Poets rarely seem to have happy lives

Sometimes you have a good night. Not great. Not revealing. Just good enough.

And on these nights, I think. I think, if I died, it would be enough. Not good. Not right. But enough, I think.

Morgan is long gone. Even her faintest echos are lost to me.
All who I’ve loved have gone or walked into their own futures.
And while I love my friends, you can’t live for them.
They have their own lives. No matter how much you love them. No matter how much you need someone to hold you in the silence.

Enough. Enough now.

Post script
I’ll take no action. Fear of the horizon and hope for what might be, will always call to me.

But really, without that spark of music, that waking, that breathe that is love. Without…

Find joy in what you have. Best I can do is ready.

Losing value

Pull forth stones
Presented in facet
Covered in bile and muck
Not all are rubies or jade
Just diamond
Just common brilliance
Made precious by forced scarcity

Made wonderful by lies
By marketing campaigns

Fire pressed
Jade and jasper
Forged by seconds ticking away in a roar
Until we can’t hear ourselves think
Until this is it

And a shaped piece of steel and nitre

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.

What am I afraid of(audio) 

I’m afraid
that today will be the day that I don’t cry
Today will be the day I don’t reach out
Today will be the day where I feel isolated
Today will be the day I can’t see tomorrow
Today will be the day that it won’t hurt to think about
will be
the day

On repeat

I repeat to myself
I want to die
I want to die
I want to die
This litany slithers and drifts
This hope to stop existing
This dream that something
Will stop my mindless gears from turning
Until the crushing weight of my own words
Set my conscious mind to planning
But it was a lie
I just want the pain to stop
So at least
I’ll stop burying the blade deep in myself
And say
I am loved
Even if it probably isn’t true

Only blue or black days

I think about it daily
Several times a day
It causes pain in my throat
Tears in my eyes
I feel my heart aching
And I keep getting up
I keep going to work
I keep acting
Like I’m my normal self
If not normal itself
It’s not that I want to die
Or that oblivion is so alluring
I just don’t see the point of this anymore
And I tell myself, of course I won’t do it
It used to be that I thought, don’t set it in motion cause that’s when it will turn around.
Ever the cynic, even the end turns out wrong
But now it’s that I can’t hurt the people I love
Even if they don’t love me like I need them to
I think about it every day
But I don’t do it
I don’t know if that makes me strong
Or a fool
This is a beautiful world
I doubt it would be less so without me in it

That’s depression talking

I don’t see myself as less, except on alternating Wednesdays or when I haven’t gotten enough sleep and my brain won’t stop telling me that this is all my fault. I am mostly aware that people love me and that I am a person worthy of love, except at 2 AM and the clock keeps ticking by and I’m sitting alone without someone who wants to hold me. I know that I laugh and make jokes that people find funny but I’m at my most cutting edge of laughter when I’m in such pain that there is no other outlet. Other than shouting and crying, and that’s frowned upon while sitting at my desk at work. I know I’m alright most of the time but sometimes I’m not.

And creeping along, I find myself filled with the need to get out, get out, get out. Just a flick of the blade and a few minutes till it’s over or jump from the roof, the fall will be interesting, or get a gun and go out to the desert to watch the sunrise one last time.

It’s not because I don’t love this world, because I do. I love the stirring of the trees in the wind. I love rain falling. I love watching people be unselfconciously themselves when they think no one is watching.

But I’m also that broken thing, this bag full of glass and I think it would be easier to not be here.

I need that connection of someone who wants me. Maybe just to hear my voice or to read my words on the screen. To look forward to hearing from them. To need that connection to be one step closer to happy.

They say love yourself before you can love others. I do. I know myself and see my self, it’s just that I feel unwanted and unloved most of the time and that feeling makes it hard to step out the door. And when I’m with someone, it all seems possible and the world is brighter and the work of living seems less like work.

And then it, somehow, is over or ended or put into some kind of holding pattern. It’s not that I need to be in a relationship, it’s just that I don’t feel worth love most days and I’m keenly aware of how I feel. When I’m with someone, I at least know that they like me, and if they do, maybe I’m worth love.

It’s not logical and I know that. I know that people love me. But I sometimes feel so alone and I can’t be the person who is constantly reaching out for reassurance. I don’t want to be that person who is the burden on their lives.

Emotional shotgun: Poetry edition

Why follow me

Lead through the mists of my own dissolution, disillusion
Lost in the loves I can’t quite reach
The ones never quite enough

Like a pincushion of blades
Each support the other
Pull one to watch me fall apart

Watch me as I eat my feelings
All to keep me from buying that shotgun
And finally going through with silent plans

Follow me?
I can only lead you to dark places
Where cries and screaming, sobs
Break the too still silence

And that’s on a good day
When planning fails to give way to plotting
It’s not a solution, but it is, isn’t it

When you believe in a afterlife and you won’t be judged for walking away
It’s the peace of not being

But I have my fear to keep me here
My fear that I am seconds from finding her or him and I just need to stick it out

They say you have to love yourself first, well I like myself, love maybe but here’s the thing about they say

THEY don’t know shit
Time heals all wounds? Bullshit spouted by the delusional and the optimistic that have never been wounded deeply.

There’s someone for everyone? What if my someone is dead or speaks Mandarin and lives in rural China? Bullshit

It’s a cakewalk of platitudes when you’re looking for answers
Or maybe just a place to lay your head
And a hand to hold, lips to kiss
And words to say