My heart and I have been together for as long as I can remember
We encountered our first love together
Dealt with my brothers and my father
Wished joy to some people
Wished pain to others
But I think we’re beginning to grow apart
My heart can’t handle my fears
I’ve got too much on my plate
I make selfish choices
I spend all day acting
My heart is leaving me.
Do I take time to change things?
Go to counseling
Find time to be authentic
Is that even in my character?
I’m lost, how should I be able to find my way
Or do I just let myself die
Let the heartache take away everything
Commit to the void
The void that feels more real than living
How do I manage my heart
In that town the sons of working men live in piles of sawdust, shadowed by their father’s figures.
The daughters of the same settle for what is given them, hoping only to find love, in repression.
That town, where chalk sits flat and the rain is called on short notice to make us forget.
Crabapples, ammunition of the angry children, grow in plenty while the minds of those pitching dry from lethargy.
The lampposts that illuminate downtown are just a show for the bored youth, wanderers in avoidance of their home’s dusty leather glow
And just as the families of loving parents grow irritated in boredom and separate, the grass on every lawn splits and patches, leaving good ground for the bugs to nest.
Though apart from it now, far past that place,
I do feel that I belong there.
Even as I live free in thought and emotion, progressive and cut free from guilt,
I miss the stillness.
The Curse Of Having A Fallback
Getting work done is hard when you can easily move back home and do nothing for as long as you want.
Yes I have potential.
Yes I work on the things I enjoy.
That does not mean I want to perform to every expectation you have of me.
I can’t care enough.
You’re blessed to have been gifted with a solid platform.
Is it even worth explaining though?
You’ll carry on believing I have the ability to care.
It’s just not that simple.
Let’s hope we can come to terms.
Uh oh horse story
So there’s this flaming gilded horse right?
He flies down from in-between two massive parting clouds in the sky
It seems as if he’s trotting on the air
As he lands you can hear a very faint metallic ringing
He turns away from you at a 3/4 pose
You step forward but stop as he begins to speak...
I am a really really special pony, Garth
I’m not sure you could handle all that I am
You quickly respond,
Well how do you know that, pony?
You have not proven yourself, this is obvious
The pony’s eyes spin and become pitch black
Suddenly the flames which once seemed so pure turn to a visible sickly green odor, billowing from his now exposed rib cage
You must trust me, Garth
I could not begin to explain my power
You spill the coffee you’re holding
If you are ever to read this I wish to thank you
You had more strength than anyone I know
You glowed brighter than any promise
You are a hero
An impossible and unnatainable persona
Your legacy of saving lives as a firefighter, alone, marks you as a saint
But your life did not amount to your occupation
You were a loving father, a mentor and a scholar
Your impact on the people who knew you was enormous
You taught humility, justice and perseverance
You wrote books from your heart
You painted the things you held dear
Even when Mimi passed on you never stopped making meaning
In the aftermath of heartbreak and dissolution you surpassed human limitations
You carried on your history of love, morality and art
Whenever I reflect on how broken and torn I may be I think of you
I recall that the blood running through me carries a message
Life is to be lived
and love is to be given
Thank you, Papa
Not really a tag sale
The day was winding down with slow roll in Ashfield
Red and golden leaves painting every square inch of the county
A three-piece kit and tinny guitar felt almost diagetic
My mother catches sight of a tag sale
I sink, thinking "not another..."
It wasn't buying anything that made the trips worth it
The colors, the bumpy roads, the cold air just outside the window
These were unforgettable
But I had little skill for expression back then
And so I hopped out
Stained glass lit up the house in jarring colors
The man was a painter, she said
Someone she went to school with
We got met with a kind smile
"Teddy! This must be Clay."
It seemed so odd that my mother was so well known
She never seemed to hang out with people very much
Hard to believe, given how a wonderful she was
As they talked I roamed around to check out his "works"
Copper fish, dangling glass, abstract canvases
No, I did not see the appeal
Given, all the art I knew was on lined paper
Must have been a cool guy though, my mom liked him
I then found myself in a gallery room surrounded by feathered thespians
So, feeling unqualified, I went to my mom and let her know I'd be sleeping in the car
She sighed and told me she'd be quick
I felt bad but the patchouli started getting to me
After a few minutes she hopped into the car
"Not really a tag sale, I guess." She said
"No. Kinda hippy dippy."
"Lets go home. I'll make spahgetti."
How Does It Feel
We laid like a cross in my bed
Sea foam soft hair
Tender emotions every so often spilling out
Hands, steel bars locking us in that cell together
I got up, only for a moment, and put our record on
Suddenly our hearts fixed to the rhythm with a slow snap
A sultry air melting the space between us
From some place deep notes of molten copper and zinc started bubbling
She looked to me
"How does it feel"
But I knew what we felt
There is no point in faking: a retrospective
Picture me, a caricature of temperamental failure. Young and consumed by the R, G and B
The dull hum of my Asus netbook being the closest thing I have to a loving girl’s voice.
So as I sit cross legged on my Patriots blank which nearly lay on my bed I come to the realization that I am lonely.
Why could this be? I had that one girl- oh but she had only a crush.
It seemed so unhealthy to be driven by this desire to find someone who would enjoy me. Someone who could look at me and see the wonder in how high my gamer-score was.
So I talked to my mom about it and she expectedly told my father.
My father seemed to think that all the time I spent in my room was why I was unhappy.
I knew that this solitude was almost definitely a reaction to him and stirrings of my home life.
He seemed to think that by breaking out of my self built prison I would metamorphose into something deemed as worthy.
It seemed possible. In retrospect it wasn’t.
Up to this point I had enveloped myself in the things that made me unattractive, sure, but the risk of faking felt much more destructive.
Though after long consideration and manipulation from him I decided I’d reinvent.
The things that illuminated my eyes became things to tuck away and mask.
So as I entered 7th grade I carefully laid out my flaws, as I saw them, and flipped them over whatever axis has been deemed standard.
That was probably not a good thing, in retrospect.
I looked like a fool.
I now believe that everyone understood the fakery of a small fat kid with glasses and an absurd sense of humor wearing a snowboard brand hoodie with a DC hat.
About the time 8th grade rolled around I had cemented my place and my friend group.
They enjoyed being around me and I was labelled “funny” for the first time.
Within the same year my father left for the umpteenth time and the blood started flowing in my family again.
Those layers of papier-mâché started beading off.
I was back to “pretty much myself”
I was still shy and nerdy and obsessed but I accepted it.
It’s impossible to wear that facade forever.
As I have grown I have realized how integral video games, art and science fiction have become to my sense of self.
If I am ever lucky enough to see my child through high school it will be my duty to foster their self acceptance.
He lives like a jellyfish
Tentacles numbered one to fifteen
One for each year his brain has aged into his pitiful “adulthood”
Women meet him with awe
His bioluminescent, alien quality driving them to follow and inevitably suffer from his quick trigger defense
And as they lay in wake of romance
One primarily founded in imagination
All they can do is piss on their wounds
And scrape off his stingers