I never

Walk away, in distress.
Look,
One more time,
Burst of tears, again, on the bus
My warm cheek
Laughing, at anything,
To get my mind, just for a second, off your name and face.
Because I loved you,
Every waking minute.
And denied you existed to nearly every person,

But those eyes. that last day.
Will always be in my head.
No matter how many times I shudder in the shower,
Or minutes before I go off to sleep,
Walk to the store,
Read a book,
Look into nowhere,
Anywhere,
And nearly blink away my eyes, furiously, convulsively, as the image finally fades.
Then the tears come,
When I see so much as a blue jacket, standing in line to get a mocha

And in the end, no one knows but me,
Whether I'm referring to my own mother
Father
Or lover that never was

Love is violence

Love is violence because it rips itself out of the heart, with no tears of remorse. It steals itself from a mind that is not ready to accept it. The body tells them both to shut it like two children in the back seat of a station wagon. The body goes on. The body survives. The body plunges onward. The body has no choice but to chose the first thing and last thing that will continue the human being. Breathing. Going to work. Jogging. Eating. Eating again. Sleeping occasionally. Sleeping a little more than occasionally. Above all, the body takes the havoc and headache of actual love and stuffs it down it's throat to move on. Love is a thing stuffed down a throat without exception in order for real people to live real lives and not have to be bothered with the gushy details of what ifs or maybes, whens or wheres of happy fairy tale lives that never stop crying in the middle where both parties become too old and depressed and despondent to each other because that is what age does to people. The body is to love what a walmart worker is to an actress. Some of us actually have to get up and go to a real job everyday.

Emery

I met an angel tonight
His name was Emery
He taught me that there was no plan
Only happiness
That no thing or person owned you
That you are worth something
Even if you are a homeless person
And that people can be trusted
And that I am smart
And pretty
And sane
To want happiness
He also told me that there is happiness to be found
If I just act out each day
As if I were dying
Because each day is just that
People walking around
as if they are zombies
Acting out
Trying to be happy
I want life
I don't want death.
He asked me what I would do if I thought I were going to die.
And I know what it is now
And I want to try.
I want to do what ever I can to do be just that.
Act as if my life where dependent on each day as if I were dying.
Because of Emery. Because he said that no matter what person comes into our lives, they're just the master Sculptor, chiseling away at what is there,
I want to build upon what I know I see.
Because he, because of what I believe in what I see, Beyond the bull shit of modern life, I am worth something, and that something is worth making something of herself.

A Non Up Lifting Poem

There's a black cork inside me,
That stops all I try to hold back
I'm tired of pushing my fingers
further and further
Into my middle
To keep that cork,
Firmly in place.
Let not one ounce, not one drop,
Out.
For if a flash flood were to occur,
Lies would have to be told,
Locations possible reestablished,
Something would have to be said,
With shifting eyes
To avoid the truth in them.
That black cork holds back air, in reality.
Because the liquid I held so long,
Has spilled through too small of cracks,
For me to see,
That now I'm a soaked, hollow, mess
Of the disaster I did not avoid.

Words That May Freak You Out Plus an Image That Won't

Erectile Dysfunction
Budget Deficit
Irreconcilable Differences
Non operable Malignant Mass
Am I pretty?
Plausible Deniability
Mortgage
Fiscal Responsibility
Politically Correct
You're the father
Type two diabetes

Happy New Years.

The problem with me is that I strongly believe I wasn't made for this ordinary stuff. I strongly believe that whatever happened to me, is happening, somehow means something. No matter how psychotic, no matter how egotistical, no matter how naive, I strongly believe I was meant for something. Something greater than just this. Something better... something... I feel like I'm playing Russian roulette with the days. As if, if I put this speed bullet into just one day, that one day, I'll be closer to that something. And yet you and I both know I'm still sitting here. Just getting older not something. And I hate myself for it. I want more I edge for better. I seek out goodness. I eat up positivity to get the end result of better.I know what it takes. I read books, blogs, news, flyers on the side of the road about how to get better. And yet here I stand. Nearly better but partially, really just the same. I try to scoop myself up into a good sized lump of better and I do it too quickly and with such haste that I get exhausted. I tear up. I throw up my hands and say "Okay you were right, whoever wants to say I couldn't do it today, you were right." When my real problem may live in the exact pattern that I am changing, but in miniscule results. I am getting better. I am becoming something. But not at the pace I set forth for. But just A pace that's okay for now. And that's okay. Because whatever I can do for now, if not just a small part of me that can change, is more than I could have ever hoped for in considering there may have never been improvement at all.