I haven’t written anything for myself since August. Poetry comes from pain. The past nine months have been, as far as I can remember, the shortest amount of time with the highest concentration of highs and lows in my life. Despite this, I have written nothing. I don’t know why. I wish I did. I wish I recorded all of those emotions down. I told myself many times that I should.
I don’t know why I’m writing now. I have so much other work to do, but I can’t do it because I can’t stop overthinking. This is not a new problem. I have had this problem my entire life. I was born with it. But recently I’ve been finding myself slipping into it more and more and I think its because I have stopped caring about whether I slip into it or not. It is so exhausting to care. And recently the final touch has caused me to give up caring all together. Maybe that’s why I’m writing here.
I feel like I have wasted so much time
following your tail in circles
after I realized that all this while
it was just mine.
But then I think back
to everything that that you did
and I find it hard to believe
there wasn’t a little bit of authenticity.
I would have felt better
if you had just said
it was something I did
rather than who I am.
But then I begin to doubt your words
and I doubt my thoughts.
I got these trust problems long ago –
that’s not your fault.
So if I take your words for truth,
then the past is a lie.
If you’re words are false –
then there’s nothing worse you could say.
I had met someone long ago
who now has little presence in my life.
But, it is safe to say
that I still remember them every day.
I think I had been with them
where I am sitting now:
Against this bark…
In this light…
No, I didn’t love them.
Yes, I do thank them.
Every day I thank them.
Maybe perhaps it was not what they told me
that had affected me
But rather who they were
that had affected me.
I didn’t see myself in them.
I only saw that I could be like them.
Assured, is what I wanted to be.
Assured, is what I wanted to look like.
Assured, is what I wanted to feel like.
I think I know why I still come back
to sit in that grass.
Against the bark.
In the light.
Perhaps the context
of the wet plants
and wistful air
could help me remember them a little more.
I think I still need them a little more.
I need to be assured a little more.
When I was in my more vulnerable years
a domineering giant said to me
“What do people do when you let them speak?
Don’t let them scream.”
The giant being the man to give my life a start,
I took those words to heart,
those words he really seemed to mean
since he never let me speak my mind
and never really let me be defined.
I later learned this parenting was to digress,
leading the child to grow grotesque.
And so to I – already deprecated
from the words of my harsh father –
began to think of myself as someone who could go no farther –
farther than I already had,
farther than I somehow already got.
Alas, I tell you, do not – do not think the way I have.
As I have learned through no easy path
that self-worth is dependent upon what you pave
and not what others have seen you do.
Do as I say, don’t do as I do.
there is hope for you.
Incessant, incessant –
I find my thoughts arcing in a crescent
from crescendos to abysses,
there isn’t a second that my raging thoughts misses.
From the morning to sundown,
I find I can’t stop mourning those put down –
or celebrating my speciality,
or therein what I perceive to be.
After many months and yearning years,
I find that there is thus one way –
one way to render these rites as relinquished –
and it comes calling with crawling clocks.
When I’m asked who I want to spend the rest of my life with,
I reply, “Alone, I want to be alone.”
I want to sit on a hill, overlooking the vastness of life,
and as the sun sets I’ll put my hand on the grass,
with just the air on top of that.
I’ll feel the evening light fade away,
drawing my eyes to a close, alone,
atop my own hill.
All the days conglomerate,
and all my moments are one.
Between these wisps of life,
I hear the sounds of others
and their voices spark my sonder.
I listen to their tales, their fables,
so I go to bed with stories,
but I fall asleep with memories.
It’s closing time
for my sonder thoughts.
I wish I could say
it was a good run,
but nothing has changed
except the view out my window.
Here and now,
I must stop attempting –
trying to escape myself
in the fog of new surroundings.
It will all end soon:
the final bedroom.
No more clean sheets,
running clocks, bright bulbs.
Only the unforeseen
senses my coming.
We often speak about
the things that matter
most to us,
our happiness of the moment
or our adventures of normal lives.
about these things that matter
because the feeling elates us.
To hold it means
that we would only inflate more
and then, of course,
we’d have to pop.
But now, what if
the thing that elates you
is just the simple joy of being
present on such a favorable
day as the day of today.
How can you tell someone
that what makes you happy
is what they can also feel,
and for some reason
they are not already happy about it.
It’s like telling someone:
Enjoy being alive!
An impossible phrase,
because its meaning
has already been wrung out.
We are so used to being alive
that it has lost all meaning with us.
So when you meet
the conundrum of enjoying
and must share with others
the feeling you own,
remember to ignite
that emotion within them.
Just as the long dormant
fireplace yearns to feel
the wooden heat again, it can
not light itself, and one must
do it for them.
Because feeling the heat of
life once again
is a gift that can only be bestowed
I write my thoughts now –
In the night they will leave me
and I will never hold
this same sorrow again.
All the life I’ve been burdened with
has never yielded me victory –
riddled with silver medals
and prizes for participation.
The calls of those who try
reaches deaf ears.
Replaced with whining
in the minds of those
who think they are above others.
Indeed they are above others –
and they deserve it so.
But those who try and pedal
up the steep hill just as much
but just not enough
shouldn’t be ashamed –
nor should they be shamed.
I try to find the niche
in which myself can bud –
in which I can grab the gold.
And so I write because
I believe it will give
me the crop of triumph.
And I soon discover that
I write for more –
because inside of me I know
that I could take the words I feel
and make them readable to the
And yet the words
that are scribbled in pen at
twelve in the morning
aren’t my own.
The silver medal continues
to take its place
on the shelf of my mind.
There’s no good end to this poem.
Only the goodness that comes
from continuing to try.
Trying to speak from your soul
but knowing you will never make it.
Because the gold unobtainable means nothing
without the pain made from trying.
Life is just about
Learning to find your own way
Not finding your way