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.

What dreams may come

Do you ever think that the only reason you are still alive is because you don’t have a gun at the right/wrong time?

I do. All the time. More lately admittedly. It’s that it’s quick. You’d think that if I really wanted to do it, I would have a plan. And plan alternatives. I have thoughts. I do. That sudden urge to step up and off the ledge. The overdose on common things method.
Fuck, I carry a super sharp blade on me at all times. A couple of swipes up the tree, avoiding the tendons, easy peasy.

So what stops me?
Two thoughts.

One, That I’ll fail. And then have to deal with the additional problems afterwards.

Two. That I’ll succeed. But between execution and finality, I’ll get a call or something will change that makes me want to live. And it will be too late.

I don’t think it’s a sin or anything like that. I regard death as mere transition. I’d be going home.

So why am I still here?

Fear and hope.

Maybe we don’t all think of things in those terms, but for most, fear and hope will get you through the day.

For a lucky few they have love.

For most everyone else, add in a sprinkling of inertia and lack of opportunity.

Fear and hope.

Wishing for a in life version of A Halt and Catch Fire command

Do you ever force yourself to stay up? Not because you have anything to do but because you don’t want to give in? Like it’s a form of control. How long can I go until I collapse? How long until lack of sleep gives me a total emotional breakdown? I mean, it’s what I want anyway, right? Because, I can’t keep waking up from panic attacks. Because that’s the only time my subconscious is allowed to start screaming. Because when I’m awake the only way it gets out is through writing or tears I can’t control. Silent screams used to help but now the screams just go on and on until I’m panting from lack of breathing. And it’s not a good look, is it?

Lack of control in a Dominant is seen as weakness. Odd thing though, when I have a submissive. A real one not that sex only kink thing(if that’s your thing, whatever works for you, just I find it boring). When I have a submissive, I’m OK. Or maybe just the right person as submissive, cause the gods know, people are not interchangeable. Probably is the right person. Fuck. It IS entirely dependent on being the right person.
I don’t know where I’m going with this.

Just that I’m punishing my self by not sleeping. Because she’s there in my dreams and you’d think that I’d want to sleep to be with her but I stay away as long as possible. Because I just keep waking up. And I have to relearn what I knew before I collapsed.

That life is cruel. And nothing can change that.

Let who you are free into the light

I hate keeping secrets. Even lies by omission hurt.

I spent a portion of my youth on secrets. On lies. It almost killed me. It came close. At the end, all I had was money, scars, and grey hair. The money is gone. The scars are mostly faded. The grey hair stayed. And a deep abiding pain that accompanies lies.

I spent years clawing out of various closets. Sexuality, society, BDSM. And at the end of it, I found peace.

But still people want me to hide. To be discreet. To say it’s no one’s business but ours.

But let me tell you. It may be no one’s business but ours, but it’s on them to turn their heads. Hiding is lying. Discretion is fine, but it should not stop a kiss or a hug or holding hands. If it does then that’s fear.

Just because I can hide or lie; Because I practiced for years, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I loathe it.

I understand why hiding may be necessary. If life or liberty is on the line. But if not? It’s not worth the cost.

And sometimes, even life and liberty are not enough. We should be who we are. Shout it from the rooftops. And to those that would silence us, let them reap the consequences. Let them fear.

I said I didn’t like lying. I didn’t say I’d forgotten my past.

Comfortablely cursed

Life is an amazingly stupid and puzzling place. When we aren’t just trying to survive, we are held back by our pasts and stuck on stutter concerning our futures. We hear what people think about us but don’t really listen to what they are saying. We second guess our desires and dreams and try for the more practical path.

Fuck. I’m no exception to all of this. My past haunts me. People state things all the time but I don’t let them influence me. Both bad and good.

But damn, we need to all just admit to ourselves at least that retreading old paths doesn’t work. Comfort is a luxury, yes. But it’s also a trap. We stay in our bubbles of comfort and when some possibility of something we’ve always wanted presents itself we weigh the possibility of achievement against the possible loss of comfort.

And I understand. I get it. Comfort is comfortable. But ask yourself, am I going to regret not doing this? Not taking this chance? Not taking this action?

Believe me. The actions you take can lead to horrible consequences. But the things that keep you up at night. The things that truly haunt you. They are mostly tied to the actions you don’t take. The path that you wanted more than anything but allowed yourself to be dissuaded by comfort. By good enough.

No one wants to be the one who holds you back. Unless they are selfish assholes who only have their own self interest. Which is most people. I’ve been told that I’m weird in this regard.

In regards to myself, I have as hard a time as anyone with this. With the exception that I’ve structured my life to not allow me to hide. And because of how my mind functions, I can get away with that.

But in regards to my people, I have no issue with sacrifice for them. I get alot back from the people who I consider mine. All wonderful people. But I try to give as good as I get and would sacrifice for them. Because, that’s what being someone like me is all about. We take care of our people.

I’ve wandered a bit off topic.
We need to take the risk that defines us.
For me, that means working towards the goal of being with the people who are in my heart. And one person in particular.

For others it’s something else. But find that something, work towards it,and never settle for merely comfortable when all you desire could be right there at the next step.

The hats we wear

So, it’s February 14th. Valentine’s day. A made up holiday to start the year of commerce off. But I’m not here to talk about that. Because it’s origin, in this case is irrelevant.

What it is to a symbolist, like myself, is a focal point. A point where love, frustration, longing, and despair all coalesce into a palpable energy.

It is in the jacked up prices at restaurants. The desperate buy and sell of the roadside last minute gift seller. It is in the first kiss of a couple newly found. It is in the soft expression and the held hands. The hope of a little holiday sex and the crushing weight of public happiness in the dark despair of a lonely heart.

So much emotion and motion moving about this day. Easy to use a bit of it for a storm.

And to add a little bit to it.
I’m yours forever, my schmoopy. You are mine.
Life is complicated. But we’ll keep working on making it simpler. Together.

Honor vs self interest

The difference between honor and enlightened self interest is simply this: If placed in a scenario where you had to choose between your wellbeing and following your honor code, enlightened self interest says to act to preserve your wellbeing. Many people who consider themselves honorable, honest people merely have codes that almost strictly adhere to enlightened self interest. But there is always some thing they espouse that varies. Mainly to prove that they are not selfish, contradictorily. And when that point is reached, what decision they make is the one that defines them. Anyone can be good, can be honorable when it is easy, when their code is not tested, when they are not impacted. But to act against your self interest to adhere to a larger ideal, that is the definitive action that echoes forward.

Internal speculation/Bdsm thoughts

I find it interesting that there is a dichotomy of perception about me. Those who know me at a surface level get someone forceful, sardonic, and cynical. Go a bit deeper and they see wisdom and darkness. Deeper still and they see care. But that’s all they will ever see. All I’ll let them see.

Now, at the opposite spectrum, those who know me deeply get someone kind, loving, and romantic. Go a bit deeper and they see damage and darkness. Go deeper still and they might see hope and wisdom.

But there are a third category of people who get all of me. My true friends and those I consider mine. You get all of me. For good or for ill. I can be any part of my personality at need or all of it depending. But what really intrigues me is the person who can get me to switch from the normal day to day into her Sir.

Her need is like flicking a switch and whatever crap is in my head goes away so that I can take care of her needs. Orders. Ideas. Even just seeing herself through my eyes. All of it in service to her elevation. She obeys. And when she does, when she trusts me to make her better, I become better. Everyone wants to make D/s about sex. There is some of that. But it’s like saying that music is only major chords. It’s ridiculous and eventually, boring.

I know that the physical aspects are exciting in concept. Sometimes in execution. But I’ve never enacted a physical interaction with the intention that it just be physical. There is Always a point, a goal, a lesson. And physical punishment is not really the point. Negative reinforcement is less useful than positive. Pain is more about the expiation of guilt and negative emotions, paying a physical consequence for a mental action or lapse.

Punishment is not about the pain itself. It’s a tool. And like all tools it must be applied only in the circumstances that it is most useful in. And I will often use tasks as punishment rather than the physical. Or in tandem with a physical but only as reinforcement, not as the primary point. Which isn’t to say that there are no floggings, spankings, or other such activities, just that those are mostly for pleasure not as a part of 24/7 D/s.

Melancholic musings

I feel old. Like time and chance have passed me by and now I am just marking time. That I’m just waiting for my last hopes and dreams to die. I think about the things I’ve done and the fortune I pissed away by living way higher than I should. I think about the double lives and lies of my youth and the requisite silence that surround those years. About how there are none now alive who I can talk with about those times. I think about the memories that haunt me. The failures most of all. My failure to protect those in my care before I even formed the philosophy that makes their care a mandate. My failure to see the wrecking ball coming and the last remnants of a life wiped away when the soft beep of the heart monitor drones out the long flat noise off all days fled.
My failure to fly to your side when you needed me. My failure to anticipate the need to take things a little further.

I’ve had triumphs. But they only serve to highlight what I could do if I were on top of my problems. That’s probably too harsh but it’s what I feel right now. I often think that if you dare to love me, that is the worst mistake you could make. Because all who’ve loved me either die or see their lives thrown into chaos. Not by my hand but still, it always seems to happen.

And I find myself deeply, hopelessly in love and loved and I watch as, helpless, things continue to contrive to keep us apart. Is the universe that much of a bastard? All I know is that I won’t walk away from you and that I will do all that I can to get to you.

For the first time in a long time, I am bending all I have to a task. Let’s hope that it works out.