Remembering again, that semester in the park

I wasn’t seeing anything clearly

that semester in the park.

All that I could see was

everyone else talking, and

their perception of me.

So I fell silent in paranoia,

paralyzed by the idea that no-one could help

this growing unrest only I could feel.

And what an awful feeling, crippled in fear

that the mind, like a bridge, with enough force

could so easily collapse.

Because I wasn’t who I was a year before.

Or a year before that—I didn’t want to be.

I didn’t have a clue of who I was or where I wanted to go, you see—

It felt as if my sense of meaning had dissolved.

As if my efforts were for not.

And as I sat staring, watching all my friends disappear

it felt as if all my life had been a lie,

like someone else was pulling the strings.

And the longer I kept quiet,

the less there was to say.

The longer I stood still,

the more I wanted to run.

See people don’t just drown,

they tread water till they no longer can.

Some try for shore, others the horizon.

Except I wasn’t seeing anything clearly

that semester in the park,

trying to rationalize my fathers death and why

I hated myself so deeply for something no one could explain.

You know, if I close my eyes long enough I can still see that teenage me doing everything he could to keep it together.

Confused.

Isolated.

Stone faced and embarrassed.

And what’s a stone to do best?

It sinks.

I’m So Much Better Than This

Nothing feels good

and the silence isn’t helping.

I could move but what’s the point?

Anger’s got the best of me.

To think that when I woke up

all I wanted was for home.

Now the air just stinks of shame.

I feel less than zero.

And all that gets remembered

is how I’ve failed you again.

And I Think To Myself

It’s all a bit depressing,

like singing in the rain.

The over-sentimental

mere dreamers all the same.

It’s all a bit depressing,

like Pollack splattered paint.

Squandering potential,

my spirit slowly wanes.

Ambivalent because,

the world is full of stock responses.

Drunken rants and sober prophets.

The type of things people say to do 

that even in their cool sincerity

would never do themselves.

Are capable people incapable of good advice?

Or are jokes just easier to offer?

Is saying you don’t know so hard to admit?

Or are we so prone to speak that it doesn’t matter?

With nonchalance and anxious laughter

everyone knows everything you don’t.

With due respect and eyes that wander

everyone’s got the answer for things they can’t control.

In a world of stock responses—

I hear the words that don’t come out

and do my best to listen.

I take them with a grain of salt

and read between the lines.

I see their good intentions get

distorted by this feeling,

that no one has the answers, and some things never change—

I’ve just left the conversation

long before its end.

Restless Peace

At restless peace I am

with the wind and sidewalk rustlings.

I hear no evil

but listen, careful

to the teacher in my head—

Ahem, it says, you see my boy

with an air of confidence,

before the mind had time to grow

to stretch it’s arms and wiggle toes

from abc’s to no means no

it was already in survival mode.

So from that time it tried to be

chameleon, I mean everything

to everyone without a doubt

as quiet as a field mouse,

the pressure grew and grew.

So that it’s not a man I see

or reckless boy in front of me

it’s simple with perspective, he’s

finally catching on.

What’s done is done is done.

The rhyme is just for fun.

If you can’t learn the lesson now,

there’s one last question that I’ll ask—

At restless peace, I listen

then watch the flowers grow,

focus on the question

and answer best I can.

The Progress No One Sees

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this numb curiosity that glazed his eyes with bitter knowing, as he understood that no matter how many questions received there answer, there would always be one, that only he could accept.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really. That’s not to say there wasn’t any sadness. In fact, sadness was still there, much like a dear friend, waiting and willing to drop everything in order to be with him, listen to him, and strengthen him, in times of need.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this constant urge to flee, and no matter how good the situation was, it came on like tinnitus, this constant ringing in his ear that seemed to say—think of all the things you could be doing…but you’re not…because you’re here.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just time. Time enough to do anything and everything he needed to get done, if only he could grasp a sense of urgency, before being halted by this ability to fade within himself—hours on end—and not do anything at all.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really, just this introspection. It came on like a migraine, but left him feeling light. And over time this bitter knowing, well, it didn’t go away, but lessened with each breath. It was a private understanding—one he’d keep forever—in the tender of his heart.

The Primrose Path

We’ve walked before, the primrose path

and what good hath it brought?

It’s crimson skin, and pit of death

the yew forgives us not!

Quite tempting is the flower, bud

who’s poison’s not enough,

it’s beautiful and deadly

how, our lives rely on luck.

See nature isn’t partial,

it doesn’t give a fuck.

We’ve walked before, the primrose path

to learn what can’t be taught.

It was a morning like other mornings.

It was a morning like other mornings

where if I had a garden, I’d tend to it—

each flower, delicate as the next

sleeping in a nursery.

Watering each bulb, silent

as a field mouse, I’d bow my head

in knowing—

It was a morning like other mornings.

And I was the sun.

Two Worlds Within A World

Your world’s in careful order

while mine’s in disarray,

I’ve tried to read between the lines

but there’s just empty space.

When dumb luck gets regarded

for gentle hands of fate,

I sit for hours wondering

whose world has been misplaced?

This fault line, it grows deeper

the longer that I think,

what good are silver lining’s with

prospects neither believe?

Is what I forge through fiction

just white lies for dispute?

I try to keep my distance

to organize what’s true.

Seems when I find the meaning

these worlds they split apart,

now mine’s in careful order

like yours was from the start.

As for that space between?

There’s no room left for me.

There’s nothing to be found

I’ve lived there long enough.

I’m happier with words that mean

exactly what they mean.

I’m happier to be a part

than live in disarray.

If it’s time that pulls the strings

than it’s I who’d rather be,

two worlds within a world

alone—

three worlds to form a whole.