Sleeping is the only time I’m at peace.
That’s a bit of a lie, actually,
because it isn’t peace
so much as happy.
I may not remember the dreams
upon waking, but they leave impressions,
feelings more full than any waking sensation.
And that brings a kind of peace.
The days I most want everything to end
I fall asleep and wake up feeling okay.
Sometimes great, sometimes just alright,
but better all the same.
I think because there’s some truth in dreams,
and during the midnight slumber
I get to feel something true.
Which is important, for someone
who doubts every conscious moment.
It is the difference between holding
and tasting and savoring a peach,
and remembering, long ago,
a time you held what might have been
a peach.
The sleeping mind knows. It is the side
of me that is certain of things, certain
of my abilities, and my worth, and
my future. It is the waking mind
that doubts, that nitpicks every
last detail into nothingness.
I don’t want to die,
I want to be a wakeful sleeper.
So what image best fits
an angry sort of bitterness?
Flat soda, all sickly sweet
with no fizz for the punch?
A pug dressed up in holiday attire,
glaring out
from under the reindeer headband?
A picture of an ex, taped
to a shooting range target,
each slow squeeze of the finger
and subsequent pop
strengthening a smile?
Or an individual, sitting quietly,
staring out at all the people
living lives s/he always wanted,
doodling in a notebook
that no one will ever read,
that no one will ever notice,
until it’s too late
and its owner is long gone?
It isn’t clinical,
because there is a reason.
That imbalance is the result
of something else, not just
a genetic wire crossed.
It’s all I’ve wanted.
As far back as I can remember,
and what child dreams
not in colors of success
or fame or superheroes,
but that instead?
I keep praying for some sign,
but none comes.
Silence, avoidance,
that is all.
The mind wanders;
if that which is most desired
is never to be,
what is the point?
“Find something else,”
you might say, to which
I can only respond,
“Find something besides air
to breathe.”
But who cares?
Another male corpse rotting away,
like the ones dying under Aghani suns,
another oppressor dead, gone,
never again to hold down
whom he sought most.
A righteous end to a brother
in genitals to all that is wrong with the world,
and who would weep for that?
Who would care if some silly man
slit his throat?
No one.
It is a sad thing when a woman
takes her life,
but a negligible thing
when it is a man.
And why should any care
about such a meaningless soul?
A drop of water
Water, a drop,
Water, water,
A drop of water
It’s all I ask
A drop, all I ask
Can ask, a drop,
Just a drop, I,
Just a drop
Just
Just
Just a drop of water.
I feel a bit of a beast
Look here, tufts of fur
And fangs to boot
My scruffy self must
Frighten some, surely
And it’s true I feel a bit cursed
But the Beast became a beast
In kind, monstrous in manner
I’ve kept mine, I think
To go from beast back to man
It seems one must become
So embittered to be cruel
So full of anger to be a fury
That it takes a bell’s ring
To right the ship
I can’t
I’d wish no one’s joy broken
So that I might have a chance
And look here
All these scrapped suicide plans
Too messy, too inconvenient for others
What driver deserves a dead half-man
On his or her hood?
So then…
A kind-hearted wolfman?
I suppose I’ll have to be.
And on the heels of that post:
It will be interesting to see
if one can be a bookworm sex god,
lessons gleaned from bound tomes
put into practice between the sheets
or in the shower, on the lawn,
in the dressing room, car backseat,
wherever we might choose.
I don’t know.
I’ve done pretty well
on everything else in my life
by reading,
so maybe that will carry on.
Anyone up for testing this hypothesis?
It was something she said to me
“Why can’t we all just be friends?”
Which got me thinking
and I thought about the last time
we were all just friends,
which would have been
when we were kids.
Being friends was all we had then,
there wasn’t any kind of exclusivity,
just people who liked each other
or found someone neat enough
to invite over to their tree fort.
And I begin picturing people
acting like kids, 20 year-olds
building pillow forts
in their apartment living rooms.
Where the highest level
of relationship is
“We’re best buds!”
And I have to say,
there’s a bit of charm
to the prepubescent world;
kids can be cruel, sure,
but there’s an age where that cruelty
pales in comparison
to the adult world.
Even if you’re the goofy kid in class,
you have friends, and that’s enough.
You’re not having to deal with
a girlfriend who cheats on you
a husband who beats you
a substance addiction
being completely and utterly alone
wanting to kill yourself
not knowing what to do with your life.
There is something to the innocence of youth
that we should hang onto as we age,
and yes, I’d be fine if we were all just friends
if we could build pillow forts in your apartment.
~
Ramble ramble all over the place.
There are people
who are beautiful enough
that other people
will make them beautiful enough
so yet others
will watch them.
Sing. Act. Fuck.
These people are paid
for what they got by chance,
no matter the work they put in.
And I wonder what I would pay
to have just a little more
like them.
patternofwords:
The Lion asked the Good God
just where he might find some liquor.
The Good God replied
that he was even now drinking
down words, and what else
makes men drunker?
A choice word or phrase
makes a man perform madnesses,
he said, so drink deep and dream.
The Lion shook his shaggy head,
knew full well where that leads
and went in search of rum.
Fiddling around with missing e and stuffs. So you get a reblogged poem.
I don’t quite comprehend
what’s going on
I’ve been all over the board today,
not being able to settle on any kind of mood
My thoughts will turn
unpleasant
thoughts of failure and misfortune
But then-
and this is the tricky part-
there is… something
It is like warmth
but not warmth
I don’t feel heat flood my bones and sinew
or my personality turn more friendly
It is like a glow
but not a glow
Light without light
filling darkened hallways
without any source or flame
All in shades of Her
And I find the world not so great a burden to bear
~
I’m sure I could be more vague if I wanted.
