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.
Dead-end friends getting back again...
everyone wants revenge
over something they forgot to comprehend.
Exponential failures in maturity.
A duality of compulsive fluidity.
And no one knows that everyone knows
this is a battle you can't afford to win.
There's nowhere to establish a place to begin.
This is how clouds form and stay
neutral in complacent distressed greys.
We're all the same while the world is mired in change.
Collect enough to remain;
enough to play. Loose and ready to lose.
Water for the drowning men
too smart to take a stand
and too loud to complain.
The only way you get your way
is when it's given to you
but you never know what to do
or if what you're trying to prove
means anything of significance to anyone else but you.
There are words you can't bear to swear
before you slit your wrists goodnight
again, even if we know what you mean.
Before I could imagine transcending love
I just wanted to move beyond the verge of it;
the cusp is the drug and a must
in a cup too shy to be a jug
waiting on a juggernaut of
what it must be like to no longer
not be enough...to have you
when you didn't know you or
the chances you could take to break
the unfinished mold before it finally took hold.
It's all I wanted you to see.
It's all I wanted you to be.
The truth that heroes are infallible is a lie.
Every time you mention,
whether directly or as an aside,
that you made mistakes
or how you wish you'd
done things differently when we were
growing up, it hurts.
An altered past lends no guarantees.
I can't agree or disagree;
here we are and that doesn't change.
You did what you thought was best,
both at the time and for the future.
Being present more often than not
was better than wondering, and
don't mistake that now for "what ifs".
Regardless of the effort you made,
at some point it was up to us
to make something of the information
and set out on the course of our lives.
The foundation was always stronger
than you give yourself credit for,
and all I can do now is hope
someday you understand.
a drum that whispers
riddling death sentences
backwards pointing fingers
march prudishly fluid
pretending like it's nothin'
still raise your voice to it
master of survival cunning
noise calls to rise and fall
crusted mistrusted bloated trap set
eyes of blistered 8-balls
change your habits
big bucket of double oh-no
emptied over your broken skin
burnt premise shame so
indignant do it again
shut down but can't be stopped
government secrecy forgot
time hops drug shops crooked cops
the land's name the photographer cropped
what happened you don't claim to know
slim chance fat circumstance
eyes like bullet holes
act your age not your relevance
take count of what's left
mental calendar rubber-stamped
courting slow death
at a right-to-life camp
train the robots to clean up
mice can freshen the environment
you signed your god's pre-nup
it's coming to collect past rent
unfolding stomach sweating churns
life showing reruns beyond overtures
eyes made of cigarette burns
watching the world spurned
Everyone notices your wondrous mistakes,
and their vocabulary is only frightening and ugly.
Spreading like seas 'til they cement.
Tiny blisters become a country bearing your name
and the world is waging its war;
the truest action it's familiar with.
You can't make it go away. It's you.
We don't talk enough
about how important
the 14th fuck is.
to get stuck on
13 for too long, and
we all know
each given fuck
isn't created equal.
There really isn't
a roadmap for it,
but is that necessary?
You're only using
like a Patron Saint
whose wings you ride
to rid the burdens
from your damned soul.
Not being complicated
has its complications,
like life isn't always
if x then y.
I'm the shallow, dark grey
interior of in-betweens
where I am and I am not,
much the same
as what's good for you
is a menacing rock in
someone else's shoe
and it's easier to not do
something out of fear of
what it may or may not do.
There is no algorithm
that sets the world right
or can program me
to like or be liked,
so why get out of bed
or stay the same or change?
If you take life as it is,
isn't that what you get?
Pocket Annie has depression
but not the sad kind.
She doesn't know what it is,
just that it is.
Maybe it's her eyes not recognizing shine,
or comfort in the form of distress,
or we haven't figured out the words
to "I love you!" yet.
Every Saturday is snow
for someone dying we'll never know,
but if she is you and
you are me, then
you can see you're living among
the parts apart in community.
Say it out loud:
she is you and
you are me.
Now figure out what it means.
Everything starts at 1
holding a place
or taking up space.
Wanted, to be unwanted.
Included to be excluded.
And everyone wants
a chance...to know
they have a chance,
because the goal is improvement,
To end up with more
than they had before?
so I've heard.
It's the refrain
in all the songs;
the keys in all the codes.
When do I get a turn?
I just want to be a number
greater than 1,
but what lottery did I win?
What lottery am I in?
And why doesn't it feel lucky?
A faction of sense
that doesn't make sense
serves no instinctive purpose
other than to confuse
merit has worth only when assigned a value...
unlike when someone gives you something based on merit
but in a way that works like credit that you know
you're gonna have to pay back plus interest (and
doesn't that defeat the purpose of getting ahead, ya know).
I have questions.
Ok, I'll go first...
how do I know
this is where I'm supposed to be, and
this is what I signed up for?
Who keeps pulling up my roots?
Unaware of what impending danger
feels like doesn't give you
the right to improve that tense state,
yet you still wonder why
I keep braiding sarcastic profanity
with distrust of everything
(and everyone). It's as if
twisting in the wind isn't enough;
you've got to blow and blow
until all that's left of your lungs
is the hollow sound they make
when you beat your chest in my defeat.
You don't even know what you're
good at, just that you are,
and I'm only getting better
at wishing you could stay around
long enough to stop hiding.
Who keeps pulling up my roots?
And why aren't answers
all I need?