Home » Posts tagged 'personal'
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Summer was never peaceful—
Filled with silent worry
Watching from my window
Her skin turn golden brown—
Here’s everything, they said
Tokens for your smile
Just listen to the carnival
and what fun they’re having
How still it breaks my heart—
But what’s a boy of 12 to do
When everything seems pointless
And your world is very small
Knowing no one really listens
To the secret lives of children—
but I had a good mother who tried,
and that made all the difference.
Haven’t got the chords or melody.
Nothing feels better than pain.
I haven’t got the reasons anymore.
Haven’t got the words to explain—
People living life like it’s a parody.
Everyone to me looks the same.
I haven’t got the reasons anymore.
Nothing feels better than pain—
Prove to me there’s goodness, and I’ll prove you wrong.
Prove to me there’s no pawn in this game.
Talking to you now just feels meaningless.
When Courage gets mistaken for Insane—
I haven’t got the reasons anymore.
Nothing feels better than pain.
Haven’t got the chords or melody.
Haven’t got the words to explain.
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.
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.
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.
Words Of An Average White Male 