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.
Every poem is a jingle for the writer
that asks "Why?" but
he doesn't write them
as much as they mysteriously
in a notebook or
a mental image gifted by
the unfortunate presence of a flashback
that wasn't asked for.
Most times, he'd tell you
to keep it.
Most times, he'd be happier
if you did.
The thoughts that can't be stopped
are the ones he can't keep to himself...
and in both instances
It's not the best nor worst thing
one can be remembered for, or by.
Consistent only because it is.
And yet it's almost all
He called it the high water mark of
a long career in performing, let's say,
questionable services for folks
ill-prepared to adequately patronize.
"The Best of the Best" his
business card touted,
but all I could imagine was
the events that must've led
up to the floods that
brought upon the stroking of an ego
in need of excessive elevations
and, perhaps, a lifeboat or a
"Why am I like this?"
I wanted to ask, knowing
there is no right or wrong
there is no fix.
And the truth just needs
to be massaged into me
much like I have to
figure out how
to manage myself back
to the world I
often don't wanna be in.
It's not your fault I'm here,
trying your best to help me
understand why I
don't know how to help
Of all the fantastic elements in play,
am I blocking the sun
or is it washing me out?
Let's not hide;
let's not be found.
Joy is not the absence of misery,
much like I am not without
anything or anyone that wishes
Having it all
should also mean
having nothing, but
both ways don't equal no ways
and I'm not seeing the unseen
for what it's supposed to mean.
Stay and hide the light.
Leave when I awaken
short of shedding my own.
You call this "home"
but to me it's all I know;
the unknown. The shade.
The leaves falling from clouds
in a sky hanging on the footsteps
I hesitate to hear
when I'm not here.
There's a plastic bag
tied around my head
full of things I didn't say
because I thought I'd regret them.
My excuses are always
worse than my actions;
that's the only lie worth hiding.
11:59am never lives up to
the hype 12:01pm deserves
but I guess it depends on,
like everything else,
the level of expectations
both desired and applied.
Don't forgive; celebrate!
Don't ask; anticipate.
Recoil once and deliver twice,
like the broken clock of my life,
and don't let anyone tell you
I am not a coincidence
but a consequence.
This is the noise that keeps me awake,
the tie-dyed sentiments flung
from dirt that can't be un-dug,
and this is me saying no
to a wish that "no" isn't an answer to.
The curl, pulled straight.
The antidote, failed.
Nothing good can come of this
and that's why I'm here.
This is the lookalike and this is the duplicate
and I am the difference
that goes unnoticed
until it's too late.
There's something, and nothing,
and something from nothing,
but I walk on the outline of the void-
I won't fall in from the push;
my recoil does all the work for me.
Let's not and say we did
before we have to pretend,
or at least until we get caught.
This is the noise that keeps me awake
and this is the escape I can't seem to make
when I least expect it
but that's what I'm doing now
and no one's gonna tell me otherwise
even if they wanted to.
Like a joke not worth explaining
to people who don't understand laughter,
I can't help myself from myself.
Rain means nothing to the clouds.
As such, you want
everything to be something, except
what matters most to me.
And I can dream,
but I won't pretend.
If you're gonna let it fall,
I'll be where it lands;
I'm not one for completing but I know about endings
and if this is just my fears talking
about your fears failing, please,
put that on me and not you.
You can house it all you choose
for as long as you can, but
we know it has to eventually go somewhere
so it may as well be
seen and admired as beauty from distance
and too complex for words close up.
When I'm unsure, I'm the mountain:
good for what I want
out of whatever's left that you don't.
And when that's not enough,
I'm too stuck to give up or move on.
You're an unnecessary victim
of a long-game hoax and
time won't forget.
I don't want you to lose
and you don't deserve to,
but I can't seem to see
forward through mental imagery
and virtual memories
forged with patience on loan
in the stores of second winds
and exaggerated gasps
of newly-found luck some
in desolate parking lots
dotting my soul. It's
important to know, no
matter how we see this,
that we're not alone...
but I'm fitting long-winded
stories into a poem's frame
and you're a textbook
longing for the decor of a novel
neither of us can produce.
Blame isn't relevant,
but it's on me, disguising
my failures with disbelief
of hidden contempt.
You've deserved better
and my inability to forget.
Stuttering isn't the art of
not having the right answers.
That should be on a billboard or a
bumper sticker, or even
my tombstone...but those are just
more choices I won't get to make
or have a say in.
When life becomes the tables and shelves
remaining in constant states of clutter,
there's no way of backing out
without burning everything down
and I always come to the match party
armed with a flamethrower in my teeth
to stay celibate in celebration
of never knowing what to say until it's
a good five hours too late
and why take chances? Because
taking chances is what gets you
invited to the nonsensicals
anyway and always.
If you pull my cord and punch me
in the anticipation of it catching,
then when will you learn to stop
waiting on replies?
I've memorized the arcs of your face.
Time hasn't touched them;
the glow unweathered. Remaining.
Regardless of my knowing it or not,
that may be all I'll ever choose to see.
There's a meaning to you, and
most times it's better that we
don't know what it is we don't know
but you're more surreal
than every other life is real.
Where people have bothered
to embed themselves in my consciousness,
you hover like an aura and
almost cleanly bisect my timeline.
Today may be a pocket of extra
nothingness inside a whole emptiness
of without, but there are too many
alternate universe realities
suggesting a more complete picture
that we hardly spent a day apart.
It's too easy to let ponderings
wander into avoidable obsessions,
as readily available as they come.
I won't let myself go there.
Not to your shoulders
bearing a similar struggle's weight.
Not to the hips blessed
with a motherly tension slowly burning
into meandering lust and possibility.
We don't draw lines, at least not like
the ones on calendars, and
the days aren't x'ed out
in the name of habitual cancellations
or ritualistic conclusions. We don't.
But time could draw once again
a gaping connection
between now and the next passing.
Unnecessarily? Perhaps, or
equally as vital. Unfortunately,
too much and too late
often lead to the same place.
I'm not interested in studying memories,
and let's not wonder for faith.
The images, the ideas kept, are
pleasantly distracting enough
and are only for me to keep at bay.
We can work on ourselves
and ask and offer and help
some people don't need an apology
when marking time gained or lost,
or gained from loss.