Thin margins for the dying

We live internal lives which only tangentially coincide with the person you know
There are always pieces held back
Too scary
Too awkward
Too crazy
To be accepted
Exposure to disbelief or mockery
Hide truth like razorblades
Close to the skin and cutting
Scars dribble
Blood rivers too slight to kill
Trails through the snow
Hidden lives
We turn away
Looking for truth
handing out blood apples
To strangers
Hoping and fearing to be seen
Screaming too loud to not be silent
Still
Better silence than courted by correction
Forced back into standard
Broken
To fit in

This isn’t a choice

Stress doesn’t make for great artistic endeavors
People say starving artist likes its a good thing
Like hunger and strife makes art
That flame out make it or die passion works
Occasionally
Just enough to make it seem real
Enough that it leaves a blood trail leading to LA and NYC
Enough that doe eyed innocents are fed to the blades of the art world
And occasionally one makes it out and occasionally that work is significant enough to actually last instead of making a profit
But art is rarely popular or profitable in the time frame its born in
But it still needs to be
To be painted
To be sung
To be written
To be performed
And that means blood must be spilled
But it’s always the artists blood
It’s always the balance between an art world that glorifies the new and tattered
As if it did not create the atmosphere which kills art itself
And the desire to make rent in a world not built for dreams
Not even small ones
Like wanting what the next day holds
Like eating regular meals while not depending on family to thicken up the margins
Like having the choice to make art
We are burning our dreams for warmth
And eventually we run out
So we burn our blood
And when we are too full of ashes
We fade
Becoming the grey
Our voices lost
Forgotten
As if we never were

Love songs leave out the in between

Love is not a constant
That peak, that rush that new
It’s not sustained
Not even Gomez and Morticia love
It’s not a note held inviolate against the firmament

Love is choice
I choose you
Not out of obligation
Not out of social pressure
Not even internal fears
I choose because in you there is the resonance which reinforces an us

Maybe that seems unromantic
Maybe that seems like a obliteration of you as yourself

I’d say that without the you of you there could be no us of us
That to stand together we must first be able to stand apart
And in the co-mingling of our hearts we are more

So how is that not constant when you are in my every deed and thought?

How is it not that delicious heady of beginning love?
To me it feels simple.
The constant is a contentment
And amid those days of content are hours of joy sprinkled with revelatory minutes of bliss

But if I were to judge based upon that false belief in purity of bliss when truly in love, well…no one would ever find that

And that is what people are looking for
What they’ve been led to believe in
By what they’ve fed upon
Perhaps they will feed on this
And know another truth

Or perhaps I’m just a romantic of another flavor

Bodies breakdown

Broken veins with broken bodies
Eyes burn
Fatigue sets into comfortable grooves
Clicking into place
First day, goes well
Gonna beat this illness back
Sick once or twice a year
You tell yourself
Then the second day, a little tired
But you forget to eat
Except you never forget to eat
But here it’s end of the rope, no energy left, collapse into bed time
And why do I feel so hollow
Because your body is burning everything up to get better and you haven’t eaten
Go to sleep
Fever again, breaks again
Solace that it took less time
But again, symptoms grow as the core illness fades
Would rather the pain
Than this runny nose

Half awake fall

I woke up early this morning and found myself reading articles on Medium. As I often do. But today I came across things that led me down the self reflection route.

I haven’t found anything new. Not really. Though I do see a certain lack of certainty. An intellectual understanding of the positions of others which may have been a visceral understanding prior. I think I’m shielding my emotions more.

I feel distant and compartmentalized. Yet I still cry and feel and laugh. Joy and sorrow are a part of my heart and I feel them.

So it’s not like the wall I built before. The house of closed doors where nothing was felt. And it’s not like the tsunamic aftermath of that wall breaking. Nor is it the flayed sadness which permeated after.

This is new. And I’m not sure how I feel about it.

It makes the days and people easier to cope with. But it also makes the words and thoughtforms of art harder to feel. Its like a little magic has gone out of the world to foster stability.

I don’t know what I think about it.

Quiet Sunday’s

We are all monsters to some and saviors to others
Neither is wholey true or wholey false
Until we can embrace this truth we will continue to find ourselves beholden to the trumpets of falsehoods
As we weaken our ability to see with our inability to accept truth
The acceptance of a lie will always make us vulnerable to more
Until we are mired in them
the only solidity is found by first standing up
And accepting that we are drowning

Far enough away to see

Coursing motes streak through veins
Each sharp as splintered hopes
Each cold as night with no moon in the dark of winter
Calling out
We are seen
We are known
And in the blind truth of waking
We find ourselves alive
Alive in silence
The deep quiet that shakes the world
Slower breathes
Deeper
The kiss of a world made distant by constant noise
Rediscovery
With the vain hope of holding on
To a few more hours
Of being whole