Can you hear me now?
Yes,
now that we have stopped talking.
Good.
Yes.
Things have never been so good.
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Conversations with myself.
I try to hang loose
but always end up
twisted, like a
damp dish towel.
Stained and tattered.
Are we really back here again?
Rinse and repeat.
Haven’t you learned anything yet?
Rinse and repeat.
I bet you like it this way, don’t you?
It’s quieter here…shh!
With voices in your head? You’re too easy.
It’s alright if you sweat, just
don’t let them see you turn.
Are we really back here again?
Metaphorically speaking,
we never actually left.
Places just become new places.
People get replaced by other people.
Lies become fiction.
Truth becomes fantasy.
Like a damp dish towel,
twisting facts
until
they hang loose.
Children.
With
a little bit
of boob
and
a little bit
of butt
girls become women
and
boys become men
until
children
make them
children again.
The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
I think I’m literally starting to get it.
I could say
I’m hunched
though
I’m seated kind of
lazily – leg on couch
neck bent, ankle
sprain elevated
on green and white pillowcase –
typing
methodically
with a headache
from late payments
unpaid bills
and paranoia,
that could all sound
so sweet, so elegant
like the sound of a typing machine,
if only I was still a romantic
perhaps
I’d use big words to describe my feelings
but
for today
the clouds literally fill the sky,
there’s no check in the mail,
and I’ve got more work to do
at the finish
of this
poem.
A Life Altering Depression that led to a Conscious Awareness of Choice.
If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that there’s no reason to leave.
When you don’t have the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand that it’s better to give them what they want to hear.
After you’ve made a decision,
hastily,
that feels like anything but,
all that’s left is to wait for the consequence.
If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that the calls will stop coming.
And even if you had the answers,
for the way you’re feeling,
you understand they wouldn’t even make a difference to the big picture.
After you’ve checked the mail,
twice a day,
for what feels like months,
all that’s left is to accept the denial letter, denying you back, from where you fled.
…
They don’t want you anymore.
They won’t trust you anymore.
Do they love you?
Or.
Are they just putting up with more of your bullshit?
They want you to succeed.
Remember when they said, “remember us when you’re famous!”
Did they ever realize the pressure?
Or.
Weren’t they just trying to inspire you to believe your own self-worth?
…
If you lay in bed long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s difficult to be anywhere but.
When you still don’t have the answers,
for giving up on the plan,
you understand that maybe it’s better to give them truth instead of lies.
After your insecurity turns to shame,
and fear is watered down,
a fire begins to burn,
and all that’s left to do is coax it.
If you hide yourself away long enough,
eventually,
you understand that it’s your turn to make the calls.
And while contemplating the answers,
for the way that you’re feeling,
you understand that the big picture doesn’t give a damn either way.
After your shame turns to curiosity,
and fear fizzles out,
a flame can turn to wildfire,
and all that’s left to do is decide.
Will you get out of bed?
Or will you fake this grave till you make it?
Nobody cares, really.
Nobody, except the one’s you love.
Despair comes for us all,
but,
it doesn’t have to – always – be the present constant,
in fact,
no matter how hard you try to make it seem…
This is life.
There is choice.
This is not a heads or tails game.
Words Of An Average White Male 