Declarations(NSFW thoughts)

Just because I love you and want all the good things for you doesn’t mean that when you give consent that I won’t brutalize you. That I won’t whip you, hurt you. That I won’t fuck you with my hands, mouth, cock and toys. That I won’t make you scream in pain and pleasure. That after I’m spent and can’t use you anymore, that I won’t tie you up and set toys in you, on you, to keep you cumming because I like to see you this way. That you won’t crawl and obey.

I love you. I see all of you. I know that you crave the darkness. And though it may seem otherwise. That my praise and heart felt love may make you feel like I am not up to your needs, you are wrong. I just choose to be more than one thing.

I can be the kind and loving partner. The stern and commanding caretaker/Daddy. And the hardcore sadist. I have many sides. But I will always be yours. Your Sir. Yours as you are mine.

Circular torture

I was caffeine free and sleep deprived
Thinking please let me out of this day alive
Driving in and out of consciousness
Figuring, doesn’t matter life’s pretty much worthless
Been driving these dreams for eternity
The last thing you want is all of me
Giving over
you say you can handle me
Thinking his darkness will wash it away
Finding bright thoughts that don’t fade with the day
A different man when he’s happy.

But I lurk beneath the surface
Like a trapdoor alligator
Waiting to catch him alone

He wanders cut off from the person who became as sunshine
Fending against demons in the dark
Sleep is a gift given to him by joy
Relearning how to sleep when it stops being easy

Leaves me in this state
Hoping that I’ll live long enough to be together
Hoping that I’ll die before I wake
Dreams grander than the life I’m living
Memories and glimpses

Waking to the loss
And the attempt to not sleep again
Not for lack of dreams
But for the transition
Into the quiet
Of my own breathing
Facing a day of alone
Fully aware
Without the haze

Of caffeine free and sleep deprived

Poets journey

I have been a poet since I was in middle school(grades 7 and 8). I remember in high school actively shoving my pain to higher than it was so that I could write more. I remember my Spanish teacher being very concerned and I was sent to the guidance counselor because of it.

When I graduated, I tried college for awhile. And there I met a poet. A published literary writer who was also a poet. And he thought my work was shit, until I told him which pieces had been published. But his sheer derision…I let him get to me. This writer whose talent had cast him adrift until he found himself teaching creative writing at a junior college. I suppose now, I can see the bitterness. To have a multiple books in print and to have this be the result. Now, I get where he was coming from. Then, it crushed my desire to create.

And I focused my energies elsewhere. Having tried and been told that I wasn’t good enough to be a writer. And I lost my poetic voice. I wanted to write but nothing would come. I’d silenced the part of me that needed to be torn out and shown. I’d sacrificed who I was for what I wanted. The true me only peaking out when I gave in to abandon.

Even through my bleakness. Through my heartache in which there was nothing but endless pain. Even then I could not write. It was like it was too much. I’d stopped feeling(emphasis) for so long that I just couldn’t. But my subconscious was working. And it was Tearing down barriers. Until, at last, I decided to tear down the last walls. Between what I felt and the top self that was floating above this deep well, disconnected from any way of communicating what I felt because I wasn’t feeling it. Because I was hiding from my feelings.

This isn’t when I started writing. This is when I broke down. When my emotions raged through me. When I was lost and looking for any way out. When I was howling in pain and the only thing that alleviated my pain was inflicting that pain on others. And slowly, after years, I got better. Not healthy. Just clear enough that I could write. And I started writing and it was just for me. I didn’t do anything to advertise. I just wrote and wrote and wrote.

But I didn’t know what I wanted. Knowing what you want is essential. Because hope is a finite thing. You can run out. You can spread it too thin. Spread yourself out, hoping for some kind of epiphany. But that’s not how this works.

You want things but poetry wants things too. And in the end, you serve your art. It’s the only way I’ve found to be. It becomes who you are. And everything else is in service to that. Except people.

People are startling wonderful stars dancing together…and drifting apart.

When you give up pieces of yourself and they spin away, you watch as they are gone, but the poet…
The poet sees the connection and the unbearable sadness of loss and the love and the pain and the beauty. And the poet drags you up. It says write this. In this moment, you are this frozen minute of pain and connection. Reach out to them. Cut your bleeding heart from your chest and show it still beating out its pain.

And be free. And wake. And hope.

Annual reexamination ’18

I’ve been reexamining things. What I want and what I want to do. And my thinking is this, maybe I won’t be a commercial success. Hell, how many poets are commercial successes? And that’s what I am. A poet. Sure, I write short stories and erotica but that’s not what I come back to. It’s poetry. It’s always poetry.

So what do I want?
I want two primary things for my life. I want to be with someone who falls as deeply in love with me as I fall for them. And I want to be with them. I’m pretty good at finding the former, it’s the ‘be with them part’ that gives me trouble.

And my complicated love life notwithstanding, I want to write. I want to write poetry that has people saying, “yeah, me too.” That causes goosebumps when you hear me speak it. I want a poem I write to be some piece that lives with someone. That is what I want. Money and fame are not worth what we ascribe. I want to be impactful to the lives of the people who read my work. Maybe not all, probably even not most, but to the few that read and this poem is what they needed. This resonates.

I suppose I want to create beauty. And connect with people who connect to my work.

Close enough to be far away

This is the poem I wrote while completely in despair before I passed out from emotional pain that feels like a heart attack, but just a little one. A poem that I couldn’t go to sleep without writing even though I was exhausted, having had four hours of sleep each night for four nights.

Sitting in this storm full of razor blades
Cut to pieces in the eye
Saw you through the wind
Thought take a chance
Else you die

Never make it past the barriers
Just this blood
This pain
These tears

Waiting for the long road
To end

And these are the thoughts after I wake, having gotten four hours of sleep and not being able to get back to sleep, because my heart hurts like a constant low level heart attack and I widen my eyes and hold my breath to keep writing and my vision blurs from unshed tears. And I blink but things just get more blurry. And I have to take a breath. And it feels like everything stops.

It doesn’t.
And I think
“It’s halfway through the week, can I make it through another one?”
It’s been two weeks and I’m still not sleeping and tears are so close to the surface and I feel so lost and lonely. And I want all the things we might be or have been but I miss my friend too. And life is just stupid and hard.