“Are you writing again?”
“Yea, but it’s no good.”
“Psh! I could have told you that.”
“I love you too darling.”
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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.
Hard-Boiled Eggs and the End of This Chapter
This coffee shop is cold.
Reading Murakami
my vision’s blurred by
inconvenient tears.
Why are all your thoughts so uncertain?
It’s knowing that any explanation is probably false.
Coming to these kind of places
in search of conversation? To escape myself?
This place where everyone seems so distant?
Propagated by the idea that coffee shops are for intellectuals and pseudo intellectuals alike
so for that matter, what’s even the point?
To think there was a time when I’d walk up to any of these strangers just to invade their private world.
Now reading Murakami,
I barely lift my head.
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.
Tired eyes and apprehension.
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.
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.
Instinct & Irony
Why does a dog chew a bone
or a cat toy a string
why do people do anything
other than sing—
why does sitting alone
in a park, on a bench
have to feel so good
when nothing makes sense,
but the sound of laughter
and a boy up to bat
while his father he cheers
hearing the crack
and the shadows with grace
dance light over page
of a passage familiar
as if written for me—
it’s instinct of course
the cat toying string,
and by the end feels pleasure.
But people write poems
and think too much,
they suffer alone—
ironically.
The difference
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.
Words Of An Average White Male 