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'm tired of the system being gamed for you
and yes, this is a threat.
Your long-term religion of having advantages
handed to you is bound to come to
a no good, very bad end
and that's not the worst of it.
Your coping skills (or lack thereof)
will figure you out once you hit the ground,
forgetting how to run
(the only thing you do best).
Your practiced falling
is falling apart.
What do you tell the truth,
with your raised chin and
steel eyes omniscient,
when you know better than
the hope it'll do you any good?
I can't look at your face.
I'm not part of your plan.
And I don't care for overindulgence.
I just want to know
I can't speak to you
the same way
I talk to myself
Your mystery is flailing
as your soul becomes
by the daylight spent on
crafting misery myths.
Come out of your shell!
Come out of your shell!
Let us see who you are
for the hero you're not.
I can feel my comfort fading
with every hiss of the radiator.
My body's warm with thoughts that swarm
of everyday living becoming impending doom.
To shut my eyes is not enough;
my breath becomes a fulcrum
and I'm on both sides.
Twelve pints of immobile blood against
six hours before getting up,
multiplied by ninety-six ounces of
You tell me I need to rest;
get some sleep...but I can't.
And I wanna walk this off...but I can't.
It's a military blanket party
and I'm the winner.
It's not me against the pillow, no,
it's me against me and
if I can't sleep, then why should you?
Why would you let me go through this
This is the break between storms.
This is 4am,
double-dosing sleep and pain meds.
This is wondering what's for dinner
when I'm not hungry.
This is the looming dread;
after-effects and consequences.
This is wanting to be home
when I'm home
and this is the unsettling after I've settled.
This is falling apart in seconds.
This is putting me back together
in days and weeks of long, scrambled minutes.
This is the patient cry.
This is the solitary wait.
This is no returns.
This is no re-entry.
This is not confusion...
this is what you can't see
of me, when I'm alone.
This is the calming of the storm,
it won't be the last.
Underneath your broken mirror of stars
where you think America needs you
more than me,
you take privilege in
salting my deficiencies to
boost your life into
what you believe more.
Facts are irrelevant when they're unseen.
It leaves me shrunk into nothing
but a bladder of light
in my head so full of contempt
it could repave your world if
I ever thought
it was worth it.
I hope your reflected shards
of the universe's undercurrents
answer your dreams in infinite
and undecidable ways,
much like my body tries
to tell me
Truth is irrelevant when it's unseen.
I'm your diplomat;
the devil's advocate when there are only
angels on your shoulders.
When I start moving from within
you don't know where to begin
and I'm helpless from
Rights and wrongs become undecided;
I'm hiding illuminated in the trying
shadows of light you can't describe.
You're my suicide
when I can't find my pride.
Help me count my time down.
Help me round my number up
from a smile to a frown
and let me run your thousand yards
to find one single word
that blows your paragraphs apart.
I'm the vacancy you can't fill
and the disease without a pill.
I'm your arrogance in clouds
you won't come around, until you do...
and then I'm just as dead as you.
What good is the love of travel
if you don't want to go home?
I'm neither lonely nor alone,
but I'm sequestered and self-imposed.
No threat. No regrets.
Spent and spent but spent.
And I can't dig out.
I can dig but I can't dig out.
When the burial leans toward criminal
you don't know if it's meaningful
or subliminal. The damage feels collateral
for being cultured and more than
minimal. Straight full of it all,
the travel and the rise-slash-fall
when I get home. When I get home.
When I get home. When I get home.
And I've been home.
But it doesn't feel like home.
Like an infomercial left alone
I'm a product without control.
Waiting on the easy fix.
Waiting on the "What is this?"
Overdosed on forgiveness,
recognition, and adornments.
What is meant is never enough.
I grew up by falling too much
and it's still not enough.
I need more to need more of us.
I need more to never need enough.
My playlist is shameless;
try to figure out what my name is.
These people never used to mean a thing,
as the caged birds who forgot how to sing.
I'm an anthem.
I'm a president.
I'm the blunt object
that was failed to be represented.
You're a ghost and a keeper.
You're the daytime to my uneasy sleeper.
Let's make a pact; let's build a church.
Let's tear it apart and blame the search.
I can try while you lie,
ignoring us both dying inside.
Democracy is eating itself
and you disguised it under lack of ourselves.
When I get mad at your handle,
maybe I'm just mad at the way I'm handlin'
your business for you
and for me because of you.
She asked me to kill somebody for her,
knowing I've failed to do it to myself.
I chuckled and grinned, sighing within,
and changed the subject to something
we could briefly both respect.
And the night wore on like our clothes,
stretching and hugging and curving close
to places we'd never been before.
If life is unsure then it's never sure;
with a kiss on her forehead as she sleepily squirmed
she died in my arms, unharmed.