I thought I'd be more upset.

I thought the years we had together

had made you inseparable from my psyche.

Instead I find myself relieved.

You were estranged,

longing to retreat 

Into your world of self-induced sadness.

I was just an accessory,

A point you made immensely clear .

Not with words or actions,

but rather with your aura,

Tepid and uninterested.

The silence

The half-hearted conversations

You chipped away at me

Unknowingly maybe

with a familiar emptiness.

I cannot complain.

I'm not so dense 

That I thought things would return to our standard

I am, however, dense enough

To believe you would come back to me

Complete in yourself

Yet seeking companionship

To pass the time.

Maybe you found someone else, then.

One who makes the time go by faster

More so than I could.

I hoped for clarity

You gave none.

So here I sit

Writing these words

Not because I want you to read them

Nor does it bring peace.

This is a way for me to discover

The incredibly misguide machinations

Within my heart.

Some eternal sunshine

Wants the warmth of you back

To comfort its world

To hear your voice

To know you again.

"That's gone now," I say

"It's not coming back."

How could I put myself

At the mercy of desire

Another time?

Is it innocence

Or maybe ignorance

That leads me down these roads?

I hope that one day

I'll have the answer, until then

I'll live in this quagmire so full

Of bitter dreams

Of meaningless wants

Of lost time

And my own damnation 

Confined to blackouts.

She told me she’d make it to Saint Jo’s. I sat with this for a bit, must’ve been 10 minutes or so. I couldn’t think of a response that seemed fitting. All the while she had been moving along through her life, same as me, developing and learning who we were when we were alone with only ourselves as company. Estranged, gone, alien, I had no response suitable for this bold statement of determination. All I could muster was a deadpan “ok”. That’s all I had. I had long ago decided that I needed to be free of mind from the delusion of a happy life, one where love can find you seated in anticipation, patient and hoping, ready to travel with a young lady headed to Saint Jo’s.

It felt sad at first, the realization that there were things more powerful than the wanting, the need for companionship in being. After a while, though, I became numb to it all, nothing could bring me down. And so, with my aloof self I carried on, again hoping to move forward, tamped down by the great meat grinder of existence that doesn’t give a shit about you or your little depressive mind.

There are things known and unknown to me that live within my soul-stuff. The known sits undisturbed, a place for established half-truths to dwell in solitude with little contemplation; you think “what is known is known, why should I beat the horse who’s expired? Why should I shake the tree hoping for some long gone fruit?” The unknowns are a problem though. They nag and pry, peel your mind in the pursuit of the everlasting twin lights of knowledge and wisdom.

In my half-hearted “ok” there was still hope, regardless of how hard I wanted to believe that I knew better. Hope is a chain that binds, cutting off circulation to your extremities, making you think that you’ve broken free somehow, yet when you tug to get away it fights back and slams you to the ground hard and flat on your back. No matter how hard I struggle against it, no matter the lengths I go to in an effort to cast of this iron shackling, I cannot overcome it.

Aleksandr Tvardovsky once wrote that “There are still hard times ahead for me, but never shall I be frightened.” I love this quote, it often inspires me to struggle against the abyss of the self, the complacency that grows year by year strangling everything that I hope to pursue and experience in a life that I have always imagined would be more finite than average. But it does not apply to me. I am afraid, so afraid. This girl, who has decided to go to Saint Jo’s will carry with her a luggage of my own making, handcrafted from the finest bark of a shattered self, carved to resemble the high walls that now protect me from the world that engulfs us all. I still carry Tvardovsy’s words, again hoping, hoping that someday they’ll inspire some ember in me to blaze and burn away the fat and sinew of my ongoing, narcissistic self-deprecation. Maybe then I’ll be able to say “Hey wait for me, I’m headed that way too.”

Take me home with you.

My dear dove, the poetry of my heart.

How do I say the simple yet profound?

Plum the depths of a soul so shallow, you just might find worth.

You are the space under an umbrella

During a cool rain, as I walk through bricked streets.

You are my sunset

glistening over a meadow of wheatgrass

in the middle of a long summer break.

Take me home with you, so that I might return at least some of the miracles you have given me.

You deserve to know all the beauties of the world,

My regret is that I could not deliver them to you.

Take me home tonight.

If I can’t lay my head in the place I’m happiest

Why am I here?

Little baby, crying in her crib,

Mama’s got no milk to give.

The rent’s due, groceries are few,

Mama’s got no time for you.

She’s trying to turn that pussy out,

But these days the old girl’s in a drought.

“Get a job, you slob,” the g-men say,

but when’s the last time they were in this way?

The bad pills don’t come cheap,

And whatever good they sow

It's the soul they reap.

Little baby, crying in her crib,

Daddy’s gone, with his one life to live.

That life was took, out in them streets;

Just another dead nigger for the law man’s sheets.

The world don’t care,

Life ain’t fair,

The ivory tower gets off on its stares.

Little baby, crying in her crib,

Thank god you won’t worry about them chains they give.

In that rundown head house was found,

Sleeping still without a sound,

Little baby girl who cried in her crib,

Asking no more for what couldn’t be give.

My delicate flower,

Born to strife and raised in grief,

My sun will shine for you

As much as you may ask it to.

If you should parch in the heat, it will yield.

If you should tremble in the cold, it will warm you.

My delicate flower,

I hope nighttime brings you peaceful dreams

Of sights and worlds yet seen

And wonderful days to be lived.

My beautiful flower,

The wind will blow steady,

Harsh rains will fall.

One day you may lose your petals,

One day my light will fade.

May we find serenity in each other,

Together enduring nature’s capricious ways.

For now, though, my love,

Take comfort in knowing

That should a certain delicate and beautiful botanical need help growing,

There is a light that never tires of glowing.

Horror of horrors!

I am confined

Within a prison

Not of soul or mind

But of flesh and bone

Built from within

The stones all serve

To expose my sin.

For this prison,

Though none may see

Is entirely made

From the schemes of me.

Heartless and cold

Warm and bold

It is quite a thing to behold.

And you'll never see

Another sight

As daunting as one

Hiding themselves from the light.

Thus you can see

Why warden and prisoner agree

That the one to hold the key

Should be anyone but me. 

Listening walls

I know what you hear, my confidant.

The angered shouting,

The tearful apologies.

What do you make of these?

Do you judge me?

Do you judge her?

Listening walls

I know what you hear.

The passion of our loins,

And tender moments of bliss

Tucked away into quiet little memories.

Do you love her, as I have?

Do you love me, as she has?

Listening walls

Our lives are your entertainment,

A play we participate in

To a solemn audience.

When we leave will you tell our story?

When we are gone will you share our heart?

Listening walls

I know what you hear, my confidant.

Come closer to me

The rythm of a heart

The scent of carnal things

Waiting to be felt

Hoping to become love

Hold me near

The rythm of the night

the Swooning masses

Lost in a buzz

Let me kiss you

A soft reminder

That life has pleasures

Squirreled away for rainy days.

My throat burns.

By now I'm on my 5th cigarette.

The world spins beneath me,

Hostile and violent 

Wonderful and free.

Where are my compatriots?

They have been taken,

Swallowed by the terrestrial stars,

Those shining lights of the midnight scene.

Who has the next round?

I think its my turn,

To give back to those who brought me out,

Back into the world that I've hid from.

The morning star is on the horizon,

And the shops are closing up.

Call it a cue.