It's mostly about poetry, musings and music.

[wegohome]

Love Unfolding To Life

One day a seed is planted. By some force of nature or by our hands, being an extension of nature itself.

We chose the soil, sometimes soft and sometimes hard. It can take root in either realm, persisting against any opposition, with the right care, the right environment.

The seed bursts open and the light of life snakes through the home, pushing its way forward into continuous existence, for however long it can, as dependent on chance as it is some helping hand.

After its journey through the ground, these early stages of pushing through dirt and sand and rocks and cracks, persisting; it peeks into an entirely new place. It seems infinite. Wide open. The sky stretches forever above, and the sun washes it with warmth, feeding its light.

There’s only one thing it can do from here, and that is to grow beautiful, this what-once-was a little seed, now a force of life. It must celebrate. It straightens, and it reaches upward, a bud erecting as it soaks up the energy of the universe.

One petal at a time spreads outward, each of six giving a slight wave as it explodes the slowest explosion ever, of color and attraction, of magic.

Love unfolding to life.

[wegohome]

I Don’t Like Cigarettes

I don’t like cigarettes. I really don’t. My nicotine addiction is a sneaky beast. It seems nonthreatening as I lurk through the days. One. Two. Three. No smoking, so far so good. Then here’s someone, cigarette alit, and I inch and then maybe, “If you can spare one, do you mind?” Just one random smoke, it’s nothing. I’ve found control, I’ve went three days, no issue. I think this as I’m smoking a fucking cigarette. The smell is annoying. It sticks to my facial hair and makes me feel gross. The texture in my throat and lungs is a nuisance and a nuisance I’m aware can cause permanent health disruption, if it hasn’t already.

When I make it an extended period without smoking, everything generally improves. Here I am now, false sense of security, false sense of control. That’s when it rises up and taps me on the shoulder and lights up. And if I have a drink: Game the Fuck Over. I’m poisoning myself hard this night.

[wegohome]

The Knife

Daggers stab down my spine. Dot dot dot, piercing flesh, popping me full of holes.

Out pours this blood, my life source, red and sticky and full of iron.

Down it goes, streaming down my skin and drip drip drip at the end.

The pain is sharp.

The pain is reward.

Every sting of broken casing that I get through, makes me stronger.

It gives me a chance to understand the hurt.

To know the depth of the feeling.

To strengthen my resolve for the next one.

When it ever comes.

So long as I don’t lose too much of the red stuff.

So long as I don’t ruin any of the vital organs that push my body through the process of breathing and processing intake and outtake.

I can keep going. When the pain grows old, I can move on to something else, with all this fortitude.

I’ll know when to avoid the knife, but I’ll also know how to take the knife.

I’ve studied the knife. The knife has grounded me, and we formed an alliance of thing and person, of tool and maker.

Gotten to know it through the brushing of its particles against mine.

Its penetration does not scare me.  

[wegohome]

Fuck. That.

The tear in the front of my chest is a hole leading to a dimension of darkness

My suppressed and depressed thoughts, ruminating

Vicious soundbites of how trite all of my efforts are

All efforts for my aspirations

They label it merely acts of desperation

A lousy attempt to hang onto a fading control

That is to organize my life’s narrative

Into anything that isn’t derivative

Just another copy of everything before and everything to come

Welcome to Humanity

We’re stuck on Repeat

We shuffle our feet, one behind the other

While he watches, our dear old Big Brother

Can you feel that weighted oppression?

Constantly breathing down our necks?

A dangled lie of freedom held, lowered in front of our flaring nostrils

So we can smell the promise

While so much is organized to keep us down

They allow us to rattle our cages only so far

Before we’re pushed to the ground

Reminded of our place

Our defenses taken away

We rally in the streets

Only to be put to the state of silent sleep

We have the frustrated leading orchestras of fed up human masses

Firing off their weapons without any reason

Our law labels them treason

Terrorizing the soft-hearted

We're denied data, so we fight for record

Because the confronted end, bleeding out, on some pavement, or their own carpets

No questioning

Convenient

And when they do

Only silence

I can’t trust this cycle.

I’m not sure anyone should.

For so many to be mentally ill to the point of violence

That we must live in fear

Then oh-fucking-dear

The system is broken no matter who gets the blame

Crushed and rushed.

Still to work.

A wasted day while we wonder if tomorrow will be our last

If we dare to enjoy what few days that we have to ourselves

Fuck. That.

[wegohome]

Gone

A little more than a month ago I lost a friend

Wrapped up in society’s dark and dangerous trend

That relief of needles pressed into veins

That illusion that there’s actually anything gained

It takes, I’ve let it, it takes your money

It takes your time

It takes your friend’s life

And now I keep walking around

I’m still existing 

and at some point, I’ll also be homeward bound.

In a different way, on some different day

Another marked moment in time

Dedicated to a dearly beloved, one we call mine

I think back on petty arguments

With him, with everyone

But they weren’t wasted moments

Each one learning us deeper of the other

Even if it was becoming obvious

I was heading this way, and he another

It’s always smashing into our comfort 

The shock of death

Reminding us why bother?

Linger too long on grudges and pain

It’s an insult to our human life brevity

Then, inevitably, some will forget

Some will keep hating

Even in the face of all of our dead

Warning where and how not to tread

We dishonor most of our wisdom

Stripping us of our true freedom

Whatever the case, see you in the ever after

However it is we disperse when leaving this phase

I’m tangled with you

We’re all tangled with you

[wegohome]

it’s been a while since I’ve seen the world in rainbows and bright lights. I’d like to start again.

[wegohome]

It isn’t the imagery that sparks to life with my words

It is the pacing and spacing that invokes my feelings.

The rush of rhythmic placement that echoes from screen or paper to mind

The building of the symbols providing introspection

Give voice to thoughts

Before language did we think in shapes?

Our bigs pictures outlined with primitive markings and enthusiasm

[wegohome]

nightmares

I have nightmares consisting of traps within social scenes

Perversely chugging along with the societal machines

Carved out originality and the husks left behind being my only company

Sucked bone dry of any purpose reached of their own accord

Just a ch-ch-chattering of what they can or can not afford

This really dark world with bright lights shining all over our capitalism

It doesn’t hide

It looms high and proud

Driving every inch of us from birth to death

Buy buy buy

So I do

I play nice and polite and I say please

I Buy

I thank you and I’m thanked

A circle-jerk of our supporting of the system and the only one that works

There are statistics, you know?

Shared by the companies and the agencies that depend on the exchange

At least I’m a millennial 

And I hear we’re extracting some revenge

By there be plenty of us who prefer living to work

Still, they fight back

By putting spikes on our benches

So there’s nowhere to sit

[wegohome]

hydrate

I drink water with my coffee to stay hydrated

Water with my cocaine to avoid headaches

Alcohol with my heartbreak so I can ignore the fact the cause is probably my mistakes

I’ve raised them for compensation

Lowered them in fear

But still so many misses with the stakes I’m dead set on consistently making

In a series of events

One thing after another

My life

Every so often I wonder

What could I have said to better help my brother?

And why do I act like it’s too late

When he’s but a message away?

Probably because I’m selfish

It’s hard to admit

But here I sit

Writing about myself 

My thoughts

Indulging in this fancied up fabrication in which I’m center stage

Worse yet

With all the self-awareness to know I’m not

But way too wrapped up in playing my parts

Way too wrapped up in my stops and starts

I’ll blame my overactive imagination

And too many stories

My preference for them over this

Romanticism over realism

Always blanketing myself in the feelings

So I can keep dreaming

To the dismay of productivity

I’m still supporting this self-centered naivety

[wegohome]

Sense

Lacking patience in this time of instantaneous delivery

I twitch while trying to sit still, can’t even write without a wandering mind

Rhythmic hiccupping during which I ask if anyone even gets the tones I convey

It’s a mess

This is a mess

I am a mess

I abandon structure for constant resistance against restraint

Even the vaguest attempt at tradition comes with my own sort of taint

A jagged gash across order to support my incessant craving for blemish

The only handle of control I have over this chaos is an initial propulsion

The push of creativity

A burst of sharp white light that bleeds shapes across my sight line

Maybe it’ll please a reader

A passer, a friend

Maybe it’ll resemble a brief, second long trend

Maybe I care, Maybe I don’t

It probably flips back and forth so fast between both

I can hardly keep track of what I’m aiming for

Words release

Words release

I release

So then I can retreat

From this spill

Inking all over the table

This slop I’ve dropped into existence

because fuck it, nothing else makes much sense

[wegohome]

Oh look, here’s my inner asshole

Right when he’s the last I wanna show

Never later, full of grand ego-inspired hate

Ruining all of what I’d call good fate

Ah, man, such a waste of my energy

Stealing away from built-up synergy

Let’s alienate another friend

He  seems to love this trend

Lurking little bullshitter

A quick flash, spontaneous one-hitter

A fast recovery left to the baseline

The sweet sigh, the anxiously confused guy

Don’t too close, watch the spikes

If they draw blood

Note me as a toxic bit of flood

Banish, don’t stick around

I’ve found patience isn’t required

Note the sarcasm

The saving grace of narcissism

understanding labels me a sociopath

Wonder why and how I behave

Leans towards psychopath

Either way, no deserves random, shitty text-based wrath.

[wegohome]

Irony

Past and forgotten highlights

Tales from yesteryear

Regrets birthed forth from one too many,

“One last beer”

A cry from the drunk depths

My own, intoxicated and pitiful cheer

Grinding, humming vibrations

Supporting every misstep 

Precursor to the hangover

The next day’s bellowing groan

“Why the fuck did I sleep over?”

As if I wasn’t already shown

This ridiculous stack of lessons to bemoan

No wonder on the subject of schooltime success

It was abandoned as soon as I had a taste of the first recess

My attention a sharp and spinning thing

A sort of Russian Roulette to entertain

Actions in no fear of death

Then I’d call every recovery a test

This sick self-indulgent routine

A stabbing, stabbing, stabbing into each kidney

To support a fuck-up, at the very least, every other Wednesday

Addiction to the full circle

Mistake-suffer-relief come awake

Once past the trembles, each shuddering shake

Torment; the only way I could appreciate any sort of enlightenment

The irony is my favorite thing about me.

[wegohome]

Fuck.

She wonders if she’s good enough

And I wonder how it Is she’s so good

All her life people tell her

“Lose the attitude

It comes off as a weak

Unbecoming. Defensive.”

When she’s acting off I ask

Where’s your usual mood?

It’s what makes you unique

It’s your peak

The tip of your depth

The last thing you should be doing

Is listening to all the rest

If it isn’t so obvious

They’re targeting your identity for theft

A charade to your genuine

Let them assemble their mask

While you soak up the glory

Of embracing your story

Let in the cracks

Your fun, dark and gory plays

I’d compliment you more

But you’re more but you’re sure of your own voice

Let others question your choice

While you live a life

I’m always down to hang by your side

I never find you a waste of time

Together we’ll twist the shit of this climb

Stand proud, covered in the grime

The game rigged in our favor

By our hands

Our spur of the moment, self-made bands

Testaments stated in body art

Spent together subbed deep into bed

Drifting off

Minds lifting off

A fitting wave, then bow, from the top

[wegohome]

Occasionally fascinated by the way casual and periodic betrayal paints a very pretty human portrayal depending on the time, who’s standing next to you and where you’re looking from. 

[wegohome]

Memory

It was gray that day, just like it is now. 

I drove us out to one of the neighboring counties, small as can be, to surround myself with strangers just for a chance to be around you. 

And we had our chance. We smoked and lifted ourselves to familiar clouds. I remember you dressed intentionally provocative for your day drunk, not exactly planning our walk - our break away from the group, us following through despite the start of rain or maybe it was exactly because of the rain we committed to the trek.

We walked to and through a cemetery, letting ourselves soak and talk nonsense, finding our voices easily enough, though it had been weeks since we last did anything together. The time between punctuated by your alienation and my anxiety. Neither of those things weighed us down that day. Though we did end up in a playful state of withholding truths, of my feelings and your desires, if only for the other to coax them out of us.

I remember there being a flower across a muddy ditch at some point and you insisted on picking it yourself, without my help. At this, I told you I’d laugh if you fell - but I wouldn’t have laughed, or maybe not right away. I would have helped you before anything else. I still would.

We placed it on a stranger’s grave of your choosing, the loneliest looking tombstone.

Later you let me inside of you, behind an abandoned fire station and after I tried to brush the grass and mud off of you as if the damage wasn’t already done. On the way back, I let you lean against me to make your walk easier. As if I’d ever have refused. 

When we parted ways later that night, I let you borrow a book of poems by Walt Whitman, we hugged, we said goodbye. 

[wegohome]

Grow up

All-encompassing escapism drove me from my teens to young adulthood

The crippling grip of anxious realization crushed me soon after

Blissed out years running into the relentless pounding wake up calls

Each violent knock breaking my self-made prison of luxurious fuzz

Sobering reality stood as patient as ever on the other side

Light and clarity a blinding of its own kind of calamity

Piecemeal was the only way to absorb the sudden shock

Weakness rippling through every muscle

My mind recoiled in response, begging for resistance

but denial was becoming a lot less fun

My disdain for my behavior a lot less hip

Crutching yourself on delusions of grandeur losing its cool

It’s with surprising swiftness the moment has you playing a fool

This body with no self-worth and the same weird shit up your nose

No longer this saving grace for your problem with boredom

Just a waste of time when you’d now rather be doing something

Creating, resonating, make an impact with waves in such a way that you can feel alive

The walking corpse act dated, aloofness a waste of precious time

Age, experience, mistakes slapping you with sharp reminders

Grow up

[wegohome]

Failing phases of self-discovery

Second long serendipity

Bomb blasted thought-shaped shrapnel

Rumbling a reverberation origining from the center of our consciousness

A wave of an eventual universe