Poems exploring whether or not we create our world, through reflections past and current .
Periods of personal upheaval, no matter the degrees of their importance, often make me wonder: Are we creating the world we live in, or to what extent is it predetermined based on the birth lottery we won/lost? How much of what we do is merely adapting, as opposed to building something new? I wanna use these ideas as the loose basis for this collection.
I expect a lot of these pieces to be personal yet vague; real yet surreal. Dark at times, but hopeful. Odd and poignant. Disturbingly therapeutic. While I have no shortage of life experiences to mine content from, confronting them and filtering the thoughts and emotions will at times be difficult- not just for me, but occasionally for the reader as well. The goal for this project is to dig a little deeper into myself, using the momentum from my recent collections to cut new grooves into the framework, I suppose...and if it's readable, that's a bonus.
Edit 11/2020: Are we living in a world created for us. or are we creating it as we go along? Is there an answer? I don't know if I know, or if I'm the one to consult on that.
Comments, compliments, and feedback of all kinds- good or bad- are most certainly welcome. It's not just my journey; we're in this together.
"I don't know how this is gonna turn out"
says the day's refrain.
One foot on the floor,
followed by each other
is the only way to start
whether you follow a script
or make it up as you go along.
The only people I trust are dead.
My hope is in their memories
it feels like I'm pushing an empty wheelchair
like a wheelbarrow full of the ends
When I'm game to play along
I'm a bargain demanding interest;
the cost of carrying on in the
cloth sacks of clothes surrounding
my body, my person, my soul.
There's no such thing as wasting time
when you're living in the present
and facts can't stop you
from being alone, or
being a nobody here.
That much, and only as such,
I can guarantee.
The more you let go,
the more you can keep.
All said and done, nobody's innocent.
Every life builds and reconstructs;
to survive is almost dumb luck.
Ebbs and flows.
Good times; bad times.
You can wallow in your shit,
or use it to build a better toilet
(as long as you don't shit yourself
along the way).
On that, so let us pray.
If you don't know what it means
to lose all of your everythings, please
shut your mouth and
stay at home and
ply your hate at another trade.
All said and done, everyone's guilty.
You done fucked up son...
add this to your list of
things to overcome.
Smoke and mirrors.
False truths; honest deceptions.
Is getting away with it
really worth getting away with it?
When is the comeback worth the loss?
Who are you to gawk while looking lost?
I see you so let us prey.
I've never had a drowning dream.
The swim is
an enormous blue road to take.
It never felt like me
when I never felt so free.
It has a heartbeat of its own.
There is a fullness in the undertow.
I've never woken up from a drowning dream.
The mist is a play;
three acts to pay
attention to before going
One part patently absurd.
while anarchy symbolizes
The mist is a play
that tries to smooth me away.
I've never overcome a dream.
The sweat and drool
of a long night's hard work
isn't worth the evidence.
Not the complacency. Not the relevance.
Tortured in my sleep
is the water that seems to keep
Where I subside.
And that airy water won't leave me alone.
And that airy water won't leave me alone.
I'm full of dreams
that keep sinking me.
The writing was all Caps Lock
with no spaces and
someone stole the punctuation keys
from the devices your mind was
It was the wind without trees to stop it;
gusts missing all the houses to tear down.
And your words never ceased
until your fingers bled like
a stoplight in the middle of
There was no clear intent of letting go
as the wind left your lungs for
the final time
and saying nothing was
your best way of saying goodbye.
You ask me to be descriptive
and cite examples like
you don't have a window to look through
or a leg to stand on.
You're driving faster just
before the disaster and I'm
eager to watch it unfold
before my mouth can form the words
"I told you so!"
You want me to be a description
and set an example like
you're too good to manage on your own
with vices waiting to explode.
You're just a clipper, clipped,
and ready to drive off the road
while we keep staring transfixed
at an outcome that is greater
than the cost of admission
to the show.
I'm decidedly okay being non-descript
like the examples my life should've been
before I knew you were watching
and waiting for me to decide
if I was gonna live or die.
With no thanks to you, I'll
safely get in the machine
In the vacuum of the vampire's daylight,
we don't suffer the same change or remission.
It's just the carrying on of carrying on
whether weather betrays us or scars
enable us to evade what we're really made of.
We're not long for here. But we belong here.
When the roses no longer open in a time-lapse
flurry suggesting that's how the universe works,
we understand our plans aren't the same as
the demands of the systems we've arranged
for ourselves. Evolution never had that in mind.
We're not long for here, as long as we're belonging
I don't need to build walls anymore.
The best part is protected by
what is thought of as
the simplest to break, while
in reality it's stronger than you think.
I write in spasms about vulnerabilities.
I choke down aspirations and failures.
I assimilate the abstract into the obtuse.
I use and glue. I choose and exude.
There is nothing hidden but
the golden center; poisonous
and blessed. Worth the force
but not the regrets.
If it takes you all the whacks to crack the shell,
you're deserving of the taste in my inner hell.
For this I numb myself daily,
contemplating where to begin.
The abstract target undone by
stones in the shape of sleep.
For every wonder there's a
disease to overcome, and
for every frightened sinner
there's an alibi that makes things right.
I don't share; I spread.
I don't heal; I read.
And I am not your commotion
in my lack of sensibility.
Don't claim me for an answer.
Don't mistake me as your cure.
You're unable and I'm disabled;
the difference is in your terms.
Don't let me sit long,
uncontested and without collaboration
before I break into songs unsung
and words unspoken;
left behind and choked off.
My head's always
two seconds behind the balls
beyond their destinations...
the thoughts scatter as
the target walks away unflattered and
My head is my language
and when I'm unsaid, I manage
because in the end, does it matter?
I can still stand without
and damage regardless of
my damage, I contend.
I shouldn't have been here
long enough to pretend,
but I did...
so what if it ends in the head
that it began? In.
If I'm not my only friend,
then who is?
I don't have secrets.
If I did, I'd tell them
'cuz I'm bad about keeping the loose secrets
I haven't fully locked away yet.
Besides, it's easier to keep them quiet
and let them eat up your insides
while wonderin' what good they'd be
to anyone else's wonderings.
Secrets sit under spells waiting
to be cast or eventually forgotten;
buried in a hole at the back of the
soul keeping silent or the one who
wants to know. And if the know is
longing enough, they'll figure it out
long enough after I've turned
a few pages on it.