume laced bug sprays.

It’s not a storm like the Spring, raging in, forcing growth and change, no.

Summer stumbles with no direction, as if lost in all this sunlight,

As if the added hours of daytime and sweltering drafts have incited a lethargy

That takes a provenance in refuse cartilage of swollen anatomies.

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 exist as nothing but sin, which is why karma is my best friend; I deserve these, all of these…I have earned every last cut…” (part 4 of 5)

I want karma to see

Every mistake I carved

In my attempt

To reap forgiveness.

Are these lines

Repentance for the past

Or a reflection of me

And the tomorrow

I’ll never escape?

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’ve made more friends with ideas set in ink than warm bodies, and that’s perfectly fine with me.

I just want to read books for a weekend, without worrying about work or the world. I want to take away my sense of responsibility, for myself and every other self within a 10,000 mile radius. I want to spend hours browsing at bookstores, moving my fingers along exposed spines. Between all the paper and ink, I am a Queen. I am the only voice of power, and only by my mercy will these voices be heard. The threat is, of course, hollow. My feet, face, hands, stomach, legs…so my entire body… it’s shaking and wiggling and it’s impossible to hide my desire to read every last pen stroke in this paradise. I just want that sort of weekend. Hell, I just want that sort of life. And maybe somebody who wants to make a book club, just for 2.

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’m only wearing these emotions. It’s all painted on passion, washed away during any rainy day.

It eats away at you from the outside in, or the inside out, or whatever fucking way makes sense to you. Honestly, it doesn’t mean a fucking thing, how this world breaks us. In the end, it doesn’t matter how a soul is ripped apart, because nobody has time to spare grief for another person’s pain when they have their own crumbling galaxy to pathetically hold on to.

I’m nothing but the ideas others project onto me, and so I’ve gotten into the habit of letting people down in the smallest of ways so they start to think of me as unreliable. At this point though is it really an act? That’s the question I have to answer now.

~Am I really just pretending to be this terrible, or was I always this way?~

Better yet, does it matter if I am doing this on purpose or not? I’m still fucking up..

So that’s it huh? I have been acting like a fuck up so people have reasons to hate me, but from the very start it didn’t matter what my motives were for acting the way I did…I was making the choice to let others down, so I was/am a piece of filth.

I want to go home.

But home is now the bottom of a bottle of pills that leave my stomach a mess and my mind a mashup of lost thoughts and incomplete dreams.

So what did home used to mean to me? How is it that I’m able to walk up a flight of stairs and put on a smile, tell a few jokes, laugh like I’m okay, then walk back down those stairs and know I’m seconds away from cutting my arm wide open?

I can spend a beautiful Friday afternoon playing catch with a funny friend, making jokes, dancing like an idiot, eating good food and having a good time, and the second I leave to head off on my own, I feel so fake I have to hit my head against my window, and I’m drained to the point where I sleep for 16 hours after taking another bottle of pills to silence my fucking demons..  

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

“I gave you a world of words, not leaving myself a single letter. So now I am speechless, and you’re just drowning in alphabet soup.”

I wanted to take my time with each word I wrote for you. I wanted to be as deliberate as possible, so everything had to have the perfect amount of weight. When you would read my letter you’d be able to hear my voice, like I was lying right there beside you, You’d have no doubt, even for a second, that you weren’t loved. I wanted to give my world of words to you every single day.

I wanted to give you so much…but I was pretty stupid, huh?

I was so lost in thoughts of you that I actually lost my way and stopped wondering if my words were what you truly wanted. Before I knew it I had given you everything, without ever asking if it was to much. I left myself empty, and expected you to fill me up, but that wasn’t your job. If I had taken even a second to think things through I would have seen, would have realized…

I wasn’t giving you love and care, I was giving you the world, and with the world comes gravity, and it just weighed you down, didn’t it? I gave you a world to balance on your shoulders and still wanted to give you more. And so I become a hollow wind, nothing you could touch, and I floated away into the far reaches of space, never looking back. I saved nothing, so I became nothing.

You learned it was okay to carry only what is yours, and used time as a shed to store away those pretty little words. But I’m not much of a planner, so I never thought about what would happen if you stopped trying to be my tether. The outcome is obvious in hindsight, and it was probably also obvious in the moment, but I didn’t care.

So here I am, and here I am not, and there I was, and there I wasn’t, and I held onto everything as tightly as possible, until I realized that it’s not human hands that hold and support and nurture, but human hearts.

My heart was never that strong to begin with, but it pumped away all the same. It craved love and affection, and wanted to give love and attention. I somehow forgot about that first part, and only focused on the giving. But if all a person does is give, eventually they will be void of everything.

I became void of everything. I expected you to give me your heart in exchange for mine. I was being so unfair…to you, and to myself…So here I am, with nothing but borrowed time and borrowed words and borrowed hearts…and I just want to know where my heart is now, because it’s cold…

It’s so goddamn cold…

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

It’s easy to see it in hindsight, but in the moment everything feels so rushed; it’s impossible to tell up from down, or wrong from right..or living from dying..

But I love him…That was always my excuse at the end of every day that summer. Those nights spent awake wishing to be anything but real, the face of a harsh reality was revealed, and every special moment broken.

You felt special because he was yours? People are not possessions. When you do that, you are giving the key to your happiness to somebody else. So what happens when they no longer see you as the sun or moon or stars, but as waste and dust and not even an afterthought?

You break.

And it’s not beautiful, nor poetic. It’s ugly crying alone at 4am, it’s unwashed clothes and sheets and fast food wrappers overflowing from the trash can. It’s cold feet, empty eyes, bubbling guts and bloody vomit. It’s crying to the point where nothing comes out; no tears or sounds, you just can’t exist..And it leaves you missing days from the calendar and regretting everything prior to the here and now, and the here and now is something you want to destroy, and you realize that you are the moment, that you are the here and now, and you need no more tomorrow’s, no more chances, that time is a stupid harlot, a cheating whore, and you want her out of your life..You don’t want life..

That’s the kind of breaking that happens.

It’s not beautiful.

It’s death.

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

Your back in Ohio, and I’m backed into another corner.

Will things really be okay, because it feels like we’re breaking

And just leaving things alone means physics will take hold;

An object in motion will stay in motion, so doing nothing is something;

It means accepting that falling apart is as normal for us as breathing.

 

But I’m not feeling comfortable in this Colorado air,

Open spaces just leave us with more places to scream without an audience

And all of this snow is wasted on unbalanced folk such as we;

I’m not a special snowflake and you can’t stand the shakes.

 

We could move back to Ohio, rediscover the cities we hate

Perhaps all of the street signs have been replaced

And everyone has up and moved, so nothing is the same

Well, if we came back, new names and neighbors wouldn’t mean a thing.

 

So where do we go from here, our starting line a broken heart?

I think conventional wisdom would be to break this off,

Empty our minds of the good times and focus solely on the terrible,

Rip that Band-Aid off and move right into the rebound.

 

Surely forgetting we were ever a thing would be sad,

But if we are sad now, does it matter if we cut a bit more?

It all ends, so end it as it began;

Burning ourselves dry, leaving nothing, leaving nothing.

 

And so you left me nothing, and I left myself nothing.

And so I am nothing, because you were my everything.

And so you are in Ohio, and I am nowhere at all.

And so you have forgotten, and I am forgetting how to breathe.