holdmytongue

Here lies the window to my soul, open for the world.

[thisispoetryproject]

Run

I've been bugging the shit out of partners at my firm for a rotation in the DC office for 6 - 8 months now. Its where all the important people are, interpreting new laws, setting firm positions, talking to legislators about policy -- essentially you get sent to the DC office for 2-3 years to cut your teeth with the best in the industry. These are the guys/gals that get tapped to come into government as advisors, help draft new laws, and then come back to the firm to make a boat load of cash advising businesses on how to navigate the new laws.

I didn't think it was really going to happen and, well, now I've got 3 interviews scheduled. I've always felt a bit of imposter syndrome. I nearly dropped out of high school, only started college for the financial aid checks, and never expected to graduate. But I did, got the job I was running around telling everyone I was going to get (including my mother in law; we still laugh about how if a guy like me back then showed up at my door to ask for my daughter's hand I'd pull out my shotgun). Fast forward, I'm 30 and I still walk around my neighborhood thinking, "how TF did I even get here?" And now this new opportunity.

What's really strange about it all is that I can't embrace any of it - I've tried. None of it means anything. Its like I could care less because it feels fake, like I don't deserve it or I'm already several magnitudes over what should have been my max. I've been thinking a lot about this lately and have come to the realization that what I'm looking for is (oddly enough) a breaking point. I'm not talented or "special" and I'm definitely never the smartest person in the room and never have been. I do work hard though and that has carried me a very long distance from where I started. I should be grateful or even happy about how my life has turned out but instead I'm constantly looking over my shoulder expecting "them" (idk?) to realize one day that I don't actually belong there and rip it all away. I feel like I need to push as far as I can to get as close to the top of the building as possible before security catches me and sends me back down to the ground level.

[thisispoetryproject]

Draft

I watched her crochet from one aisle down to the left. My eyes ping-ponged almost as fast as my thoughts: hands. skin. knuckles. fingers. grandma. mom. work. travel. time. 

Time. It was time that I didn’t have enough of. Money isn’t everything but actions also speak louder than words and I had none - words, that is. This feeling. Why? It came over me with the force of a volcano believed to be dormant. The knot in my throat grew violently and my body attempted to relieve the pressure through my eyes. This feeling - why now? Why on this flight? Why today? 

Today. Today you have passed and I feel the loneliness hollow out my core. I sit here on this plane like a carved pumpkin, nothing more than a meaningless fraction of what I once was... before you were gone. Before the house. Before the promotions. Before the plan.

Before. 

[thisispoetryproject]

Respawn

The sand was gold and our hearts were close; the ocean blue with clouds like ghosts. You pulled me in to let me go and I left, chasing the emptiness beyond the stone wall, drifting aboard the first boat into the Isles Off the Coast. But I was not blind with lust like most and as the ship’s motors began to push us further apart I felt my heart grow cold and numb like the toes of a winter traveler. To this day I don’t know whether I was frost-bitten or simply lost. As we approached the canopy of trees covering the Isle’s rivers I waited patiently for my stop. One by one the boat’s passengers were engulfed by the river, moving as though they walked through air on her dirt and pebble floors, her waters refusing to acknowledge the presence of those who belonged. As each traveler moved effortlessly through the Doors I felt the pebble in my throat graduate to a stone and the emptiness in my stomach balloon into a void as the pain of my frostbite was fully realized— this place was not meant for me, my destiny was with you and as the captain began swimming in the river I realized that he knew it too. I followed him under and met his eyes, the tears streaming down my face masked by the tides. “Take me back” and he agreed but I knew it was lie. His silence on the boat explained that once you travel down this path you either live with your mistakes... or die. Down the river and back into the ocean we sailed, slowly approaching the exposed island hut home to all those who failed. My legs struggled to hold the weight of my regrets the thought of living without your warmth became too great a burden to bear and the vision in my eyes was filtered with red behind the error messages that’s said: YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE ALL THIS BUT NOW YOU ARE DEAD. And as I resigned to my fate the last one read: RESTART right before I woke up next to you in our bed.

[thisispoetryproject]

Zoom out

I had a really insightful thought today: Considering actions without context is a lot like looking at a zoomed-in picture of a gelato. The gelato may be melting, evidenced by a smooth top layer. The paper cup holding it together might have a plastic spoon poking up like a light tower on a rocky beach. You might recognize the color and associate it with a flavor like pistachio or chocolate. Hell, for all you know, that green could be matcha or mint and the brown could coffee or grape depending on how the light hits it. But what’s important is not the gelato, it’s the people sitting at the table laughing or crying; it’s the cobblestone street and wild array of colored flowers on a vendor’s wooden cart; it’s the name of the shop painted above the windows of the second floor where a family has lived through two world wars— “Gelato di Brunetti”— and the young man studying on an antique metal table on the far left corner while his sister takes selfies with the tourists. Its the scent of the cool ocean air coupled with breezes offering hints of espresso, chocolate, and pistachios. It’s the blue sky with clouds lurking nearby, hinting towards a storm that is either en route, has past, or will skip passed this small world all together. It’s the beggar on the street corner— the artist’s way of showing the hidden elements of joy— with a sign that reads, “Can you spare a kind word?” Children play with green and pink balls in the town square while a man in a wheelchair watches: youthful life meets illness and death.

People do not come “as they are.” They do not act in a vacuum. People have baggage. Whether that baggage is being tugged around on a string attached to an old Ralph’s cart, carried like a boulder on the shoulders, or gently following along like a Tumi, is a matter of attitude and perseverance. But how we decide to judge another human’s actions is a direct reflection of how we judge ourselves. Be kind to yourself and the people you love, dislike, and hate because emotions are fleeting. Our reactions do not exist in a vacuum and the perceived weight of the stories in our carts, on our shoulders, and in our ridiculously overpriced luggage is proportional to the degree with which we consider context before reaction.

Give love when others expects hate. Maybe hate is all they know. Show kindness when cruelty is anticipated. It could be that cruelty is the only response that person knows how to solicit.

Zoom out.

[thisispoetryproject]

Staccato

These actions —

I know that I eventually will pay for.

Trekking along this dirt feeling

Like I’ve fallen out of favor

With my Creator.

Lost among the canopy of trees.

Broken compass.

Hopelessly searching for home,

Desperately clinging onto

My false senses, lying to the world

That believes me to be on trail.

I will dive into the rock

At the top of this mountain, chest first,

Confidence peaking.

This is both my destiny

And Demise.

[thisispoetryproject]

Fuck. Writing is getting hard.

Lately I’ve noticed my tongue getting “lazy.” Its almost like I’ve got one of those drunk slurs--- you know the one. I read an article in Forbes months ago that explained that sleep deprivation has similar effects to alcohol on the brain, specifically to one’s ability to make decisions and motor functionality. By any standard, I am sleep deprived as fuck and have been for a long time. Sleeping, to me, has always been for people don’t value time and life. But now I’m starting to rethink that position. The last time I recall being totally awake, feeling refreshed and “all here” is at age 18 driving my mom’s beat up 1993 Corolla, swerving in and out of lanes like the piece of shit that I was. Now, I make sure that there’s at least two cars space in front of me, not because I’m a cautious person (to the contrary, I’m a bit of an adrenaline seeking idiot), but because I’m too fucking tired and slow to react to an asshole slamming on his brakes right in front of me. That’s obviously not a good sign and, in truth, I’m not sure that I care enough to do anything about it. I mean, its 1:30 am and I’m writing this meaningless blog post to clear some thoughts out of my head when I should be sleeping. Fuck it. The worst part of it all is that writing poetry is becoming increasingly challenging because my brain is total mush. Whatever creative juices I have left are dumped into dreams that leave me all fucked up the next  morning, day, or week. In fact, just to get a poem down I write it in little pieces on my phone when my brain seems to have enough neurons working to lend to the left side of my brain for a moment or, if I’m lucky, two. I used to write two or three long poems a night. 

[thisispoetryproject]

How Little We Remember, How Quick We Forget

The knot in my throat boiled like a pot filled with oil ready to burst into flames, raging across the kitchen stove top and burning everything it touched, staining the dark brown wood floors that filled this quiet home with the mark of forgetfulness. I was sitting on my couch, my feet deeply tucked into a white carpet that felt more like quicksand than fabric pieced together in some hive across the world where the bees toiled only to survive while the Queen lay in her pit of wealth, fat from feeling content and guilt-free knowing she had provided work where work was scarce. With the vocal force of what felt like all the creatures scattered throughout the universe speaking as one immense, all powerful being, the words were forced from the bottom of my gut through my vocal cords and chocked up from the pit of my throat, “We have given you everything and you do not thank Us. You do not cherish your blessings. You do not live as though you should-- in constant gratitude and unwavering belief.” These words were not so much spoken by me or through me-- they were spoken to me. Never before have I felt so out of control, totally stunned at the possession of my consciousness. Never before have I sat up straighter. Never before has such truth left the confines of my lips.

I am often blinded by the absence of my desires and forget to remember those blessings which I have not asked for and yet still receive. How little we remember, how quick we forget. 

[thisispoetryproject]

I struggle with this question the most: Is there some elaborate pattern that my tiny human brain can only comprehend in microseconds of “understanding” and gratitude or is it all chaos? 

[thisispoetryproject]

On Distress

The vast majority of human distress arises from the desire of those things that circumstances have made unaffordable. When the body lacks water, it can have no stronger craving and when it lacks food anything edible will suffice. Those that feel ignored desire fame and those that feel impoverished desire wealth. Abandonment breeds the desire to belong and being misunderstood breeds the desire to express. Overcoming this human disposition in a non-destructive manner is by far the single most difficult challenge humans encounter and is the chief cause of our distress. It is in overcoming this human disposition without causing inner or worldly destruction that exalts the challenger.

[thisispoetryproject]

Dark Side of the Eyelids

[insert dreams here]

[thisispoetryproject]

“Do not mistake your history for who you are.”

[thisispoetryproject]

Dreams of a Child

Dreams of a Child

I woke up at 2:04 in the morning and watched you stare out the window, mesmerized by the look on the face of the moon. It was as if you could see something in those craters that the rest of us had missed as we went about the hum of our daily and nightly routines. Your eyes were glittered so deeply with the reflection of that holy rock, it was as if it had taken control of your being, guiding you through the ravines of your mind and revealing the secrets of what was yet to come.

My presence was one of love: I had waken up to pee and stumbled in my state of half-awake-half-asleep to your room only to steal a glimpse of your innocence. As I stood at your door, dumbfounded by the intensity of your concentration, I wondered whether I too could dream like you: eyes open, fully awake in a deep, trance-like state with only one existence, one eternal soul. When had my ability to dream deteriorated to the extent of near extinction? And how do I repopulate the spiritual energy needed to achieve such a state? As I came to, our eyes met for the first time that night and you imparted on me the answers I had been unknowingly searching for: you are me; the inner child that is neglected, but patient; weak, but persistent; malnourished, but strong.

[thisispoetryproject]

Note to self:

I could not muster the courage to speak these words and so I attempted to whisper the sounds of my love without success. Wringing my heart onto this canvas of paper with pen is my last resort. I am sinking into the darkness, my dreams bleed the colors of haunted mansions and the onlookers scream as they are rounded up like cattle to their death. Finding solace in you is my miracle, and we are each allowed only one. What comes must go, but you remain. What rises must fall, but you are still. Even as the tides wash away the footsteps on the sand, wherever your light has shone cannot be swallowed into oblivion. I seldom reflect during these days because remembering is too much a strain on my heart. When I sit alone I can almost feel our two trains merging onto the same cold steel and I find myself wondering whether we can ever truly be conductors. If the tracks have been set then we cannot freely roam, we can only choose our speed. So we must travel fast; we must merge and redirect; and, above all, we must pay homage to the steel worker and track setter who pioneered our path forward.

[thisispoetryproject]

What if what we think of as a lucky break is actually our destiny taking shape?

[thisispoetryproject]

Remember when we used to care About crossing those bridges When we’re there?

We’re here.

[thisispoetryproject]

Measures of Dispersion

Two: the number of years it took me to understand my own truths

Four: one for each step thereafter as I floated off the floor

Six: seasons that I watched your leaves fall without reason

Three: levels of hell for each piece of my soul I offered for sale

One: life I have to give to compensate for the past

Two: years I was buried before being consumed by the grass, my soul covered in glass, cutting the feet of all who dare to walk this path. 

[thisispoetryproject]

Honest poetry is difficult because it forces me to leave this blanket of comfort I’ve wrapped myself in over the past few years.

The break was much needed, nevertheless. I found myself beginning to write what I knew would resonate with the people who used to read my blog. That’s not what this is about.

Back to the basics: here lies a window to my soul, open for all the world to see.