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.

The Old Wood Fence

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

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)

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.

Reaching For The Sky

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.

Love That Book

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.

This Shallow Darkness

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.