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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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
Words Of An Average White Male 