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 spent the summer wishing for a storm to wash away our spring, but never stopped to think about what comes after the rain.”

I spent my summer melting,

My autumn fearing another fall.

 

The new year was a blanket

Of snow and cumbersome guilt.

 

A spring sun demanded I begin,

But all of my roots were dead,

My branches devoid of green.

 

So I wasted the Suns generosity;

I still received it’s light,

But without the strength to blossom

It just created a gilded shell.

 

And that’s it all there is;

I’m just painted gold,

Paper money in the wind;

I hold no value except for

The values others place on me.

 

So I am buried,

Hiding from any hint of rain

Lest my colors start to bleed.

 

I’m afraid of the smallest storms,

And nothing, not even time,

Can stop me from withering away.

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 saw you again last night, in my dreams. I knew it was a dream, but still…for the first time in weeks I felt warm…”

This body is rejecting me, slowly and slowly.

My bones of collagen and calcium phosphate

Feel the constant friction of running away.

My once solid steps now falter,

As if I am walking on sand.

The only way I can move

Is to burn it all into sharp glass.

And so I am a fragile mess,

A transparent coward,

Unwilling to take a single step

Because the next mistake I make

Is sure to shatter whatever’s left

Of the person I wanted to be..

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

He took the time between typing shaky lines to peak outside that office window, and wouldn’t you know, it was just wind and snow, but that white somehow felt like a clean slate.

Some people bruise really easily. My Mom is like that; she once just slipped walking up the stairs and her entire forearm was a mess of purple and red. I remember because I was about 9, and seeing that freaked me out. I was crying and screaming and running the the phone, ready to dial 911. But my Mom caught me, and when I looked at her face I saw that she wasn’t really hurt at all.

“It looks worse than it is, trust me. I’m not hurt, I’m just fine, you don’t have to cry. Come on now, Calvin, you weren’t even the one to fall, so stop crying already.”

I had a habit of crying whenever anybody would get hurt, and probably more so when that anybody was me. I hated seeing other people in pain, and I couldn’t handle pain at all. I was a terrible batter because I was scared of getting hit by the pitch. I always backed away as the ball was thrown, and pitchers just gave me outside pitches I couldn’t reach. I refused to watch boxing matches, thinking they were cruel and inhumane and that the people making money off of such events were just monsters. I didn’t find things like guns and swords cool like other boys my age, and I didn’t like roughhousing with other boys my age.  

This didn’t make me a social outcast though, not at all. I was funny and smart, so people always wanted me around. I made studying easy, and never had to wait around for a partner for any projects. It was like that from elementary school through college; I was always the same, reliable guy.

And I got over my aversion to pain. I found that boxing was more an art than a brawl, and saw guns and swords as some of the coolest things in the world thanks to videogames. I overcame my fear of being hit and became a decent baseball player, and I even found out I can rough it out with the best of them, although I was better at taking the hits and not so good at dishing them out.

I also found out I wasn’t like my Mom, I didn’t bruise easily at all. I took plenty of nasty falls during baseball seasons, but it never really showed. I picked up Soccer and backyard football and doing stupid, dangerous stunts on dares. I broke a wrist, ran into a fence and broke my nose, fell out of a slow moving car and lost most of the skin below my right kneecap. But it always seemed like I avoided the worst outcomes, and those things never left me with bruises to stare at in the mirror.

I’m a college grad, living the office life, using my Excel skills to produce some really insightful pivot tables. I play tennis now instead of baseball, but I’m still the funny, smart guy at work. I play video games still, and I watch boxing, and while my Mom hasn’t fallen down any sets of stairs recently, the new dog she convinced my Dad to get is bigger than she is, and while she was out walking him he pulled her down chasing a cat, and she sprained her ankle. Of course she refused to believe it was sprained and avoided the doctors for 3 days, until her ankle was so swollen she couldn’t get her socks on. So not much has changed, even after 18 years.

And wouldn’t you know it, I still don’t bruise easily! Nope, it’s not easy at all! I mean, I can take a hammer to my forearms, day in and day out, and barely be able to move my wrists, but no bruises! I can punch my stomach until I force myself to vomit, but no marks are there to worry about! And while the cuts obviously can’t not leave a mark, they are all located on parts of my body nobody has to see. My upper arms, chest, thighs…well, the point is they don’t have bruises! They take the punches and hammer blows, the backhands and mini-baseball bat like they are nothing, so that’s still the same.

And I still hate watching other people in pain, and I’ll cry about it and wish the world could exist in a state where nobody had to ever feel pain.

And I still can’t handle pain. So I cut and punch and beat and break every inch of my body, day in and day out. Because it doesn’t hurt. And it helps me to forgive myself, just a little bit, and makes this pain so much easier to live with. So I have to keep going. If I let up I know the pain will become to much, and I’ll end up dead. So I have to keep it up.

Someday…this body will give out, and even though I don’t bruise, I know my body isn’t invincible, and it will break. The only question for me is will my body break first, or will this pain drive me to give up sooner? It’s hard to get out of bed every morning, but it used to be hard because of the pain, and now my body is about 10% of the reason why. I wonder how long it will take to get to 50%. Or 75%. Will this pain win out before I get to experience that? What state will my body be in when I finally die?

So, some people bruise easily, but that doesn’t mean they are weak. Some people don’t bruise at all, but they can be the weakest, most pathetic fucking things on this planet, huh?

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

You can tell all the lies you want, pretend it never happened and try to live a normal life, but in the end you lost something you can’t replace nor get back, so sometimes okay isn’t an option.

Every step seems like the last one my body will allow me to take, even though my door can’t be more than a few feet from the furthest point of this cramped apartment. From end to end it’s a simple box with walls to create more boxes, and all of them are small and have doors and windows and fancy, recessed lighting, so they are definitely not prison cells. I am not trapped, but I can’t seem to move. I glide between a fridge that’s empty to a bathroom that smells like bleach, meandering my way back to that galaxy of a mattress draped in clean smelling sheets and kept cool by a nearby box fan. I collapse into that sea of softness and can’t hold back a sigh. I rotate my neck over my pillow, stretch out my arms and legs and hear my back give a loud ‘crack’, reminding me just how much my body hates me. With exhaustion this deep sleep should be an easy task. But the hours slip by, and I’ve visited the fridge 4 times, and my bathroom remains spotless, and my laundry is all washed and dried and hanging in neat rows, and my bag has been packed and repacked between my backpack, shoulder bag and sling bag because I’m awful at making decisions, which should be obvious by my aversion to my shirtless reflection; the marks a very clear sign of bad decisions made in poor lighting…

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

Fractals of light hook the eventide sky, their luster reflected across my line of sight by virtue of the dispersion of hydrogen, the scientific affair of your balmy days breaking through my numbing nights.

Walking, walking, walking…wall.
Not a literal wall, just a person.
Not just a person, a girl.
Black hair on a round head, going just past her shoulders and straight down her back.
A blue shirt with blue jeans. A soft blue for the shirt, like a sky right after it storms, the kind of blue you think of when you think of baby blue, when you think of the lightest blue you can get right before it fades into white.
Blue jeans just..blue jeans.
Why does the boy remember her appearance? The length of her hair? The color of her shirt? The soft blue that still comes to mind every time someone asks him his favorite color?
Who can say why people can recall certain scenes so well and others just fade in time. For this boy, this shirt, this girl, this wall, all stick in his memory, like a first crush, a first kiss, a first love, all rolled into one.
Did he know then she would make him forget all those firsts, replace all of them in his memory with thoughts of her lips, the scent of her neck, the weight of her body laying next to his?

~Of course~
That’s why it’s called love at first sight, idiots.

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

I only wanted to call to say that I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what I’m supposed to be sorry for, and so I found myself saying goodbye before we ever had the chance to talk.

Have you ever found yourself leaning back in a chair so far that you fear you might just fall backwards and hit your head? Why lean so far back? Why keep pushing and pushing until you reach that ultimate tipping point, where gravity takes hold of you and forces you to accept physics as a thing, to realize you can only go so far backwards before you reach the ground? Of course this is simply a metaphor, a cheap attempt to try and explain to myself why I think I am failing. I want to think I was placed upon some great throne, a chair made of pure gold with jewels and rubies and other super valuable stones set in the back and sides and arm rests. Isn’t that how all humans are though? Don’t we all want to think that our lives are something more than mere coincidence? We want to think we are the masters of our fates, that we surely must be placed on this Earth for something more than just…just this, right? I’m not sure I ever was just like other people. I never felt okay with just..existing. Yet, I also didn’t feel worth the effort, worth striving to become something more. I think I was born on a simple wooden chair, and like an idiot true to nature, I rocked that chair back and forth until I reached a tipping point. Now, I could have fallen forward, right? Fallen where I could see the ground, fallen where I could put my hands out in front of me and catch myself before I hit, fallen where I could have saved myself and gotten back up, looked at my little broken chair, and just moved on, find another one, and start all over. So why did I let my final motion be backwards? Why did I take that final push to force me into a fall I couldn’t see, couldn’t save myself from?

~Because, when you know something is going to hurt, it is a cowards instinct to look away~