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.

Where does the truth lie

Between the me I know and the me people see
They see the second thought, the revised actions
After my first words filter up. Taking control, taking command, no assumption that they necessarily know.
But the second is what I say, what I do, filtered by my rules. There to protect all of you, not myself.
Maybe that I have and will not breach my rules is the good. Or is it something else? There are actions and thoughts that my rules don’t enter into. The immediate reaction to help those that I love, those that are mine, to defend them, to act in their best interests.

Selfish or just human?

I know that I am fundamentally selfish. I see things first through the lens of how it will effect me or of what I want or hope for. I don’t think that is a problem as long as I am aware of it and take steps to compensate for it. But I can’t help but think that, when I see something that might be effecting someone I love, that I hope that’s not why they are interested in me. And on reflection, really only that. The feeling that I might be being used in a way that is beneficial primarily for them while I languish in emotional half states never knowing if a more equitable possibility is on the horizon or if this almost but not quite is all there is.

I think in terms of my self for a slight moment or two before I move that over and think, if they are really going through something, how can I help?

I hope that is the more important part. That despite a reaction of selfish thoughts, I ultimately move to say and act in support.

Musings on a Monday

I find myself constantly wishing that I could do more for the people I love. That the bits that I do, the bits I am allowed to do, are not enough. I want to swoop in and help out. Even if that’s just being there.

I can’t decide if that’s egocentric bullshit or some impulse to be the hero or if it comes from genuine compassion. It may come from a place of profound pain. And by helping them, I get to feel connected for a few minutes or hours.

This may be the tragedy of self inspection and healing. Every time there is a plateau and you think you are good, there is another yawning pit from which demons claw out. They may be polite or you may realize that you want nothing more than to start crying and you don’t know why. Only that it’s easier to do that than to be hurt.

I want to help, to fix, because I am broken.
Hopelessly cliche, I am aware.

I’m not looking for a person to fix. Or who will fix me. But I can’t help but feel that their is a person shaped hole in my heart, and if it were filled, this… All of this life and wondering and pain, would be a bit easier.

Gasping for air

Am I too soon or too late
Stability stanchion
Tie your harness to me
Safe from the maelstrom
Held against the darkness
Let it seep
In controlled bursts
Building immunity
Watching you sleep
Though far from me
A hearts a hard thing to hide
Nor am I very good at it
Not shouting from the rooftops
But great at misreading
I’m left with this churning
As the world sleeps

Grey Revelation

I have been thinking. Dangerous. 

 I find that I regard myself as a ugly man. Is it true? I don’t know. No one has ever said I was handsome. The most I’ve gotten is “I like your hair.” It seems a silly thing to think about. I know that I am well regarded by ex lovers and submissives. But that could be personality or skill. I don’t often think about physical appearance. I do for my lovers, generally to convince them of how beautiful they are, when they don’t see themselves that way. Perhaps how I see myself is why I try to hold up a mirror of my heart, to show them how beautiful they are.
I see myself as powerful, as intelligent, as learned and learning, as many things. But never pretty, never handsome.

I’ve always said that the early morning is when our hearts are most vulnerable. Both to others and to ourselves, sometimes that leads to epiphany. Sometimes to dark roads.

PS: Let me pose this question.  How often do you praise the men in your lives. How often do you say “your hair looks good today?”, or I like that color on you, it brings out your eyes, or any such complement?  Because I’ll tell you, in my experience it’s never. And all the men I know (who aren’t with me, mind), receive no such compliment as well.  I don’t know if it effects them as it effects me.  I receive a few regarding my intelligence, and I thank you.  I receive some for my ability, and I thank you.  
Of such individual and societal pressures are we shaped.  And just think, if they have never heard such a compliment and you are sincere, just think of the impact it will have.  

Introspection: Romantic choices edition

Why do I pick people who are unavailable to fall for? Am I just that blind? Or… Or am I subconsciously picking people who won’t want me or if they do want me, can’t have me because of distance or their present relationship entanglements? If so, what am I afraid of? Rejection maybe? But I get told no all the time. I don’t think that’s it. Or not the larger portion anyway.

I think, on the one hand, I want a passionate emotional relationship but in person I may come off as cold. Controlled. And I am pretty jaded and world weary. So not alot surprises me. Also I find passionate people to be idealistic. I have ideals but I’m ruthless in they’re application and that ruthlessness is at odds with the more nice approach to problems. I think that there are solutions but I see them as generational shifts not something that can, lastingly, be done in the short term.

And I’m sexually adventurous and would like a partner that is open to that. Most of those in my age area are married or with someone. And while I don’t mind being in a consensual polyamoury situation, I have to really like the person to even consider it. And I generally prefer to be the pivot.

And I am also afraid. And I think this is the heart of the matter. I’m afraid I will commit my heart and spirit, time and mind to someone and they will leave me. It seems people are always leaving. They probably have good reasons, for them, but to me it just feel like the place they most want to be is away from me. That is just devastating.

And the more it happens the poorer my judgment gets. All feeding back into poor choices.

Rambling thoughts on loveĀ 

It’s as simple or as complicated as we make it. Loving another is always going to be messy. But it is always worth it. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels like your heart has been ripped out. It is always worth it. To cast yourself open into the yawning abyss, hoping their love will catch you. That your love, together, will halt the fall. I don’t know any other way to do it. Not and have it not take years. Ask any of my friends. For all that I am open, I’m a hard man to get to know. My friendships take years to form. And I love every one of my friends. And from most, I would try for a intimate relationship with, if that is what they wanted. I feel I’m rambling now. The point is that love, while painful, is always worth the pain. People create walls around their selves. Trying to keep out every possible hurt. But that keeps out most of everything. I speak from experience. I shut myself off. Turned off all the things that were painful and felt nothing. Blocked behind walls, behind doors, inside a bubble. Trapping myself inside, to protect from the pain.

It didn’t work. All the pain, the sorrow, all of it just built and built until it crushed through my walls. Battered them to pieces. There is no wall high enough or thick enough, no defense built well enough that it cannot be breached. The only choice becomes to deal with it.

Again, I seem to have lost the thread. Love is always worth the time, the pain. I have never been more happy than when expressing love. Never been more at peace than when I am holding someone I love in my arms.

Rambling thoughts

For all that I have spent time in this world, I feel like I haven’t started yet. Like the only barometer for success I will acknowledge is a life shared. Something I haven’t had in years. I have friends, but I feel like I dip in and out of their lives unable to fully realize that connection that says to talk to them each day even though I desire to. It feels awkward to always be the one to make contact. Like I’m imposing on their lives. With a romantic interest, I feel like I am invited to make contact though I think I take that too far, maybe too fast. I share every little thought even if it’s weird. Is a bunch of little texts throughout the day day weird or one long one that rambles, is that more weird? Am I too concerned that I come off as weird? Anyone that reads my work, has to know I’m weird, right? That I see most things differently. In some ways, I wish that people I am interested in would read my work. On the other hand, I have written extensively about several breakups and their emotional impact and about an unrequited love situation that ended as was inevitable. So they can see just how idiotically romantic/foolish I can be. Or better to know that going in? I may seem a pushover in alot of things, when I’m in a relationship. A soft touch. I’m a big believer in velvet strength. Soft when possible, gentle unless necessary. Then unwavering steel. But if there is no need, you may never see the steel and assume it’s not there. I fight for those I love but I can only do so when I know that there is something to fight. Or to fight for. I want to be chosen I suppose. It’s the only way passion lasts in a relationship. To choose the person you are with, each day. Choose and choose again. Live each day with them in your heart, knowing you are in theirs. That they are choosing you. Maybe that’s too much pressure? To know that I am actively choosing? I don’t know. Or maybe, to their mind, I say I love you too soon? I only say it when I feel it to be true. Not everyone I date hears it, it just happens that those that do tend to hear it ‘early’ in the relationship. I listen to what my heart is telling me. I discern fact from the vapor of nuance. Sometimes, I’m wrong. But I’d rather be wrong about something potentially wonderful and take the chance than be wrong because I failed to take the chance. Though I am, admittedly, a bit wary now. It’s just hard to lose something beautiful for something wonderful, then lose it all. Doesn’t stop me from wanting the everything, despite the pain or the possibility of pain. Though I am a admitted masochist, so perhaps it’s not so unlikely. I could ramble like this forever, one thought bleeding into the next, but I have to go to work.

Essence drips leaving puddles

I’ve dreamed of my leaving
a heart full of needing, and darkness
I’m keening
the life meant for leading
upturned faces looking
for their choices to echo my own and somehow be validated
don’t look to me for encouraging
I foster ideas not to be followed but to stand you up and get you to thinking
so I have companions of thought if not heart
I’ve been lost
and I’m losing all sense of being
just wanting and needing
loving and leading
but always found wanting
but wanting for what
I’m never told

choices I’m making
just missing and living
each dripping second seems to lose meaning
life’s just happening
I say I’m not playing and acting in earnest
how can you know if you won’t hear what I say
easier just to walk away
than explain my falling

you were debating, and I was losing an argument I didn’t know was happening
its all just so easy to run rather than face
but running each time
you start to lose the race
before it’s begun
and I’m just here waiting

planning and plotting for circumstance that may never be
but I’d rather be loving
be burning
be the fire
than to drown myself out before it’s begun
this pain is a nightmare and it aches just to be
but I live all the way out there
all the way free

consequences to actions
countervailing force
ripping me to shreds and I can’t help but feel you are the one hurting
and all I am wishing that you were still mine to help
I’m standing here bleeding
heart’s blood dripping
but it’s you I would mend if I could