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It all just felt so dull sometimes
Uninspired and too common place
That I’d do anything it took
To convince them otherwise
Mixed up I believed fire could walk on water
Then became the fool to my own dirty tricks
Until she told me the eye of the sea
Could never be lost or found, but that
It was always there, brilliant and dazzling
And that, it was waiting inside of me
The Devil to one
is God to another.
It’s a cycle continued
that is, until
we stop looking to the sky,
stop burying our trauma,
and look our neighbor
dead in the eye,
without retaliation or judgement
and listen, to one another’s heart
which beats to the same rhythm
as a newborn babe
that is, until
birth begins
its earthly decay.
I see my reflection
through the tangles
from the window
of her eye, suppose
she’s figured out the angles
I’ve been playing,
oh but she’s the kind of femme fatale
worth saving, because lately
there’s a wall built higher than my own good
for, protection
oh but how it all comes crumbling down
the instant, she walks in
where dying in her arms I’m happy
I spent a good portion of last night, mooring with the tide, tied to emotions, most of which surely weren’t mine to suffer, though, like a good little buoy I did all I could to stay afloat.
But what causes a man to harbor such feelings of faithless dread.
Sympathy? Empathy? Selfless, selfishness?
Isn’t it funny how even when no one asks us to suffer, we often choose to suffer.
Could it stem from guilt? Plausible, though I think not. Depression? No, because I could still move. Trauma? Not in this case, as it had nothing to personally do with me.
Perhaps than maybe deeper, beyond the physical self, far from age or reason, like roots grown deep within the soil, always there yet invisible to the naked eye.
So then what?
Let’s take the current state of society in which the mind is placed.
We are and always have been reactionary beings, jumping to conclusions without fully taking the time and energy to understand or explore where these irrational compulsions come from.
So the year is 2020 and we are still at one another’s throats.
Not a day goes by that I don’t get a phone call whether or not I am willing to vote. Not a day goes by that I don’t see one side of the argument ready and willing to cut the other’s throat. Not a day goes by where I don’t get the impression that peace is just dependent on war, like an inside joke I just don’t get the humor.
So it’s within this grey area that I swim where both sides of the equation continue to expel these deep seeded emotions from within.
Had it not been for the open minded, tirelessly educated guidance and good nature of a mother, I may have gone another way years ago, though still I stay afloat while the undertow continues its torment.
So it seems here, now, in the mornings clean light, where all that I can do is observe—in nature that surrounds—human nature take its course.
I know who I am. And I know my intentions are good. Sometimes our actions speak louder than words but for most of us, words just don’t seem to be heard.
But that’s no reason to destroy what you can’t control.
So for those who cannot express or explain this current state of extremes we face both alone and together, I suggest this: be a beacon of hope.
Because what we know today, with or without our help, will surely change tomorrow.
So even in my darkest hours, I know, hope will never falter, light will find a way, and tides will turn, if not now, then surely another day.
If what you see in the mirror is ugly, then consider this: chances are you’re comparing your own unique beauty to what, for your entire life, you’ve been programmed to believe is beautiful.
And what is beauty anyways?
Margaret Wolfe Hungerford said, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
And isn’t that true? Yes or no, in more instances than not beauty is subjective. In fact, I’d go even further to say that beauty manifests itself in infinite ways other than what the eye can see.
As a photographer with a fond admiration for women and men alike I can honestly say that I have taken countless photographs and manipulated them to appeal to the mass collective of what is to be considered quote on quote “beautiful.”
Hypocrite. No, I think not. I never claimed they were beautiful but simply did my job in a way that my superior agreed was aesthetically pleasing.
A wrinkle here, a crows foot there, deleted.
Nobody has ever died from a portrayal of beauty, right?
Wrong. Though I’m not an extremist so there are many factors to consider, all of which yes, I agree, may seem like a bit of a cop out or excuse not to hold oneself accountable for taking what is and transforming it into something less natural.
But this isn’t about my career choice or eye in which I behold.
This is about you and that “ugly” reflection in the mirror.
You are not ugly, you simply aren’t. You are you, and you are beautiful.
Those who claim to seek perfection, well, they’re only trying to fill a void. And it’s a bottomless pit because like beauty, perfection is ultimately subjective.
While I sit here and delve deeper into thought, I watch a mother and daughter walk by my window. The mother is flapping her arms as graceful as she can. The child looks to her mother and understands she is trying her best.
In the end all that we can do is try our best to love ourselves enough to fully accept the unique beauty of another.
Any other judgement is of which we have been programmed to believe.
It’s taken a very long while to believe in myself and I willingly admit that each day is a slow progression to further acceptance of my own unique beauty.
If someone tells you you’re not beautiful, that’s their loss.
And I hope the next mirror that you face looks back in your direction as the child looks with grace and marvels at the perfection of her mother’s love.
She watched him rage
with the rapid tide
like an oil painting
left to dry,
each stroke was wild
beauty, behind
him boats full throttle
calm as the horizon.
If that’s not you
walking the corner of my eye
then who? I wonder,
who’s shadow unwinds?
Overhead like a compass,
creation of time. Time
and again, like time were a crime.
Wasted. Lost. Forgotten. Blind.
Memories fade, they never die.
So if that flutter of feather is you,
alright that’s fine. It’s much ado.
So when they ask you calmly why
won’t you share yourself with I?
I have and will, see I am I
unanswered we are now defined.
You are an embarrassment
he said while picking my pockets
vacant I stared idle
in an undisclosed location
Danielle sat next to me
tenderly stroking the inside flesh
of my arm although
we’d only spoken a handful of times
back in grade school, he said again
Nobody likes you, you know
So I just agreed with him because
her fingers felt like grasshopper wings
fluttering through my mind, he
looked a deep sorrow longer
and that’s where he began to cry
I am sorry my friend, I said while he
cradled me like a new born lamb
only I was much bigger than him
so by the end of it it was I who was
more so doing the cradling, then
as he disappeared effortlessly
Danielle and I sat a long while
next to one another, her hair
long dark and full of whispers
while the room filled with necessary strangers
Holding hands for a while she said,
you aren’t that bad you know
he just really loves you is the point
and then too disappeared into a sea of snakes
which I could not swim
while the couch turned to an island
I sat sipping from my cup
the bitter dark liquid I had earlier poured.
We mustn’t shy away from fear
but rather dive face first
into it’s claws letting it tear our flesh
from cheek to chin and gnaw
on our skulls if not only to
release ourselves from our mind
whose eye is so often filled with fear.
Words Of An Average White Male 