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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.
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.
My heart’s in heavy motion—
like a pendulum I sway,
back and forth, regardless of
the shadows of the day.
Would it hurt you to feel better?
Is it sadness or just sad?
I play this broken record till
it doesn’t sound that bad.
When questions sound like answers
it’s there I feel at home, but
impressions get mistaken for
first readings of a poem.
It’s how I’ve formed the theory
that everyone’s alone,
perhaps then not a pendulum—
I’m an ever sinking stone.
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.
You recommend a book to me.
I read it till my eyes grow tired.
It’s not a long book by any means,
but a book this good doesn’t have to be—
To make my eyes feel warm like fire.
It’s 8am when I mix NyQuil and coffee, knowing
getting out of bed can be just the same as staying in.
It’s sort of like how kind words sound profane
when they’ve just bout lost there meaning.
Washing my face, have I reused this puppy dog look
one too many times that all that’s left is ugly?
I’ve made mistakes before, though this, it feels different, or
is it exactly the same one I make every time I lock the door?
It’s like hearing the front gate slam shut
then looking out the window, only to see yourself walking away.
The brain sends signals to the mouth—consider screaming—
but what’s a voice without an ear of reason?
What’s the point of footnotes, when you’re drawing them in chalk?
And even though it doesn’t rain that often, on good days it does.
So brushing yellow teeth, I spit blood into the sink
then cough a couple times before padding down the hall.
Now slouching towards the sunlight, it’s effortless this pain.
These calluses remind me that I’m doing the right thing.
Milling about I feel nothing, so it’s now I know to leave.
That rainbow in the sky, oh how it bends before it bleeds.
By the time I catch myself at the corner
and reattach this shallow darkness to my feet,
it’s a cool, crisp sort of day, where the smog smells sweet.
It’s a cool, crisp sort of silence, watching traffic in the street.
It’s a cool, crisp morning.
And I’ve no reason to complain.
Words Of An Average White Male 