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Tired eyes and apprehension.

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Getting away turned out to be the easy part—it only took 12 years.

Getting here would prove to be a chaotic mess—22 years hence.

Except I never got better, we never got help, and it slowly got worse.

I could draw the parallels between my father and I

but what would that matter—you only know us from one side.

And they say that children being a product of suicide tend to show a lack of interest, almost as if nothing really matters.

Well, to be candid, let’s just say I know a guy who can vouch for that.

I mean, how do you explain being on a train

wishing it would crash, just so life would slow the fuck down?

Just enough so that even the slightest change of scenery made any sort of sense.

Is this room ok? Isn’t this house nice?

How do you explain not wanting attention because it made you so damn nervous that even the easiest task seemed incomprehensible?

Do you want to go outside? Make some friends?

Who do you turn to when you can see through everything and everyone, knowing they’re in just as much shit as you?

So inward you go—wanting nothing but to be alone.

At some point you come to realize that it’s the only place you can control.

The only catch is, that train never crashes. And everything you thought at some point would be figured out, is just another heart racing conversation you swore you’d never have again.

The only parallel I can draw between the two, is chaos.

The other is our attempt at a logical excuse.

But there is no excuse.

Only tired eyes and apprehension.

The Old Wood Fence

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I remember sitting

by the old wood fence

the alley, silent as a whisper—

The birds then sang

like they do now.

And just like a boy

hits puberty, I still don’t know

what’s wrong with me?

I watch the light

claw its way down the alley

and where shadows hide

I look for clues.

In broken bottles.

In rusted metal.

In pavement laced with weeds.

By the old wood fence

with its perfect knots — I scream

to hear my answer.

Answers(but who’s to say)

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My heart’s in heavy motion—

like a pendulum I sway,

back and forth, regardless of

the shadows of the day.

Would it hurt you to feel better?

Is it sadness or just sad?

I play this broken record till

it doesn’t sound that bad.

When questions sound like answers

it’s there I feel at home, but

impressions get mistaken for

first readings of a poem.

It’s how I’ve formed the theory

that everyone’s alone,

perhaps then not a pendulum—

I’m an ever sinking stone.

Reaching For The Sky

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It’s something unforgiving,

reaching for the sky.

You know you’ll never reach it

but still each day you’ll try.

You bargain with the devil

in mornings softest light,

then hear the serpent hissing, from

the inside of your night.

It feels like not knowing

whether father will be mad,

it feels like how nothing

could stop your mothers tears.

And how when you were young

the only control you had

was the controller in your hand

as if games could numb the fear.

How no matter which star you chose

nothing ever changed,

star light, star bright meant everything

just wishing to be saved.

It’s something that we choose, you see

reaching for the sky

to a place that seems forgiving

on nights we’d rather die.

It’s a place where mothers weeping

could cure the land of pain,

it’s a place that’s unforgiving

which no one can explain.

I see, the dear departed

whose choice goes unannounced,

to try to understand it’s like

magnifying doubt.

It’s something worth forgiving, though

please don’t ask me why,

the ground’s not good enough for us

still reaching for the sky.

Perhaps an understanding then

for those which tempest-tossed—

and lay them down, each childhood friend

whose memory isn’t lost.

The Perks of You

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As daylight wanes, and night begins

there’s rapture in the air.

With static thought, and moonlit eyes

I see it all too clear.

What’s written in the stars, is written in the sand.

What’s written on the heart, is written now by hand.

My love for you is twilight.

My love for you is snow.

My love for you is many things, my love for you is old.

I’ve kept it in the shadows, of poetry and light.

I’ve kept it in the darkness, to brighten up my night.

Just know my heart is dancing, like fire unto stone.

Just know my heart is breaking, each night I am alone.

As daylight comes, I feel you near—

the darkness goes away.

The perks of you are endless still, your love’s a weathervane.

Four Walls And Myself.

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Head in palm I sit defeated.

It’s not out of necessity

but choice, I think how come?

In a world of opportunity, what’s left of me but this?

Tangled in my heartache, what’s left for me but this?

Fist to chin I sit and wait,

for thought to turn to word, to pen.

Has writing any of this down, ever made me any sense?

Has stewing in this endless grief, ever made me any cents?

It’s times like this I dare not move.

I dare not speak but listen,

to the winds which wrap my innocence

in a shroud of Turin—distant.

What’s left of me but gall?

The daylight helps me see,

somewhere within this shell of me

is darkness and that’s all.

I wish I had the answer, the one you claim to see.

I wish I had your courage, your courage to believe.

This wooden desk is cold.

My heart is growing old.

I’d rhyme a couple lines or two, if younger were my skin.

Settling I feel, my insides wearing thin.

What’s left of me but this?

What’s left for me is everything I fear to touch with reason.

What’s left of me’s so tangled in the ever changing seasons.

With arms crossed round my chest, I sit in awful doubt.

It’s here I know the meaning, of four walls and myself.

It’s here I risk repeating, a fate which is not mine.

It’s here I hope I’m worthy still, of love which I’ve denied.

(we owe ourselves) The Real Thing

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We don’t often get the real thing.

Or allow ourselves to be vulnerable while at peace.

Often we’re told to keep our chin up.

To stand up straight, and don’t ask questions.

Often we’re told lies.

Boy don’t speak out of turn.

Missy know your place.

It’s when we answer fearful calls.

It’s when we ask the harder questions.

It’s when we choose to be defiant,

to be honest with ourselves,

it’s when we find our truth sincere

that we start to become most vulnerable.

Then, and only then

will we allow ourselves that peace,

the piece that we’ve been missing,

that feels so familiar, so simple, so pure.

So much so that pure feels like a dirty word.

—

It’s this peace we can deny our whole lives over,

or accept that we’re a match

ready and willing to burn ourselves alive—

just to get the real thing.

Happy New Year

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So it’s your last day, aye!

Then you’re off the hook,

sayonara! ur revoir!

c’est la vie!

365 days of poetry

is no minor feat, especially

the third time around, Geez—

to say your daily musing will be missed

would be an understatement, I admit

I’m guilty of my daily dose, except—

Char, you’ve got moxie.

(“and that’s what I appreciates most about you”)

So when the clock strikes twelve

full of champagne cheer, Hark!

Hear, Hear! That firework’s for you

and a happy, Happy New Year!

this god damn ghost of me

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if i could live with someone’s hope

forever till we part

i’d at least be able to see

beyond the ashes on my fingertips

and the cough tucked under-sleeve,

perhaps then maybe i could sleep?

longer than it takes to wake and find

who i’m not, or who i’d rather be—

cause it’s such a drag to smile

then to give a laughing nod,

that even when i do it’s like

my mind just says enough—

so when sitting becomes quiet

with my shadow and the curb

i hear within the darkest corner

that hope i don’t deserve.

and if i know you well enough

i know you’ll disagree,

still hopelessly devoted to

this god damn ghost of me.

and it’s hardly ever good enough

in retrospect you’ll see

that hope distilled in all of us

is that in which i bleed—

Courage, enough.

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I haven’t the words

Nor strength to stand

Any more

Of this illusion

Sealed in spit

And sketched by hand

Our world is done

What courage has man?