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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.

Two Worlds Within A World

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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.

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.

Keep trying but, I don’t scare that easy.

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The lights are on,

but the drive’s not there.

I wonder if this happens to everyone?

I’m sure it does, except

I’m not everyone.

And you, you’re part of them but lately

only half as strong.

Does that sound correct?

Or am I just scratching an itch

not meant to be scratched?

Am I bucketing a well

when all that’s left is rain?

I hear you when you say you’re tired.

I’m tired too.

And when you say you’re trying, love

I’m trying too.

I feel you when you’re breaking,

partly because I’m breaking too.

I feel it when your heart is aching,

since mine’s been split in two.

What’s left than but a couple lines?

Enough to prove our sorrow?

For all the many times I’ve died

I’ve always seen tomorrow.

It’s hardest when you say

the words that help you sleep,

so sleep as many days

as it took for me to wake.

Besides, I feel much better since

I know this fight’s a gas,

it’s a wonky handle left we clutch

of a longing meant to last.

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.

(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.

The Good Fight

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Sometimes, not very often

but sometimes,

I’m afraid to read my own writing.

I have my reasons for most

though others I don’t.

It’s the one’s I don’t remember

writing, I think

that alarm me more than any.

It’s the one’s that keep

coming back

in different forms over the years

that sound my silent alarm.

It’s the breath you forget taking.

It’s the secret you don’t tell.

After playing with enough language

what room is there for air?

It’s not very often, but sometimes

yes sometimes, I’m frankly more aware

of the sirens through my window

reminding me to breathe,

reminding me to listen,

reminding me to fear

not that what I have written

but what I’ve yet to right—

there’s so much life within me still

sometimes, it feels

I’ve just begun this fight.

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—

As If We Existed

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It wasn’t ever fun

Even when it lasted

There was always hidden

A motive and agenda

Something I couldn’t figure from afar—

I needed microscopic certainty

That I’d have to disappear

In order to remember—

For them to forget—

That either of us had ever existed

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?