I breathe out wisps of days past in chill air, ghosts who dance in the cover of white. Tell me, do you fear the sun? I promise the spring will bring old ghosts to light.
You see, hope is found
when the sun rises and breaks the
darkness, takes over fearful nights and
brings redemption to the fall. Believe the dawn,
promising to light the horizon each and every day and
let yourself wake anew. Look outside your window, open
your blinded eyes and get up. Life is made new each day.
I practiced my breathing, an act of vitality, nothing more. Hand on my diaphragm, I measure how much life I breathe in, how much I breathe out. For certainly there is more to the moment but it is not without its beginnings - my lungs are full of air and they tell me I am alive.
I might not ever know how I got here. If I’ll ever know where I came from. If I’ll ever even know where I stand at this present moment in time with the kind of conviction that says, “I exist.” Stagnant, I stand in hesitation, in utter fear and trepidation because who wants to move forward without the luxury of finding comfort in the what-should-be-permanent nature of the past? I walk ahead softly, look behind and close the door as if I could love what is coming without loving what has come before.
Attempting to realize the words in my head,
conversations I’ve rehearsed each time and again
I’m convinced that these words you still won’t comprehend
In fear of tears.
There’s something that keeps me from speaking my mind,
from speaking my heart when my soul is inside
and I want to give up and just say that I tried
In fear of tears.
[Prechorus:]
It’s called miscommunication,
lack of motivation,
an “I don’t understand
but I’ll just take your words and leave.”
It’s called fear and trepidation
of tears and detonation, anticipate the battle,
turn away, forget to breathe.
[Chorus:]
Who are we but two humans in the struggle?
Who are we to just close our eyes and crumble?
We all need to understand, be understood
so you listen to me; I’ll tell the truth:
I’m here for you.
You push for an answer and I push away
I have all the words but I’m still too afraid
and long after we part I’m still lying awake, In fear of tears.
We talk like two strangers and act like two friends
When communication comes I’ll find an end
because doubt tells me caution for what lies ahead
In fear of tears.
It’s the fear and all the doubt,
of emotion breaking out,
it’s the thinking all about -
break down.
We miscommunicate,
we resent and hesitate,
can we find some common ground and break
down.
_________________________________________
I haven't posted anything in a long time. Been getting my mental health together. But I wanted to share this song I wrote on Friday. I recorded the demo today. Time got cut short so imagine more background vocals, piano, and maybe a glockenspiel.
One thing I was afraid of was that if I allowed myself to give up depression, I wouldn't have any creativity left. But this song came out of me and I realized that reflection is one of life's most powerful tools. It's about difficulty communicating feelings and things that matter, but specifically about my relationship with my mom, especially during my junior and senior year of high school when I needed support the most, but didn't know how.
I hold my fist at my side when
friends comfort me with soft words
that try to cushion the hurting but can’t
even come close. I crave some quick fix
but understanding is in short supply and pain
comes in multitudes. Circumstance feeds hope
and breaks it again; when I seek, empathy only hides.
I am an addict in recovery, holding my hands away from my face, washing. Always washing. I close my eyes when I face the mirror, ashamed of how my skin keeps tallies of every moment of regression, forgetting myself in a fit of impulsive depression. And I try to escape the remembering, but my legs have inscribed every step I took backwards and tell me to walk in the wrong direction. I am an addict in recovery, trying to escape the urge to cover pain with pain, to numb feelings with sharp edges and too many pills. When I lose control of my inhibitions, my mind escapes to trains and bridges and how high would I need to fall. I’ve been taught to breathe, to deconstruct lies, to identify feelings that remain foreign to me. I’ve been taught to grab the phone instead of the razor, to take a single pill instead of twenty. And I follow these rules to the letter until the singular scar down my right wrist reminds me that I am only going through the motions of being “better.” Things tend to look up until they’re looking down. I smile until something insignificant triggers nervous hands that snap rubber bands against my wrists until they swell with anger - is this what they teach you in therapy? It starts with rubber bands and ends with bandaids; sometimes I confess, sometimes I fall into lies of omission I like to call “truth.” I am an addict in recovery. Pain is my temporary fix. When life starts looking happier, I fall into withdrawal, missing the depression that brought me down, firmly secured to a miserable ground. When I start laughing, I start doubting; the years have jaded me into wondering what price I will pay for my happiness. I want to think that everything they say about recovery is a lie, but my therapist tells me to stay away from black and white. Eight steps, twenty seven steps, how many steps are there? When you make up your mind, come live it. There are no steps. Recovery is a lifetime.
I am probably your average, broken New Yorker. Not only is it weird to make physical contact with other people, but it scares me too. I don't like making myself vulnerable enough to get close to strangers. But of course, Jon asks the crowd to put an arm around the person to either side, to be connected. And although I was hesitant to, I did and it was okay. Because I knew we were all there for the same purpose and we all shared one thing - we were all broken. But a lot of broken people coming together like a family make a whole. I know that sounds cheesy, but it's true. That's what it felt like. I wasn't just a scared New Yorker. I was the whole crowd, singing along... "Our love is a puzzle that can't be solved."
The moon holds the man in a crescent smile and I am jealous. Revelations hit me like happiness and there is nothing worse than being wary of being. There has never been a today like today, but yesterday suits me better. I don't know where expression ends and the ocean shore begins, where the horizon touches sky - I am too simple for their affections. Water poured out of the rock. Water poured out of the rock.
do you rest your head on your father’s lap and pretend to be young again while he is asleep and you are dreaming with your eyes open? his breaths are clouds and you match your lungs to his because you will never be too old to dance on your father’s feet and take dips on the kitchen dance floor. there is nothing magical about holding his hand, but there is a certain safety about the lack of magic and abundance of knowing. you fall into the rhythm of his breathing and there is nothing more true than being a child in the arms of a father, listening to the rise and fall of his dreaming and feeling safe enough to fall asleep.
And I looked up and I looked out into an interminable abyss, drowning a thousand leagues below doubt and knowing the state of my afflictions, of my physical needs and emotional affix-ions, the dis-ease swallowed my pride which swallowed my mind which swallowed me whole — I cried inside the whale which swallowed my body which swallowed control.
blakekathryn
gummygunk
gamechangershow
prguitarman
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass