Back Again

•August 8, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Back Again

I don’t know what to say anymore.
With everything in place, the weight lingers on the shoulders, consistent pressure.
Finding the time to share our stories makes everything unmanageable.
I have not moved on nor have I forgotten.
In fact, I try to find the right words to say and for months I build and tear down the foundations of hello.
Keeping my dreams intact is about the only thing I can grasp because it keeps me hoping.
I stare blankly at everything.
My time will come when I can share it with all of you.
Let this pain one day be a reminder and let that embarrass me into success as opposed to running again.
Let these words find me again some day.

Striking

•April 8, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Striking

Struck.
A shotgun blast at point blank range right to the cranium.
Simultaneous.
A punch at the chest enough to shatter your sternum and send you crumbling to the floor.
An electric chair that you’re strapped to with eyes peeled opened and flashes of burning white light filling the room.
A slow piercing blade in your back that moves slow enough to make you run out of screams to belt out.
A million splinters individually penetrating your body where you can’t reach.
A pool with a see through glass covering it end to end and you, trapped, can only swallow water and hope that it becomes breathable.
An elevator with cables snapped loose and no end to the fall.
An endless hallway on fire with either direction equal in its warmth and torture.
That itch you can’t scratch.
Those words you can’t say.
Those regrets.
She does it all to you and doesn’t know it.

Art. Part 1

•April 6, 2014 • Leave a Comment

What if I’m not good at any of this? What will time end up doing with me? Time is a river and I float along its cold water. Will I just end up existing until the end and be known as competent or complacent or generic? These questions, once again arriving just in the nick of time, force their way into my head and swirl around like the beer at the bottom of a glass that I wish was full. Just when it all falls into place you see all the flaws and nitpick like a compulsive neat freak. You pick at the parts that are fading and pull those out. You pick at the parts that are chipped and pull those out. By the time we’re all done picking, we see it fall to pieces around us. Putting it back together requires those old bricks, as heavy as they are, to use as memories or as perspective. Either way it holds it all together, the glue to your beautiful contraption of a life that you created. But when I stand back at stare, those whites turn grey and black before me so fast that I just tear it all down in a single sloppy move. I lose pieces in the process. My art was never as good as everyone else’s anyway. I just always find a way to color it black even when I have a repertoire of pastels, paints, watercolors, oils, and inks to pick from. We all want our art to be remembered. So then why do I always begin by forgetting mine and starting it all over? My brush is dripping with my words and my canvas is supposed to be the perfect order I place it all in. I just end up staring at everybody else’s art.

She talks too fast

•April 6, 2014 • Leave a Comment

 

She talks too fast. I over think everything so I just assumed that all those words coming out at that speed were to hide something very specific in between them. I try to catch anything in between them. You can’t see what it is by looking into her eyes. Most people give it away when they look at you and you see the glint or the shine or the sparkle or the monotony. She has something else that catches me off guard every time we lock eyes. The struggle to understand is heavy on my mind. The sad part is that it’s all a figment of my complicated imagination. There isn’t anything there in those words. They lay flat on the air and I’m grasping for anything to give it all purpose. She just continues being her and I continue being me. Nothing complicated about any of that. She just talks too fast, I suppose.

Innocent

•April 4, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Innocent

 

He’s just a child.
He sits in front of her in an open field with grass bright green and the sun shining its warmth on him.
He has his hands in between his legs as he sits with legs crossed, innocent.
He looks up at her as she dances in a circle in front of him, skipping as she picks the petals from a dwarf sunflower, her white dress flowing in the simple, cool breeze.
She knows he’s there and takes comfort in it so she keeps dancing and dreaming.

He’s still there and he admires her more than ever.
Now she’s a little older and she’s stopped dancing in circles, instead walking in a slow, imprecise figure eight, each step a long moment for him.
She still has the dwarf sunflower in her hand, holding it loosely as it dangles there with a single wilting petal clutching to its bud.
She daydreams of someone , her mind in another world while she’s in that field and the sun is casting her shadow on him, keeping him in the shade and giving her an aura that he had always seen.
He sits with his legs crossed and his hands holding each other the way he would hold hers if he could.

He sits there patiently as the breeze gets colder and the sun gets lower, loving every moment he has with her there.
She stopped walking in long strides, now kneeling in front of him placing brick on brick and fastening them together with mortar, making a tiny circle fortress around herself.
Her face is sullen as her dreams never came true and the flower she had had drifted away when she let go of all her hope once she realized what that last petal was for.
He planted her withered flower he caught on the breeze next to him and made sure to keep it safe and promised to nurture it.

The sun had gone and the night was fierce in its darkness as he sat there with his legs crossed and his hands patiently clasped.
There was a tower of solid grey brick in front of him that stretched to the sky as far as he could look up.
The breeze was still keeping him company and the stars were there to help him think of something else besides the despair that was teasing inside of him.
No sound came from the tower and no light shown from its open top.
The night crept on.
When there is nothing, time melts into an incoherent space that makes all seem like one.

As the sunrise encroached, he could see the roots of the sunflower growing like vines up the tower, crossing in just the way she would dance in the sunlight.
The tower was torn down by its weakened state and there she sat in the field with her legs crossed and her arms wrapping around her cold body.
His eyes gleamed not by the sun but with the marvel he had for her presence.
She jumped up and fell on top of him, making her tears touch his shoulders as he smiled and wrapped his arms around her white dress.

He cherished this new beginning.

She never forgot about the sunflower.

Selective Word Choice

•March 26, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Selective Word Choice

I’ve been sitting here for nights, up endlessly as light barely crosses the sheet of paper I attempt to recollect memories on.
There were nights when I would wake up and immediately think “why?”
There were nights where I could only drink until everything became muddled and sleep would come with time.
Still, I would wake eventually, unfortunately.

As I closed my eyes last night there was one thing on my mind.
When I’ve been out drinking a bit and dancing a bit and singing a bit, there was one thing on my mind.
With this memory blocking my reason and logic from moving forward, I had to give it a voice.
I had to find the right words that would make it worth existing on paper for me to never forget.

She sat across from me saying everything she thought, every joke and witty line, every bit of optimism striking.
Everything around her became a silhouette while her words filled it all with color.
I kept asking questions to hear more and more, taking everything in and writing in my journal without her seeing.
This is all routine for everyone else who ever sat where I was, but their moments have happened or are forgotten already while I have the actuality of being in this moment right now, time on my side, making this unique and making everything she said fill me more than my beer or food or the noises around me or even the blood that my rapid heart was pumping through me.

What you should know is that what I needed to hear was everything she had to say.
Where I must be calculated and precise with every word I chose, she had it measured without thinking, without questioning.
I was taken with each statement, each being a piece of an unwritten poem, and I was almost envious I could never have written it first.
But to her it was all her feelings and thoughts and memories and to her that was all they were.

Here I was, an addict for dissecting every moment and word into fragments I end up losing focus of, for once letting everything be whole and not needing any more than what she had to give.
I was sitting with a flushed face and endless questions that were answered before they could escape my tongue.
She was practiced in her confidence, in the ways the words were full of shape and substance and merit.
I had no time to worry about anything else even though my food was cold, my beer was warm, and the place was emptying out as the night drew to a close.

What had me up in the darkness staring at a blank piece of paper with a blinding white light illuminating enough space to write on was everything that I had heard.
Honest and brutal to me, I had no reason to question what I had been once I heard everything that was said.
Someone may think it was casual, she was just speaking her mind and sharing her experiences and thoughts.
It was a moment of my night I need to have with me for a while.

When I woke up in the middle of the night I finally made sense of everything she said, piecing it together like ingredients in a recipe you had always wanted to try before but nerves got the best of you,
and I found myself asking “why not?”

Delirium

•March 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Delirium

I lay down in the dark with a simple song soothing me to that point between delirium and escape.
I stare at my phone, reloading the same pages with the same news stories while I sing the lyrics to that song in my head, not reading anything I’m seeing.
One thousand places at once and not enough time for me to be there now.
I hear the indistinguishable words of people talking at tables near me when I am at that restaurant at 2 a.m. so I make up the sentences for myself.
Here are the stories I make for you, scenarios that play out just before I close my eyes to sleep.
I make words go together like I do with drinks once I’ve had too many, spilling and mixing, poisonous.
I take a deep pause between each sentence to let everyone else catch up, all the conversationalists having their beers at the dimly lit bar in the hole in the wall in my mind.
Jukebox on shuffle and smoke filling the air, everything just happens and everything is as it always should have been.
Knowing it all can be so fascinating for them gives my rant a purpose at this haunting hour.
Drunken, delirious, curious, in love, here it can all make sense.
When I force myself to stay awake to find just another purpose for any of it, it can all make sense.