Bitter pill affect

When given social permissions to be myself I don’t do constraint or what is termed normal. I’m poetry and flowers and that tea you mentioned in passing that one time. I’m kisses and touches and tears. I’m telling friends that I love them and music, and songs made up and sung right there.

I’m either locked down or free and I don’t know how to be else. And I don’t know that I want to be.

So if you see me smiling for no reason or catch me with tears in my eyes or, on extremely rare occasion, complimenting some random stranger then walking away. Be happy. You’ve caught a rare glimpse past my shell. Something few ever see.

In joy and in pain I, like most of us, am hidden. A false front. A city of doors. A maze without end.
And sometimes…often…I feel so lost

A ballad of lost starlight

There are nights
Bright with purpose
Skies infinite voids dotted with a rage of long dead infernos
The soft crisp air dreams of you dancing as if in melody to the hum of the city
The hush of the world as it slowed and waited
A pause between inhalation
Drunk on the heady spice of a path unfolding
A future without limits
Nights found after the club
Before the cab ride back to your place
Moments in transition where the universe itself is unsure of what’s next
It’s not that these moments happen less
It’s that we aren’t there for them
As the world wears away
And we find ourselves asleep in the middle of splendor

Waiting for the door to open, having lost the desire to go through

I’ve talked about big things
Past things
Love things
I’ve talked about social things
Emotional things
Psychological things
I’ve talked about the inner workings of my soul
About music
About poets
I’ve written erotica
One off spy stories
I’ve turned a one off erotica story into a fool blown series with characters and plot
I’ve written, performed, recorded, and edited a serial novelization told in 3 voices and perspectives which span numerous hours and which took an hour of editing per 5 minutes of audio.
Then I did that 2 more times

But now I’m having trouble finding words
But really it’s finding time
Time to sit and be without worry weighing me down
Without concern for finances which never consumed me before
I’ve been lucky enough to have a place to land
I’ve been lucky enough to have freedom enough to be able to write
Even though that’s not how I make money
I dislike having lost that
But I’ve traveled the road of preservation of past instead of future
And that is always filled with painful regrets
Paths cut before completion
It’s like there is a membrane where before was a open door
Writing still exists on the other side
Just now it’s an effort filled with stress and struggle to get there
Maybe it’s lack of sleep
Or maybe living unsettled like this is always a shatter away from failure
The thinner the margin the harder the fall
And at some point the fall seems inevitable

Pause….Just be

To find beauty in the heart of the storm
Surrounded by destruction and
Endings
Find stillness
Silence inside
Slow breathing
Feel the pulse
Blood moving through veins
Slower
And slower
Close your eyes
Feel the rage of the storm
Feel the terrible fury
Now open your eyes
Look upon the storm
See the faint thread of endings
Feel the pulse of life
Find where destruction ends
See the point at which ends begin
Now
Breathe deeply
And feel
Connected to the faint sliver moment
The pause in the pulse
Where ends shiver in waiting
To begin again

A lifetime of coping skills

I forget the hells I’ve been through working through trauma
I forget them having lived with them daily
Having worn down paths I my soul
Having found bolt holes in those paths which could short-circuit a memory
Or provide a moments respite
I can see the moments of trauma and the pain is distant
Not disassociated
Just distant
What forgiveness of self
What justice
What clarity feel like at the end of a long road
But those bastions of safety
Those places and thoughtforms
Which gave solace
Those places of peace I hollowed out
Lay forgotten
But I’ve begun to revisit them
And realize that they provide safety from the daily trauma of being alive
Refuge for the broken
A realization that healed doesn’t mean mended
That acting as if the trauma was the only reason for pain has inflicted more trauma
If only by tiny increments
Now I sit, in my bastion, not alone
Not alone anymore
But still
Free to feel pain
Even if everything is better

Split bell resonance

Nothings wrong
Nothings wrong
Nothings wrong

Nothings wrong
….
Except I’m tired

Nothings wrong
Except I teared up for no reason other than imagining someone holding me and telling me that everything would be okay

Never mind that I don’t know what everything is

Nothings wrong
But my words come slowly if at all
What was a torrent is now leached slowly to the surface
Barely a trickle
Barely a mouthful

Nothings wrong
Except the distance and the daily

Nothings wrong

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