Home » Posts tagged 'thoughts'

Tag Archives: thoughts

Remembering again, that semester in the park

Posted on by | Leave a comment

I wasn’t seeing anything clearly

that semester in the park.

All that I could see was

everyone else talking, and

their perception of me.

So I fell silent in paranoia,

paralyzed by the idea that no-one could help

this growing unrest only I could feel.

And what an awful feeling, crippled in fear

that the mind, like a bridge, with enough force

could so easily collapse.

Because I wasn’t who I was a year before.

Or a year before that—I didn’t want to be.

I didn’t have a clue of who I was or where I wanted to go, you see—

It felt as if my sense of meaning had dissolved.

As if my efforts were for not.

And as I sat staring, watching all my friends disappear

it felt as if all my life had been a lie,

like someone else was pulling the strings.

And the longer I kept quiet,

the less there was to say.

The longer I stood still,

the more I wanted to run.

See people don’t just drown,

they tread water till they no longer can.

Some try for shore, others the horizon.

Except I wasn’t seeing anything clearly

that semester in the park,

trying to rationalize my fathers death and why

I hated myself so deeply for something no one could explain.

You know, if I close my eyes long enough I can still see that teenage me doing everything he could to keep it together.

Confused.

Isolated.

Stone faced and embarrassed.

And what’s a stone to do best?

It sinks.

And I Think To Myself

Posted on by | 1 Comment

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.

Hard-Boiled Eggs and the End of This Chapter

Posted on by | 2 Comments

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

Posted on by | Leave a comment

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.

Posted on by | Leave a comment

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

Posted on by | Leave a comment

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 Old Wood Fence

Posted on by | Leave a comment

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.

Two Worlds Within A World

Posted on by | Leave a comment

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.

Answers(but who’s to say)

Posted on by | Leave a comment

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.