A Life Altering Depression that led to a Conscious Awareness of Choice.

If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that there’s no reason to leave.

When you don’t have the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand that it’s better to give them what they want to hear.

After you’ve made a decision,
hastily,
that feels like anything but,
all that’s left is to wait for the consequence.

If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that the calls will stop coming.

And even if you had the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand they wouldn’t even make a difference to the big picture.

After you’ve checked the mail,
twice a day,
for what feels like months,
all that’s left is to accept the denial letter, denying you back, from where you fled.

They don’t want you anymore.
They won’t trust you anymore.

Do they love you?
Or.
Are they just putting up with more of your bullshit?

They want you to succeed.
Remember when they said, “remember us when you’re famous!”

Did they ever realize the pressure?
Or.
Weren’t they just trying to inspire you to believe your own self-worth?

If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s difficult to be anywhere but.

When you still don’t have the answers,
for giving up on the plan,
you understand that maybe it’s better to give them truth instead of lies.

After your insecurity turns to shame,
and fear is watered down,
a fire begins to burn,
and all that’s left to do is coax it.

If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s your turn to make the calls.

And while contemplating the answers,
for the way that you’re feeling,
you understand that the big picture doesn’t give a damn either way.

After your shame turns to curiosity,
and fear fizzles out,
a flame can turn to wildfire,
and all that’s left to do is decide.

Will you get out of bed?
Or will you fake this grave till you make it?

Nobody cares, really.
Nobody, except the one’s you love.

Despair comes for us all,
but,
it doesn’t have to – always – be the present constant,
in fact,
no matter how hard you try to make it seem…

This is life.

There is choice.

This is not a heads or tails game.

Dive into the sun.

It will be long before
you figure me out,
for I have just begun.

With each days end
that saunters in,
I’ll crave the setting sun.

And by the light
that shines through trees,
in shadows I shall run.

To see and hear
the simple things,
the hummingbird has sung.

So that is where
I’ll stay awhile,
without a word of glee.

Without talk
and without walk,
a dolce harmony.

Where there is no
tell of time,
oh what a sight to see.

And like the spray
of oceans breath,
embrace the mystery.

But if and when
I wander back,
oh what a tale to tell.

For there will be
no better time,
than those that I had fell.

And in the burning
yellow light,
from which I had once run.

It’s there I’ll sing
unto the sea,
and dive into the sun.

A working hypothesis.

Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.

“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”

And I recognize that voice.

That voice is not my own.

It’s deep and fearful.

Hoarse and irrational.

It is the voice of an angry man.

It is the voice of my father.

Then there is silence.

A long insecure silence.

A fearful silence.

And I recognize that silence.

I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.

Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Only now it is my voice.

It is mild and tame.

Concerned and rational.

It is the voice of a scared child.

It is the voice of a worried man.

And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.

Please for the love of all that is holy.

Believe me.  Believe me.  Believe me.

Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”

It’s my fault.

Not yours.

And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.

Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.

It’s a working hypothesis.

Lucky ones.

Lonely?

It could be worse.

You could be one of the lucky ones.

Who can only wish,

they,

were lonely.

And I write this poem.

I hear the voice of a little girl.

Exterminator!  Exterminator!

She’s maybe nine years old.

I answer the door.

She walks in holding a clipboard.

Her father follows.

He’s smiling.

He knows me.

We do this every second Saturday of the month.

“Please sign,” she says authoritatively.

Her father makes his rounds.

“Thank you,” she says.

I hand her a dollar.

She adds it to the clipboard.

Her father exits the kitchen.

“I no use near food…” he says with regard.

They leave.

Exterminator!  Exterminator!

Y escribi este poema.

 

the polarity between real life and a college town.

I miss my former self.

A chatter-box of complaint.

Endless questions with premature answer.

Horny and mad.

Full of flowery language.

Undefined.

Chain smoking under the gun.

I miss my former self.

Like an old friend.

Like a past lover.

Like a finished book.

Like a sprained ankle.

Like a cavity.

Like film.

I miss my former self.

Arrogant.

Brooding.

Self-deluded.

Know-it-all.

Audacious.

Jerk.

I miss my former self.

Like turning 13.

Like watching Fox and Friends.

Like a one night stand.

Like romanticism.

Defined.

No longer smoking, still under the gun.

It’s the polarity between real life and a college town.