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

“It feels like I’m thinning out my soul, turning once sturdy cider bark into bargain bin brown paper bags.”

You love me.

But your love,

It’s the same love

As the January Sun;

An abbreviated afternoon

Punctured with pockets

Of cumulonimbus skies.

Your kisses breed frostbite,

Coating every syllable

In a gelid timber.


But I found something,

Even if you are

Just passing through.

And it was enough

For me to latch onto,

Even if all I have ever held

Was merely a reflection;

I’ll reject reality

To keep living

In your light.

I exist to you

Only as dense air;

Slowing your time,

But you can’t, won’t stop.

All that remains

Are your refracted rays,

And the scatterings of

A cranberry glass heart.

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

“You held my hand, and through all of my ups and downs, you never let me go.”

But it’s not enough to say you just held on, because it was more.

It was everything.

You never loosened your grip. Even though I stopped trying and resigned myself to this bottomless pit that was my life, you didn’t falter. I don’t know how many times I fell down, but each time felt like I was falling further than the last. At some point I stopped looking up, because there was no point; I was in a hole so deep that the Sun couldn’t find me.

But you pulled me out.

I tried to push you away. I tried to pull myself away. I jumped off of bridges and buildings, airplanes and orbiting satellite arrays. I emptied my lungs and sank to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. I stripped away all of my clothing to feel the ice of Mount Everest on my bare chest. Time and again I broke my body in a sad attempt at symmetry; matching every mental breakdown with equal physical pain. I didn’t care about consequences, I just wanted to suffer.

But it wasn’t enough.

Cuts healed. Broken bones could be mended. The physical pain never lasted… but my head… all of the thoughts in my head… they never stopped. I just want some fucking peace…


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

“Tomorrow is where I placed all of my hopes, but I should have saved something, anything, to get me through today…”

It’s never as bad as I think it is, until I take another look in the mirror. My stomach transforms into a pretzel as the realization “I can always get worse” really begins to sink in. The old scars are so faint now that if I avoid bright lights nobody could even see them. I still make an effort to wear long sleeves at family gatherings, but if I slip up it wouldn’t result in the immediate recognition of my bullshit habits. But those are only the old scars. Those date back 15 years. They have a long history, but I don’t remember any of it. See, I have the scars, even if they are barely visible, I still have them. Yet I don’t have any of the feelings that allowed me to kick and scratch my way into a lifetime of swimming with my shirt on. I can’t recall a single moment, just a general sense of wanting a way out. And I think that might be what I hate the most. Of all the memorabilia I have accumulated over the years, it’s my scars that remain. I won baseball tournaments, performed in spelling bees, got some of my first poems published when I was 10. I bowled a game over 200, managed to get an Eagle in the District Golf Tournament, and even found the courage to say “I love you” to my highschool girlfriend, and I meant it… I had all of that happen…or at least I think I did… After all this time I have nothing left from those memories but the memories themselves, and when they play in my head, I feel like I’m watching somebody else’s life. I can see it all, in fantastic detail, but I can’t relate to anything I’m seeing. I can’t connect that person I see to the person I am. The only thing I can connect from the past with today are the scars. I can draw a line from each one in order, using how faded they appear to judge how old they are. That map is extensive, traveling the distance from my left ankle up through my right shoulder, ending in a faint crescent on the front of my neck. And I am still adding more lines, treating my skin like a highway, finding the spots where the lines have worn thin and taking the time to add a fresh layer of paint. But this road can’t go on forever. At some point repainting the lines won’t be enough, and the road will be slated for construction. Everything will have to be stripped away, so fresh pavement can be laid, to provide a better path for the future. And I’m certain it’s my time. My road is at its end, and I need to stop redrawing lines and just rip the whole fucking thing to shreds.  

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., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“My breath is being forced down my esophagus and into my stomach, where it’s keeping my bubbling guts company as I choke on another dozen pills.”

I had the rights words.

Sweetling, they were here,

Careful carved into

The chalky remains

Of my soiled soul.

The perfect combination,

Equal parts desire and guilt,

Cloaked in the allure

Of a better tomorrow.

If you had waited,

Just through today,

I swear I had it all.

 

If you ever find yourself

In my tomorrow,

I know my words

Will still be there.

So please, listen,

Because I know,

Once you hear them,

You’ll know it too;

That these words for you

Would have been

The right words

To make you stay.

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 Music Mondays, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I.

MUSIC MONDAYS – Julien Baker

Music is a big, big, BIG part of my life. My first blog post was about Ed Sheeran (and if you haven’t read/listened to the song in that post, check it out, it was something I enjoyed writing). Now, being a big fan of music but also being a quiet, reserved, afraid to order pizza over the phone, shops at midnight to avoid lines, and can’t handle crowds or the public in general, I don’t often come off as such. I don’t go to concerts or talk to my co-workers about such things, but it’s those things that get me through the day, every day. So, I’ve decided to start a “new” blog dedicated to highlighting songs or artists that mean something special to me.

To kick things off I thought I’d share a new-ish artist, Julien Baker. I first discovered Julien Baker by listening to the NPR Tiny Desk Concert Series (please check it out, it’s really a fantastic series. It’s setting makes each show feel personal, even though I’m not there in person to see it). Julien Baker has a powerful voice and a subtle touch on the guitar that makes it seem like it’s trying to surround your ears in feathers; it blocks out all other noise yet never comes off as being loud. Some of her ballads include piano pieces, which she also shows a very keen understanding of how to incorporate the sounds of low bass notes with simple melodies, so you feel the keys more than hear them.

But, the crux of Julien Bakers talent lays within her ability to write some of the most crushing, poetic, beautiful lyrics I have ever experienced. Her song’s flow, sprinting when called for but unafraid to completely stop, leaving your heart a few seconds reprieve and your brain the time it takes to understand everything she’s talking about. Because her music IS heart. It’s not just her heart, it’s every human heart. It connects the dots in your head, forming a clear picture of somebody we have all been; an insecure, well-intentioned, far to self-critical, messy, lovable human.

Julien Baker has become my favorite artist of the past few years and her most recent album, Turn out the Lights, gave me all of the feelings of her first album and then some. I highly recommend checking out her live videos on YouTube, such as her Tiny Desk concert I mentioned above, or her performance for Audiotree and Pasta Studios.

I’ll most likely be writing a deep-dive piece, similar to my Ed Sheeran Sunburn post, at some point in the near future, but in the mean time please enjoy the splendor that is Julien Baker.