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Begendings

By:

James Alewine

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For everyone who has ever loved me,

And for whom I loved in return.

This is both for, and about you.

Thank you.

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“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life,

or whether that station will be held by anybody else,

these pages must show”

-C. Dickens

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Expectations

Like a wet blanket you delude your victims to think you are

a comfort

But in reality you leave us cold and burdened.

You apply pain to my weaknesses as though my struggles

were meaningless.

You slither through the lives of the youth in my society

biting out vehemently

With your toothless mouth to terrify, but preserve, because

you feed not on my flesh, but on my soul.

You are old,

You survive by praying on the old and as the world

changes, more often the young.

We remedy you with concoctions of addictions as if curses

were cures.

And I dream you were not so, but you keep me from sleep,

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Barring my dreams to an inaccessible place like a prisoner

without chains.

You are a stop sign on the one way street that was once my

happiness,

As if my ambition to attain serenity made me a tyrant with

goals inhumane.

Why do you torment me so?

If my words were verbs they would not strike you down,

But survive you in hope of fulfilling a hopeless goal.

Like a bipolar actor you wear a different facade day by day,

whispering words of

Crumbling love if you are not attained, as if you were a

goal

To strive for and not a weight to contain me within myself.

I will break free of you.

If eyes are the window to the soul then watch mine now as

I shatter

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The belief that you can control me. I contain limitless

possibilities,

In a world of limited tomorrows. I am a beautiful rough

sketch that is drawn

Every day at dawn.

More than a coloring book filled with factory produced

emotions

I am an explosion.

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And I am more than your expectations.

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Why Try?

When I was in the second grade, my teacher told me that

my greatest talent was my ability to never stop talking.

I don’t know if that is a talent,

But my second grade teacher, Mrs. Rosie, though I could

do it better than anyone else in my class.

So here I am, talking.

We all come to a point in our lives full of heartaches and

headaches we’re tired and we want to give up,

after all life is easier when it’s over.

So why go on?

Why prolong the suffering when the solution is so simple?

Why Try?

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Because, it reminds us incidentally, but not irrelevantly,

that the world can be as bad as it is because people too

often fail to learn and grow,

Partially through the debris of pain and horror in their

lives, partially from stupidity or foolishness, partially from

selfishness or laziness,

But that’s what it comes down to.

Because, it reminds that as hard as it is to grow, the desire

to be more than what we are right now is the yin to the

yang of accepting that right now we are what we are which

powers the gears of our civilizations,

The specific mix varies but we all tell stories of how we

want the world to be or not to be, eternal reminders of what

we should strive for.

Because it can be said that we are all machines. simply

biological ones, our natural functions and systems run like

a well-crafted machine.

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But in the end we must realize that we are more than the

sum of our parts and that we each have something worthy

within us,

Something worth trying for.

Because too often in our society we turn a blind eye to the

cruelty of people saying things like “It doesn’t matter to me

“or “It’s not my problem” but we have to try to force

society into a brighter tomorrow than the darkness we are

currently surrounded in.

Because the politicians and millionaires are one and the

same, and they tell you everything is okay, and you are

okay.

But when I look around I see the tears flooding the streets

and the cries trampled beneath their feet as we wear help

wanted signs around our necks like nooses.

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We have to try.

Not only for the betterment of ourselves, but for the sake of

others yet to come, for the sake of those not privileged with

the freedom to ask “why try?” And so you ask me why try?

And I respond,

You already know.

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Super Heroes

When I was a kid I was fascinated with superheroes

Men who became gods, not restrained by reality,

overcoming the impossible

I wanted to be what they are.

What could I find under their mask that made them

extraordinary that I did not have beneath mine?

But my mask was different, it was a smile.

Kids can be cruel they used to say

So my identity remained a secret and soon I forgot. Too

busy learning what to be

To protect myself from the cruelty of society.

Fitting in is an art and I was blind to the canvas.

I waited for the day I’d be struck by a lightning bolt or

gamma ray

To change something or at least end everything.

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But it never came, so I packed away my cape, but when I

tried to take my mask off

I realized that who I was pretending to be became

who I am.

Ripping open my shirt, there was no ‘S’ brazen on my chest

only the scars

Left by the shards of a broken heart.

I was my own Kryptonite, destroying myself.

Who am I?

I shrink into the night because the day brings light that

reveals that my only superpower is convincing myself I’m

alright. If only I could fly away not sink further into the

grave of loneliness. My cape tightens around my neck like

a noose. I must get loose.

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Save me!

When I was a kid I was fascinated by superheroes,

little did I know I would grow up to be one.

They say pain is part of the human condition but my

unwillingness to accept it makes me stronger because life is

my nemesis I will combat it with words. My thoughts build

empires I will not fail, I recall every time I thought I would

not make it but I am here. And I will wear a mask no longer

because who I am is the one who got me where I am.

I am a super hero

Because despite life’s best efforts,

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I am still here.

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A Letter to My Child

You will cry

As you open your eyes and realize that I have doomed with

the fate of a decaying body, born into a society controlled

by fear, which you cannot escape. But that comes later.

You will learn

That curiosity killed the cat but he was given a hero’s

burial and not all learned things are good because “caution

hot” signs will never be written in brail as if they expect

you to learn from your burn retracting your curiosity if only

to preserve your innocence.

No!

You were given ten fingers because there is always more

than one answer, use your grasp to find it.

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You will smile

Teeth are white because they are brightest in the darkness,

as if your happiness were a lighthouse to those shipwrecked

on the jagged rocks of society and I will live to preserve

that light.

You will dream

Limits of reality are defined only by what you choose for

them to be. You are the author of the book without words

because thoughts are conveyed so much better through

touch. Entitle it beauty because every rose has a scar and

every scar has a story and your story began with love, a

simple four lettered thought conveyed so much better

through touch.

You will lose your way

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You will be told to take the road less traveled as you grow

but you must know there are no directions, paint an arrow

on your heart and follow it. Use your tears as a river to

push you through hardships, they are weights that will

make you stronger.

You will live

Your journey has just begun but know that I will always

love you, forever, because I’m your father and it’s what I

do.

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Pain

There will be pain

As the darkness of what you once thought was love engulfs

you,

As the silence of the deprivation of your happiness deafens

you. There will be pain.

But that is okay.

Know that you are not alone and should you believe that

you are, know that you are wrong

Pain is a promise given to us at birth, carried as we go.

You must grow.

Let your happiness be a flower

You are beautiful

But do not forget that flowers grow best in the shit that is

pain.

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And there will be pain.

Let it flow from you through tears not life, scars on the

heart can be learned from

But scars on the skin can only be covered, and you are far

too perfect to be covered.

Pain will leave you like a drunkard stumbling from bar to

bar looking for your next last call if only to numb itself.

Do not fall.

Hide your heart under the bed, designate a box to keep it

in, take it out carefully for it is fragile, or wear it on your

sleeve losing it piece by piece with every touch you give to

those who know not how to return them.

Like an old book you are beaten and bruised, ignored and

used, but do not forget that you hold a universe within you,

believe that books are more than their covers;

Reality is abstract, look deeper to find it.

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Do not let pain destroy you,

Be resilient in your resolve be steadfast in your

apprehension. Like a second hand actor await your time to

shine, pain will not daunt you, if the waves of fear drown

you rise to the occasion be brazen! Appreciate every step

knowing they are taken by a broken body, count every

breath, they are limited

Live.

There will be pain.

But do not let it birth fear, accept it like a misunderstood

friend. Embrace it, let every tear carry you farther, every

scar, every broken bone, and every shattered heart this is

who you are

You are more.

So cry, clean your wounds, bandage your heart get up.

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This is your time.

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Memories

You used to say, “I’ll love you forever and always,” and I

would say “I’ll love you always and forever.”

My memories are like black holes because time stops in a

black hole. Let my memory contain your light through the

night.

Why did you go?

You used to say “I’ll love you forever and always” but now

forever is gone and always fades to dust, like a black hole

you fade to dust.

My memory fails me

Why?

The question resounds in my mind.

Why?

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You used to say true love is like music, a heartbeat echoes

on after you’re gone, so remember me and live life for love.

In a black hole time stops because memories are eternal;

they will not fade, they shine bright.

You would be proud of me, because I won’t forget

I’ll keep you in my memory. Because you used to say,

“I’ll love you forever and always.”

And I would say

“I’ll love you always and forever”

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Write

I wanted to write, like a drug addict I wanted the need of

release as if my tears lit fires within my fingertips.

Feeling nothing anymore because I have burned my senses,

putting out my own fires.

Words are extensions of thoughts, vocalizations of the soul,

and I sold mine to you.

Like a shady car salesman you promised to give me what I

needed to go on but here I am

Broken down.

So I write.

Addressing my emotions like distant cousins, familiar, but

not well known.

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I write to myself, and to the one who by the end of this will

have grown past it. I like to think he’s happy, a concept like

the last page of my own novel, alone it makes no sense,

But it will.

I wanted to write for you, it’s the only thing I can manage.

You were always so broken, but I was blinded by the hope

that maybe you could fix me.

And you said that you had ruined yourself by not

becoming the standard to which society held you, so let me

hold you,

because you are more.

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And I write for you because you deserve more, but this is

all I have to give, “I love you’s” fall short, and

compliments are hypocritical because in the end you had

always been more than my thoughts.

So I write.

To remind myself that you are more than what I need, so

leave. I’ll be okay. But if someday I’m not, I’ll write. I’ll

write to you but for me, and it will be my last page, it

doesn’t make sense now,

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But it will.

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Laughter

Laugh, laugh as if there is no such thing as noise pollution,

fill the air with the sound of joy,

because it is so rare that the single note ringing in your ear

is priceless.

Laugh because tears flow freely but smiles are so often

costly, laughs should not be forced to produce themselves,

but be invited into the light like an old friend stuck in the

Dark.

Make noise, be free with your smiles because damn it if

you haven’t deserved a shred of serenity.

When it rains, rejoice. Splash in the puddles making waves

large enough to topple the corrupt idea that maturity should

be constant.

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Laugh.

Laugh because I want it, because I need it, like cocaine,

supply me with my addiction to your affliction of

happiness.

Vocalize the pain that you have overcome,

because medals collect dust, but this will be eternal.

Hear what silence has to say and then defy it. Sadness is a

still promontory you must leap from and as the air is

pushed from your lungs, let it carry the melody of our

memories.

Laugh, because you can. You forget sometimes.

And in those instances of suffocating silence pierce the veil

with a smile.

Just a reminder to me from you, who is I.

Laugh to forget, but remember to cherish what you have

forgotten.

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Replace what is old with what is now, as if our time

together is kindling to burn in the fire that drives the

present into the future.

Laugh, its okay sometimes.

They may tell you to be silent, but they have forgotten what

it’s like to be young, and carelessly curios about

themselves.

Look at yourself, what do you see?

Laugh at it, you need it. Reflect on your flaws and accept

that they exist and love them like they love you.

Laughter is a light,

so when it gets dark in your heart,

Remember all you need to do is turn on the light.

When we laugh we cry, no surprise, it’s a reminder of the

times between these instances of joy in which we suffered,

and how short and few these times are.

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We cry for their burial knowing that by tomorrow they will

have gone, but do not close the casket yet!

Get up!

Put a silencing finger to the thought that this over, laugh!

Continue on pressing forward into the unknown, armed

only with the knowledge that you have made it this far.

Laugh because you have earned it.

You have exceeded expectations, overcome obstacles and

you are still here.

Laugh and remember what you need to forget, because

today is new and so are you

so begin, and laugh when you can

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Snow

I miss you sometimes

and

Sometimes I miss you.

The difference is in the subtleness of the emotion

I miss you sometimes:

Like when I find an old picture of us and I am forced to

live with the regret

of lost love, hallowed happiness.

And sometimes I miss you:

Like when I lie awake at night waiting for you to lay beside

me as you once did.

Our bodies fitting together like the gears of a clock,

Defiant to time; our love eternal.

Winter is coming.

A fitting season for loneliness. As if nature nurtured my

tears, freezing them like icy reminders,

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That bones break, muscles tear, and hearts shatter.

Time seems to slow during winter.

Maybe it’s the softness of the snow, or the desolating

silence of the naked trees.

You used to say, I love you forever and always

and in that moment time slowed, forever was only right

now, and always was only what had been

Because the future will always hold pain,

but in the moment of timeless eternity,

I was happy.

But snow melts and leaves fall.

Nature once again reminds me that all things change,

Except for one.

I miss you sometimes.

And sometimes I miss you.

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Love Lost

Put your fists up, hit me once more

because your touch is worth more than my consciousness

Love is war.

Two generals posed on a battlefield bed naked to hatred

and kisses are your biological warfare.

So hit me once more.

Remind me that I still have the capacity to feel

I sew up my wounds, using my scar tissue to wipe away the

tears before you can see.

You have beaten me.

Love is not the battle, but the fight to resist it.

I wave my white flag, pale to the idea that this is going to

hurt like hell.

My heart is your prisoner of war, malnourished and on the

brink of insanity

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Because rationality is our enemy.

Knowing that is better to not know

how it feels to hold each other.

Kiss me for the first time.

A kiss goodbye.

A declaration of war, not civil, what I know and what I

want battle to the death on this battlefield bed.

Alone

wars are lost or won.

But I’ll be okay, mark my heart on the casualty list and

move on as if I could.

Here I lay with your name on my lips.

One more kiss poisoned by, “Just Friends”

So please, I beg you

hit me once more because love is a war I lost to you.

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Smiles and Goodbyes

I pick myself up with hands that hold others together

I’m tired.

A stranger pours me another glass until the sun goes down.

I sleep in my bathing suit so that if I drown in my sleep

at least I can pretend this was all a dream.

They say stupidity is resilient.

So let me try again, like a boxer I take every blow,

holding on just so I can

be there for the next one.

Your smile, a mocking mirror, so I can see all that I strive

never to be,

and you say you love me, but when I ask why

You smile.

So I’m sorry,

I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger,

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But this time I’m not getting up, I’m letting go of myself.

So that my dreams can blow me away from

All that I strived for.

You smile, little do you know it’s the only goodbye I need.

I’m a stranger to myself now so I pour myself another drink

my last one.

I stumble out of my own life. I’m getting up.

But not for you.

I’m grounding myself.

Taking my own hand, because damn it I need a kick stand.

I’m tired of you needing us to be friends

Driving to the hospital to mend a broken heart,

dedicated to someone else.

Goodbye my hallelujah hell

I am beaten but not broken

I have places to be mirrors to see.

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You want to keep me unhappy

As if my misery were a trophy.

But I need to be, to prove that I can without you

I pick myself up with hands that hold others together and I

reserve a smile just for me.

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Goodbye.

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Shining Stories

I read once,

that the stars that shined above us could have burned out

thousands of years ago

but, the light takes time, to leave us.

And sometimes I see people

whose eyes shine like the stars, tears connecting them like

constellations.

And I worry that the light behind, burned out long ago,

but the light takes time, to leave us.

But unlike stars I believe that we can shine again,

like billions of suns warming the hearts of those who

cannot.

Because the universe tells stories.

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Ancient men believed that stars were the written tales of

destiny

And the planets, were gods.

Because the universe is vast,

and for every black hole falling in on itself

there is a white sun warming those around it.

Because together we are strong.

A single North Star built upon by the light of our eyes,

looking for a better tomorrow.

So when I ask you to look at the stars

Don’t look up, but look into mine, study every line and hue

because stars tell stories, and yours intertwines with mine.

So shine.

Light the world with your passion, melt the frozen with the

warmth of your dreams.

Gleam.

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Forever, because you can, and if you feel as if you’re

fading away, take my hand.

We will love like a generator plugged into a supernova.

We will press on into the darkness,

and thousands of years from now

Men will look into the atmosphere, at new constellations

each changing from year to year,

and they will read our story,

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as it shines likes stars in the sky.

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Wishes

I’d like to write an apology, a letter full of wishes wanting

to escape the impossible

to become the inevitable, as if words were fallen eyelashes

that couldn’t bear the weight

Of bottled emotions sealed in tears.

So they fall to become broken promises blown away on the

wind that whistles from a lying man.

So given the chance,

He will write,

a tear stained page purposefully setting sail to get away

from himself.

It hurts.

He is Atlas holding the weight of the world on his

shoulders

Let him shatter, the world will be better for it.

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An empty apology fills what is left in the absence of what

never got the chance to be

I’m sorry.

Two words that embody the whole of his being

As if simplicity was anything but.

We live in this world of pain, a blame game of whose fault

it is that we died before we were given the chance to live.

And in this world there is nothing sadder than the shallow

existence of hope.

Its life inevitably cut short in the cold reality of the perfect

impurity that pervades in this society

And so this letter becomes a story, a tragedy, abruptly

ended in two words,

I’m sorry

I’m not a perfect man, not even a good man, but man is

what I am, forced into this role by God

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Preordained to destroy, to set fire to creation, and lie alone

in my destruction,

There is no easy way to say, I hate what I am, and,

I am Sorry.

I am an apology as empty as the eyes that stare back at me

from this shattered reflection.

All the tears have fallen, dousing the fire that once burned

within,

It is dark now, a foot note is the only music left inside of

him,

Lost somewhere inside, between lost and love, the note

reads,

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“I’m sorry.”

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Cheating Gravity

Newton’s first law of physics says, everything falls down,

and I used to think he was wrong, because I thought to fall

in love, was to defy gravity. Every smile, every kiss, every

“I love you”

slipping from your lips would pull me up, like the corners

of your mouth when you would smile at me and every step

we took in our relationship was measured in feet, in

altitude.

But now I know that Mr. Newton wasn’t wrong, because

we weren’t indefinitely falling up, but only setting for a

harder fall. And fall I did.

Crashing like glass in the floor shattering into so many

pieces I didn’t even know if I existed anymore, and when I

looked around my own carnage for you, you weren’t there,

because you didn’t fall,

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you’re in the same place you were in when we began.

Your smile curving up like this is all a game, and I’m not

the only pawn you were playing with.

I thought by now, that the punching bag I call my heart

would be used to being ripped apart, but you redefine pain.

Like an amplifier turning a slight shock into an electric

chair. So sentence to me life, knowing now, that it is worse

than death, because now I know that who I was was not

enough, making who I am a constant struggle to define

my own self-worth.

Because from birth I’ve been on a journey to become who I

am not, just to fit into the persona of who you want me to

be.

So I hope he was worth it.

If my touch couldn’t exemplify the love that made us more

than lust, then I pray his touch can.

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I keep score of the times I curse your name if only to have

the taste of it on my lips once more, carving the days on my

cell wall of shut out emotions with frozen tear knives,

because you shut me out, while you warmed to the idea of

letting him in.

So let me go.

Don’t pretend to be full of sorrow, remorse is an emotion

that belongs in the past, and in the fatal event that we

couldn’t last, turn me loose, this relationship causes me to

choke as if I were wearing a noose, fixing me to the hope of

forgiveness.

No.

My memory is an exhaustible resource, it cannot be

recycled and remodeled to fit your plea of false remorse.

Newton’s first law of gravity says that everything falls

down, and this is true until we find the ground.

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You don’t love me anymore.

And the truth is, despite popular belief, you can’t cheat

gravity.

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Empty Space

Space is defined as an expanse that is unoccupied, or free.

So when you said to me, “I need some space.” I naturally

assumed you needed to be free, as if I were a chain,

trapping you to misery.

There is no sound in space, no words that can be put

together to express how much that hurt,

but I listened.

I stepped away with the vision of one day holding you

again, willing to bend so we didn’t break,

but see, you wanted a break.

So I prayed the break was only a crack and not a shatter,

I spent my time taping the break with words of

reassurance.

Gambling with my sanity in vanity,

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I was so afraid to lose you, because that would be to lose

everything,

so I bet anything, until I was empty,

Like space.

And you move away because in space, there is no friction

to limit you, no reason to stop you, and you ask me how I

couldn’t see this coming, and I’m wondering how you

could.

Things don’t grow in space, and yet we grew apart like a

man who gives up what he loves because now, “he’s grown

up.” But unlike him I do not grow up, I grow down, you

drown me in false promises Exhibit A: “I love you”

Exhibit B: “I need space.”

So leave.

I’ll have eternity to wonder why,

Goodbye.

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I’ll just be here,

If you need me I’m only one eternity away trying vainly to

fill your space.

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A Merlot & a Puzzle Piece

I’m so tired of definition.

I’m tired of being squeezed into an adjective as if my

personality were an empty “Mad lib” so that you might

define me in whatever way suits your fancy. I’m so tired of

the disappointment directed towards me when I can’t fit

your dissolution of my definition, as if I were a puzzle

piece that wouldn’t fit no matter how hard you try to

change it. In your etch sketch rendition of my life, the key

word being, “my” not yours. Property of of James Fucking

Alewine.

So don’t dictate the direction of my destiny as if it were

your property, because experts say dependence stops at the

age of 8, and for me that’s eight years too many.

So allow me to alleviate myself from your expectations,

I’m not a puzzle piece, I’m the whole damn puzzle.

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Don’t condense me

I am a masterpiece of abstract interests and perplexing

complexity.

So I am going to be.

I’m gonna be, whatever the hell I want to be, because for

me, success and duress hold the same meaning. Like

Galileo, I’m looking to the stars to shed light on

opportunity for fulfillment, in this world of empty cups I

am gonna drink from the cup of life as if it were a 1902

Merlot.

So if you want to know who I am, pay close attention

Because the entirety of life is a 101 on not knowing.

I’m so tired of definition.

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But I am warming to the idea of exaggeration, and for what

it’s worth I am pretty damn happy to be me.

Because by definition, we are all undefinable, and the line

that we draw in the sand will inevitably be washed away,

but do not allow your dreams to be tarnished by finality.

Find courage in the inexhaustible, find reason in the

undefinable, find purpose in the unachievable, because for

each puzzle piece that you add to the masterpiece that is

you, you will grow.

For every sip from the merlot that is life, you become a

little more intoxicated and entrapped by infatuation with

your imperfections.

Don’t allow yourself to be allocated to austerity.

Be the entire puzzle, do not force yourself to fit into a role

for society, because life is a little mystery,

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Like a puzzle piece, or a merlot.

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Smile at the Scars

These scars make me smile, they’re a memory lane running

along my arm taking me on a trip that’s worth it because

each etched line marks where a blank space is now filled

with stories of times when I thought I couldn’t make it, but

I could, and I did, and the document of proof was written

with a pen that spills ink as if it were blood.

And you’d say it’s not worth it,

but I could never understand what you were referring to,

me, or the scars.

But see you don’t smile at the scars like I do, because for

you each line is a rhyme in my own eulogy because the

sound of a tear drop is poetic to me, and you grab my arm

and make me swear that I will never make you bear the

pain of blame, as if I had meant to write these lines as an

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accusation. Because you always allow accusations to fall

on you like rain, and that’s poetic.

But you don’t care for poetry.

But I’m here, so listen, my heart beat, beats on. It presses

on, bearing the weight of my scars, just for you dear,

because of you dear. And a scar may sing of the memory of

our maladies, but know that by definition each scar is

multiplied by scientific notation, because each scar

represents ten scars that were never written thanks to you.

Because you don’t smile at the scars.

You smile at me.

So I smile at the scars, because try as they might they will

not hinder me.

My memory will not recall the scars, but rather, only the

smiles.

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Brand New Waves

A goodbye, is never just a goodbye.

Because pain stains us. A mark that that bleeds into our

lives from the roadmap of scars on our hearts, directing us

through our histories of heart breaks.

But now is not one of those times, today is a day to

appreciate the waves, because they always have and always

will, come and go, gracing our eyes with a short kiss on the

shore. And they never stay but it’s a promise that everyday

there will be new waves, to come and go.

So I don’t pray you’ll stay, I pray you’ll go.

Go travel the world and become a tidal wave crashing into

the cliffs of loved ones’ arms, because we will be here,

always ready to hold you when you’re feeling low, but

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know that you’re going to go once again, better than ever,

ready to carry the world on your shoulders, but never alone.

Look around at those who surround you, watching you go,

but never for good, because though people will come and

go, some will stay. They will stay by your side in hard

times, ready to steady you when you stumble, and ready to

hold you when you’re falling apart.

The rocks will crumble, and the waves will fall, but those

who love you won’t.

Because a goodbye is never just a goodbye

and pain may stain us, but smiles are white like bleach to

clean the tear stained cheeks and the battle worn hearts.

To help you shine once more like the sun on brand new

days, days of laughter and days of escapades, so set sail on

your trip, course set for the unknown.

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And should you look around, you will see that you are

surrounded by waves ready to carry you home whenever

need be.

You will be missed as your cheeks are kissed by these salty

tears, so drown your fears and run. The winds of change

will blow, and the waves will billow,

and the shore will stay right here,

ready to welcome you home some other day.

Because a goodbye is never just a goodbye,

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But a promise of a hello yet to come.

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Seconds to Centuries

I don’t think the problem with life is that it ends, but that

we can’t find happiness enough to let it.

We meander through our days always accounting for

tomorrow to bring release.

We bypass love as if it were a wrong exit on the freeway of

meaningless fellatio.

Happiness can’t be condensed to an hour of alcohol

it’s smaller than that.

It’s the moment of silence, so incredibly loud that we

scream out, running through the night, running away from

ruin and responsibility because we’re all broken records

repeatedly calling out for love, with broken needles

running along our bodies.

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So run with me, run from it all, take my hand and let’s get

lost in your room climbing into the sheets to fly into the

sky. Let’s believe that we deserve more than routine,

because there’s not enough time for mediocrity in emotion,

so make time to cry. Because a life without tears is a life

full of lies and we only have a handful of years to write

centuries worth of stories.

But do not forget that time is only a measurement of

distance, so stay close to me, and we’ll live forever.

And every day is new so live it as if there were few. Refuse

to fall into the mundane, no matter how unique the

snowflake, it will inevitably melt if only to bring life to

spring.

So in the end find fulfillment in the time between, dusk to

dawn.

Live your life before it’s gone.

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Because it only takes a few seconds to live, but a lifetime to

die.

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Harsh Winters and Forgiving Springs

I forgot to forgive you

the day you left I laughed as if funerals are funny

I buried my sorrow in a box, and I forgot.

I laid my emotions to rest as if numbness were an antibiotic

for my duress, and loneliness accompanies those who

drown themselves in distractions to avoid the epiphany that

is the inevitability of our emotional eulogy.

So I died a little every day I was alive, and each day felt as

if I were on an operating table as the doctors desperately

tried to piece back together my pitiful social wellbeing.

Placid were the personalities of the thoughts I allowed to

board in my mind, provided the provocation for self-harm

could be kept outside.

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But I smiled today,

because the sun rose this morning, a subtle promise that

though my world was broken, this one is okay, and my

reason to stay left me, so I’m going to follow her example,

and find a new reason.

Because spring is coming and winter is passing, and along

with it, my last love for you.

I’m going to start new.

Tilling the soil of my heart, in hope that it’ll grow from the

cold, fertilized by forgiveness.

I forgive you.

So goodbye old flames, hello new sparks,

warm my heart, because winter is over now,

and spring is here.

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My Only Friend

I am alone again.

As if the reoccurrence of loneliness were in itself

an old friend.

I keep him at a distance, always an arm’s length away

but with my hands full, I have nothing to brace myself

and so shoulder to shoulder, he and I face,

nothing.

I am alone again.

The clock ticks its silent hiss

telling me I am not welcome

me, or my shadow.

We will pass into the rain, he will dissipate, and I,

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I am alone again.

Feel the taps of rain drops on my skin

translucent are my dreams, clear for none to see

I lay my arms down and loneliness comes to me.

We are alone again.

My only friend.

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Watch and Listen

My grandfather was a happy man, always talking,

always laughing, and always wearing a watch.

So I asked him one day, “Grandad why do you always wear

a watch?” and he said to me,

“Because a watch never stops, its ticks and tocks ring on

forever as if it were an eternally ringing alarm clock

reminding you that damn it you’re late again.”

But you don’t ever here its tick until you’re alone.

The silence allows it to resound in your conscience

continually reminding you, you’re alone

See because when you’re surrounded by people the watch

stops ticking and time loses its meaning,

because the only time that time is ever wasted is when

when you’re away from the people you love.

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You see, I wear a watch not so I can see the time I’ve got,

but to hear the time I’ve lost.

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Love Blinds

Black isn’t the absence of color, rather a conglomeration of

all color, a mysterious rainbow hidden indside itself.

Black is also the absence of light.

And without light we lack understanding,

and I can’t understand why.

Why a father would hate his son.

As if I were a ditch that you got stuck in on your path of

life. I cannot fix my mistake, because in this case the

mistake is my existence.

I will not apologize for that.

Because your guilt will stay with you, like a bad taste in

your mouth because you bit off more than you could chew

and now youre choking on apologies

that just won’t come out.

I’m sorry.

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I’m sorry you’ll never meet your grandchildren because

even with only one good eye left I can still see that you are

a monster.

And for all my life I will scream into my reflection

“I am not like you”

Time will erase your mistake from the minds who prefer to

see a reality without color, but I am not looking back,

because black isn’t the absence of color, and in the absence

of a father my home will lie before me, with my past on my

back it will not weigh me down to your level of hatred and

bitterness,

but I will move on.

And I wish you the best old man, and if you should ever

swallow your pride and cough up an apology to your son.

He will listen, he will shake your hand, and as a man

he will walk away.

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Because one day he will make a promise to his son,

a promise to never hurt him, and to show him all the colors

of the world, because his own father had only shown him

white lies and blinding fury.

And when that little boy asks where his grandfather is, I’ll

say to him, that he got lost along the way trying to fix what

he always though was just another mistake.

And God I hope, that one day

I won’t have to look into the mirror at the man who looks

so much like you, and cry out,

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“I am not like you.”

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Our Turn

City light illuminates the night sending cold shafts of

fluorescent numbness into a girl stumbling home from her

first job. She is a factory worker of making love. Tears of

fear reflect in her eyes as she questions

“Why?”

The simple question echoes in the hearts of the broken, like

shattered glass in an alleyway. Where a young boy hides

praying he’ll die, the only escape from a home without

hope ruled by a tyrant

on his alabaster throne in the living room

who calls himself father.

Light shines not to light their way home, but to create

shadows to hide in, because to be recognized is to be

mocked. As if we’re all first place science fair winners,

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laughed at by our classmates, because it is so hard to pass

that doing so is wrong.

And so many of us are wrong.

This is the gift left to us by our predecessors who smirk

because it’s our turn. They relish the sight of us bending

until we break beneath the weight of of knowing we can’t

fix this.

We’re all vice presidents forced to shine after an

assassination, we find hope in our grief.

Like the news reporter choking on the story of another

school shooting, who doesn’t know that the spirit of the

children is as broken as the mind of the man who saved

them from suffering in this sociopathic society.

The problems of our time will bore into our skin, because

now it is our turn to run or to find light, sifting through the

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convolution of lies that pour from our leaders’ mouths. Our

turn to believe that roses can grow

even in the night.

We press onward shouldering the weight of laughter

thrown at us by the defeated.

We manage to smile because we know that even a lie can

possess and inspire hope. We untangle the rope of the

noose that was ties around us and use it to pull ourselves

out of the hell we were born in, because we are all

forgotten angels too busy using our wings to shield

ourselves than to fly.

We love like men who lived before hatred was invented.

Overcome with the goal to live before we die. The question

why echoes into an empty alleyway where we will help

each other stand, and walk together through this night in

our artificial light

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Because the shadows contain fear, which births failure.

But it is our turn and we will discard our halos in a

crescendo of defiance to the idea that this is it.

So that in our last breath we can at least say we tried.

Because it was then as it is now.

Our turn.

Living in a today of forgotten tomorrows and lost

yesterdays, as hard as we try, God doesn’t always reply.

So don’t look up, but in for answers. Extend both hands out

for reassurance, we will close our eyes and fall, because

these truths are only ever temporary, like gravity.

Because if we can rise high enough, even that is left

behind.

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So get up, climb, spread your wings and absorb this new

day’s light and produce it through every touch, with every

helping hand given to the broken, because now we can.

This is the gift given to us by those who couldn’t

So hold your head high and look into the light

knowing now,

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It is our turn.

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Two Icicles

I want to be better.

I say this not in relation to a talent or occupation but in

occupying existence.

I want to be better.

My mother told me once,

“You are the best you, and you better believe it.”

I didn’t.

Because there are no substitutes for me, in a world of

endless possibility I am a singularity, so mom I’m sorry but

I want to be better.

A better me.

Impossibility is overcome by necessity and unfortunately

nobody really needs me.

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You see, since the dawn of time, there have been those who

strive to be better, but in doing so they believed that

bettering themselves was somehow benefiting society, but

like condom dispensers in sketchy gas station bathrooms,

nobody really wants them, (even though they’re trying to

do good.)

I want to be better.

The words fall flat. I feel like a goose desperately trying to

convince itself it’s a duck, one ugly little duckling that just

isn’t trying hard enough.

But damn do I try, like scraping two icicles together trying

to start a fire.

I want to be better.

I’m screaming into the mirror as if I could distort the

picture to become what I want it to be, someone other than

me.

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But you can’t mold this glass, it’ll only break and hurt

those who touch it.

Staring at the shattered remnant of what was me, I begin to

understand how Judas must of felt, so alone with his

mistakes.

So I get up crucifying my last hope of salvation to a cross

of self-pity and resignation.

Now realizing that even the best me, is only a shattered

reflection of self-hatred.

My father’s response to hear these cries, is

“Shut up.”

The world is too busy to be bothered by the cries of the

broken, and there is no workshop in which to repair your

broken remnants of what used to be faith.

If you truly want to be better then shut up, and start a fire.

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“Here’s two icicles, try harder.”

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Line up

Hello, the last time we spoke I was happy.

But she has left.

I’ve come to know that we all have demons.

Thoughts that demand self-destruction in the wake of an

ending.

She left.

And I have replaced her with my demons.

They line up, marching across my arms leaving trails of a

bloody history.

They line up like little cocaine lines, ready to possess my

brain, my demons.

They line up.

I’ve grown since last we spoke.

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I’ve been built up like a Jenga tower, taken apart piece by

piece until I fall in on myself.

I am a game.

Life is a game.

The demons, they line up.

It will be a long time before we speak again.

Time I will spend entertaining my demons

and if I am still alive by then,

I hope I will be free from this hell,

And these demons.

But for now,

They line up.

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Love is a Color

I am surrounded by green.

The color lays over me like a warmth, protecting me from

the harsher realities that exists in other unexplored hues.

I will reside here.

Allowing the color of creativity to birth hope within me

a hope that one day green will see me.

And I will grow, as a promise to her.

A promise to be what I need to be and someday return to

her.

Gone are the days of green, like seasons passing, leaving

dreams stranded, lost in between.

Replaced by white, an empty color, a canvas waiting to be

whatever I please.

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I believe I will sleep.

In this dormant state, waiting for my green to come back to

me, I close my eyes and dream of hers.

Because her eyes are green.

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Between Exits

There is a space of time that exists between being sick and

being well.

A catechism of uncertainty, existing in the idea of

proclivity for a journey of recovery. As if the recovery

room could be rented for the small price of uncertainty.

Uncertainty to the state of yourself,

“Who will I be?”

It resonates off the pristine white walls of what you assume

is your home, because you’ve existed here in this state

longer than what you were allocated, as healthy.

Because the truth is,

we’re all somewhere in between disaster and recovery.

We hitchhike along this highway of habitual love loss

something I find synonymous with self-hate.

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We wander in this state hoping for an exit sign that reads

“satisfaction”

And the seemingly sadistic nature of emotion, exists as a

sick concoction for the ailment of humanity.

The remedy,

eludes us all.

So we stay, we lay to rest in this space the hopes of what

could be.

Moving forward with outstretched thumbs,

hoping someone else might know the way

This life is an empty highway.

Full of hitchhikers.

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Night Lights

When I was a boy,

I believed in the goodness of the world, I believed that

people were like lights,

that caused good days to be bright and

when there were bad days,

it only meant that I was alone, and needed some light.

But as I grew, I eventually came to you.

Metaphorically, you are to me what you are to everybody,

a switch.

And one by one the world grows dark, all the little lights

now turned off.

All the broken dreams, hearts, and promises darken the

lights that once burned bright.

Now we stumble through the dark, looking for a light.

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Because we let ours be taken from us by people like you.

And now the world is a dark place to me.

And we pacify ourselves with the idea that this is all part of

growing up.

As if this state of being lost had been where we were trying

to get to.

Empty and hollow husks hiding what’s left of our light

deep inside.

Because now we know that a light doesn’t last if you share

it. It will burn away and by the next day it will be dark

again.

Is this what it means?

To grow up?

Because I’m okay with being lost if I can share what’s left

of my light with someone, if only to light their way.

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And maybe if we all could shed a little light, one at a time,

hand in hand, we might find a way together, to get through

this night.

And a new day will begin.

Because when I was a boy,

I slept with a night light, a promise to me that no matter

how dark it might get, I would be okay even if I only had

just that little light,

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To get me through the night.

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A Moving Box

Do you miss me?

Check box ‘A’ for “yes.”

Box ‘B’ reads “Please, I need this.”

Because I miss you like hell, and I need to know you think

of me.

Somedays I can convince myself that I only miss what we

were and it has nothing to do with you.

But as I lay next to her, trying to discern what it is that I’m

missing, I know that I am only pretending.

Pretending she’s you, and I am me or at least the version of

me that you loved, a me who knew what happiness was and

didn’t have to sleep with a different girl every night to try

and find it again.

Lucky bastard.

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I’d kill him just to get what I used to have, but he’s already

dead, and now I’m lying in hospice next to a “nurse” trying

to discern if I’m happy.

So please, check box ‘A’

If not for me, then do it for you, so you can go with him

knowing that at least I’ll die happy

Morbid? Yeah.

Melodramatic? Sure.

But I can’t help what I say, this medication of mediocre one

night stands makes me dizzy.

I just can’t seem to get it right anymore,

words, happiness, sobriety, they all seem to elude me.

The delusion of tomorrow pushes me into today

And until I can figure it out I’m going to pack myself away

into a box and mark it ‘A.’

Maybe one day you’ll check it only to find it’s empty,

because I’ve moved away, I await the day.

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Spare Change

I wanted to write.

I wanted to write a poem about change, about growing up

and growing away.

About how the sun rises and sets all in the matter of one

day.

I wanted to write about how nothing ever seems to stay.

I wanted to write about your eyes.

And how when they gaze into mine their colors are always

changing and morphing into one beautiful hue.

But I’m scared.

I’m scared that when things change, so possibly could you.

Because each new day together is an adventure and

continuity exists solely in its own absence.

So if I had to choose between changing and staying

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I’d chose you.

But that’s okay

Because we are meant to change, we’re all scribbled in

poems in picture books trying vainly to express emotion in

this calamity of commotion that is the every day.

And the beauty in being a story is that from cover to cover

you discover that you’re not the same. That there are many

you’s and the trick is to never forget what they’ve been

through.

Because change is what makes us.

We’re all molded by emotions, to become unfinished

imperfections, left for the next artist to try their hand.

The next author to turn the page, to write a line.

And even with all my imperfect possibilities, and

improbable perfections I know that

change is okay.

We’re all stories in the end

so turn the page.

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Questioning Silence

This is not a poem.

This is an invitation for awareness, an invocation for

change.

This is for the one sitting in the back of the room

wondering if words have the power to wipe the slate clean.

Because you’ve stained yours one to many times, as if

memories were models in a lesson plan aptly named

“Mistakes.”

This is for the one who curls in bed at night, body shaped

like a question mark in response to the exclamation marks

that line your wrists. Because you wonder if words is all

you’ll ever be, a tragic story sliding across the bottom of a

news screen.

Wondering if all we ever are is history.

This is not a poem.

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It is not a history.

It is the comma, the breath in between.

So breathe in, and begin again.

Because silence suffocates serendipity and the story never

ends, rather it is composed of new beginnings.

So stand, take hands, raise your voice, this is not a choice

of whether words have the power to wipe slates clean, or

wage wars against the cruelty of the world as if we were

our own enemy.

No

Society is composed of we’s, of dirty slates, and crumpled

up question marks. Find solitude in the millions of voices

crying out with the same complaint,

“What about me?”

This is for the we.

The one’s who can’t stand alone anymore, because being

your own support doesn’t allow for community.

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Look around you, you are surrounded by people all

pondering the same question. We are all stumbling through

the dark because we refuse a flashlight, and the only way to

solve the problems pressing against the perimeters of our

self-segregated society,

is to do this together.

Because silence is the worst thing to come between us.

This is not a poem.

It is an invitation for awareness, an invocation for change.

It’s time we learned that society is not a singular word;

you are not alone in this.

So make noise, stand together, turn on your flashlights

breathe in and begin

Question the silence.

Scream out against atrocities, so much that you have to use

sign language to get your point across, and I promise one

finger should do the trick.

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Do net let your identity become a martyr for the sake of

normality.

When all else fails.

Breathe in, and begin again.

Do not forget that the stories people remember are the ones

that never end.

Straighten your question marks into swords, because within

that is words, and words are enough.

This is for the we.

Because we are more than we seem, we are dynamite

waiting to explode, we are guns waiting to reload, there is

no ethical code for a revolution

This is not a poem.

This is an invitation for awareness.

An invocation for change.

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Fading

I woke up to rain.

The atmosphere pouring down its troubles on me as if I

were magnetized to pain.

The day is gray, fitting itself into my cognitive image of

what hell must be like.

I spent three days in the hospital throwing up lies of what

you used to say, love is watching someone die.

The mirror and I know this all too well

and no number of painkillers can fix the ache in a heart that

breaks with every beat against lungs that gasp for your

breath.

Death would be a gift for a broken boy’s body

laying on the ground, watching the rain fall I recall that

everything fades to gray.

We are born, we live, and we die.

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And everything between these things is just a gray outline

in the clouds, the promise of light behind the atmosphere of

this life.

Tears fall like rain.

Spattering a face graying with age before its time. I find

that every time I say I’m okay, the lines beneath my eyes

are a sharp reminder that I’m fading away.

Today I woke up and wondered “why?”

I write like I’ll read this tomorrow but I am not even

promised tonight, and should I embrace the light before the

rain can stop, know that I will be alright.

I’m focusing on now.

On how I’m going to swim in this sea of self-doubt.

Throughout my life I’ve been looking for color, and even

though I am fading to gray, I will not fade away today.

I’m searching for a reason to stay.

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Love is watching someone die, but it’s also being with

them through this life.

And everything may fade to gray,

even you.

But for now, I am okay.

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116

Contradiction: The Human Condition

Loneliness is not a state of being, but a state of mind.

I am lonely, but I am not alone.

I am surrounded by others at all times, my mind finds

solace in the sound. I purposefully drown out the silence

without purpose.

I am lonely, but I am not alone.

I feel cold in your arms. but you are warm.

I feel sad, but I am numb.

I feel lonely, but I am not alone, I am next to you.

I know that I am not alone.

It is this human condition, a partition between me and you.

One which I’ve grown used to.

This doesn’t make it okay,

I’m only defining what is.

I am lonely, but I am not alone.

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If I could only find the emotional barrier and break it down,

believing I wasn’t the one who built it blindly hoping it

would protect what’s left of my purity.

So taint me with the paint of passion.

Make our bodies the masterpiece that drives me to the

teetering edge of insanity.

Because insanity is the only cure for the hopelessly lonely.

Love is crazy.

A pain so powerful it will blind you to the barrier you’re

building out of the remnants of your last break up.

But do not misinterpret, I am not unhappy. I am lonely,

but perfectly so.

I have learned from experience that love is a young man’s

game. A game I am no good at playing. So I have learned

to sacrifice serendipity for this sadistic singularity.

I am sorry.

I didn’t mean to allow you in with me, but the truth behind

being lonely is its undying popularity.

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Because deep down we are all lonely.

And therefore we will never be alone.

With each heartbreak we welcome each other home with a

brick in hand, so you too may begin building your barrier.

After all,

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We’ve all got one.

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A Fairy Tale

It saddens me that sometimes happiness is a consequence

of another’s misfortune.

Example: I am happy when you cry.

Because then I know you’re just as broken as I. A tell-tale

sign of hope’s demise. And I sit here typing this as if

stating it made it any less, than what I fear is the worst.

Truthfully, I am fairly talented at telling when time has

taken its toll, and so taking with it my hope of escaping

this.

You said, “I need some time.”

And so time takes another, and I can’t help but wonder why

he always takes mine.

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It’s three in the morning, three hours ago I turned another

year older. I measure these seconds like they were

centuries, each brimming with history.

I feel old, pathetically so, as if life were shoved down my

throat and now I am choking on today, what a present.

It’s been two days since you said it’s just me and you, but

now it’s you and him, you see we never made it to just

“we” instead passing into what couldn’t be.

When does now become then?

I’m older now, but then again I always am.

My friends tell me that my love is out there, a fantasy

twirled out of misery. But I am not cruel enough to charge

her with the burden of bearing my incapability of accepting

complacency.

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In moments like these, I wonder

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

The book you’re holding is justification enough that I do

benefit from my loneliness, if only creatively.

My mannerisms mimic emotional masochism

I fall in love too easy, and never get over it.

How many times will I refuse to learn from my mistakes?

Love is a fantasy, too far away from me to ever hear my

question.

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“When is it my turn?”

124

Another Damn Letter

Dear my past loves,

It’s been some time since I’ve last thought of you, some

less than others, and some more than I care to admit.

Pretending my nightmares about your new loves, were

daydreams, reflections of lamenting loneliness.

Never the less, I want to say to you, to all of you who have

a piece of me, and I hopefully of you, to all of you who

coaxed love from my lockbox heart only to decide it wasn’t

worth it, worsening my wallowing in my own insecurities

and “what if’s?”

The question singularly defining my determination to be

distraught.

All of you whose kisses tasted like the first winter rain,

pouring over me, chilling my reality into blinding clarity,

only to be what you weren’t looking for.

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I want to say to you, what I for an eternity could not

understand myself.

I am a man, in constant reformation, reprimanding my

misguided reasons for being.

Thank you.

Because I know now, that now who I am is not the man I

was when I was yours, war torn and love shocked, he and I

bear no resemblance. The memory alone proves that

he is me and I him, or who I was.

For better or worse I’ve moved forward, forced by time to

try and move on. Something I’m still working on.

However, I hope that what I meant to you, I can again mean

to someone new. And maybe one day I’ll finally possess a

reason to stop writing these damn letters, but until then,

This one is for you.

Until it’s for someone new.

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