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[loveisjustgodonagooddayblr]

Diver

I'm a diver, procella to set it straight

Rather be an albatross, thinking of ending it all

I'm a diver lost just off Alcatraz,

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I

I feel like a bad operator

Slowly losing friends

And the hope of feeling connected with the world again

And the hope of feeling connection with the world again

And the feeling of hope,

Forever stuck lost in the bylines of everyone else’s lives

I tried to surround myself and make a home with all the things I once knew

And loved

I’m surrounded by bookshelves, but I don’t recall any of the characters or narratives

All just lost dreams I once had, wrong to think self-help books were enough to save/change me

And I’ve collected posters and pictures, hoarding facsimiles of the good times escaping me

Drawers full of notes from ghosts of past friends, apologies long overdue for letting everyone down

Boxes of scrapbooks that tell stories I can no longer hear



I’m thinking of hanging it up

This tired, drawn out act

You knocked on the spare bedroom door

Thinkin the worse had come

You’ve never seen a storm like this blow through our town

You asked if I was okay and knelt down

Spent my life, drinking 30 years away

I was clinging to life, sprawled out on the ground

I grabbed for your hand, clawing for sight through blood shot eyes

In our 3 years, you’ve never seen me so down

I’m thinking of hanging it up

I crawled out from the wreckage, unburied myself from a self built cavern

And climbed into the shower to wash off the guilt and shame

Slid past your office and out the front door

Flew into work, I missed another deadline yet again

“I’m tired of living like this” screaming in my head

I’ll blame the weather or the traffic or anything else besides myself

I’ll crawl from the wreckage, escape these chains someday

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Be the man of the house. Hold down the fort.

Don’t dare fall or falter. You’ll pick yourself back up.

Be the man of the house, let that guilt settle in your ribcage.

Don’t cry. Live in fear. Fear to be called weak.

Salt of your tears will be the salt upon your wounds.

Don’t dare let others find you face down in despair.

Stand tall in the face of proven statistics against your own mortality.

Be brave, for the sake of apocalyptic pain and suffering. Be considered vain for wanting shelter, yet blamed for causation just the same.

A letter for 16 yr old.

I don’t know how to guard you from the extent of how and why the world is so fucked up. I wish I could tell you how to enjoy the songbirds and their poetry when you awake on Saturday mornings, your bedroom window slightly ajar. I want to tell you how to capture the warm rays beaming through double-paned windows and slightly cracked, off-white levolor blinds. I long for you to appreciate the cool, mystic lush pushing through the screen that bounces off your skin with every gentle breeze. I want to tell you that every day of your life will be just like this.

Nondescript. A life less lived.

If I could, I’d promise you’ll always awake on your twin sized mattress, protected in your childhood home, careless. I want to show you how to save yourself from you, but at alas I cannot. Youth will drain and joy will fade. Eventually, bottles will turn up empty as the thoughts in your head begin to pour out with them. Childlike wonder and amazement will pass as if its existence were merely just a dream. You’ll wonder if it was once always like this, questioning mental facilities before age 30.

I want to tell you slow down, put the phone down, and shut the fuck up for once. Listen to anything else this world tells you. Listen to anything else outside of the voice in your head that beats and beats and beats into your skull, begging your attention whenever you aren’t tucked away into the mindless doldrums of the thing you call living.

You have very little control of very few things in this world, most of which control you. Take care and own yourself to the best of your ability. Most importantly, stay true. To yourself, to others, and most of all your loved ones. Real ones will have your back, even when you don’t realize it all.

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Favorite

I hope your skin stings when you (dream) think of your favorite song

(And reminisce on your dreams)

I've accepted by now that you don't think of me

And whenever you dream (your reality (daydream) breaks)

You and I both know

How I've carried this weight (in your veins)

How (I've longed that you would sink)I hope you would sink

I hope that ink in your arms burns

(Ink onto paper sinks)

when you remember

Who you tried to bury deep

I hope that your skin stings when you dream

Whenever you think of cardinals and saints

I hope you remember who you tried to sink

Bury deep (you won't bury me)

You and I both know alone

How you (I) still run (pollute) in your veins

I hope that ink burns deep

(Ink onto papers sink)

when you remember

Who you tried to bury deep

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End of the world

There should be uprisings in New York, dropping morse codes, along commuter walls

You're casual among miles

Promising uprisings in NYC, (dropping lines along), (everyday men) drippings along (across) commuter walls

Streets we ((c)would) take, if (only) we had known

The pen was never (meant to be) fragile against

(Poking, thinking) Outside of the voting box

Fuck the democrats

And especially fuck the right

Fuck em all, (living is) we're worth the fight

There's a (screen) flat screen TV on the wall, (that) doesn't interest me at all

Spelling (selling) out (the) (end of) late stages of capitalism, sounds fine (right) to me

What does social security mean to you anyways?

Why break my back so you can continue to tan yours?

I've broke mine, so why pay the price, Et Tu, Brute?

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World of The End

This Lady liberty has seen

Compromises and finding ways to spit through her teeth

Like Wall Street would insure it

Painting the hall

Our apocalypse running on the ticker tape

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Breaking Point/Atlas

Alas, I’ve finally grown tired/bored of running into strangers

Ignoring all the friends I once knew and now have lost

Grown tired of running into ghosts of those I once loved

I’ve sheltered the light in my eyes from the warmth of growth for far too long to leave this world a ghost

Tired of turning warm loving people into hosts of hidden guilt

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I'll Never

I know now I'll never write a novel worth reading

A poem worth digesting

A song worth the breath

This was never the plan I laid out, my lost friends

Gone are the words I once traded for a pad and a pen

Lost in the short-form cannon fodder passing by in the end

The hand I was dealt, sold me short indeed

Merrily a dream, as if as dreaming my living was enough

I once was angry at the world, but it passed like strangers in a train

Like raindrops birthed from a raging storm on a single window pane

A million moments contained in a single being

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I

I want to rediscover the magic

I want to feel like breathing is worth living, again

Once again, visions of life are sinking in

Been wondering far too long when it ends

At least the hole that I’ve been stuck in

Been wondering too long until it all ends

Holding out hope

Can pollinate flowers

It would’ve been worth it

Been drinking liquor like it’s going out of style this decade

Faking conversation, all part of the facade.

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Lorrie smoked a real mean cig

A long working class pool

She’d laugh in the face

Of capitalist disgrace

As if it meant a goddamn thing

Like pigs to swill

Another phase, left in her bones

We’d burn you down

I’m mad at the big man

Like Lorrie too

Don’t mean well aft’n all

We’ll bring him down

Like he brought you down too

It’s past midnight, I’m mad at the marching man

Been wondering what beat you’re marching to

Big man been bringing us all down

Why aren’t you mad too?

Like my daddy said, dark stormy clouds

Bring March, well past June

Rents more cheaper, why ask for more

Can’t afford a house, why buy a home?

You got a good place don’t ya?

Landlord couldn’t ask for more

Money is for the rich and you ain’t poor

We gave you privilege

God’s sacrilege

They’ll tell you when poor is poor

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Forever winter

I don’t remember most of our best days

Our little conversations

Our little asides

I don’t remember our origin story

As much as I would’ve liked to

I remember wanting to remember you

But I knew I forgot our last night

Over and over and over again

And that’s no way to build a life

On a rocky terrain that I made myself

I’ve spent a life forgetting all the things I longed to remember

I’ve giving up on holding smoke and

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I'm done chasing a carrot on a stick

Engaged in a marathon yet again

On an endless capitalist treadmill

I want off

I'm bleeding color onto pages to be never read

I'm chasing after life, forcing color into the mundane

I write best when I'm drunk

I write best when I'm numb

Protected I'll stay, numb I'll remain

Warm blanket, cold eyes, 1000 mile staring

I fear most of my days that my end is near

I'm not sure what it holds

When reality once again folds

Once the cold hits, and curtain drawn

Losing that warm once my vision fades

I wanted to know what I did, meant enough

I've written enough salutations to an absent crowd and yet

I've written enough goodbyes to a crowd of no-one

I've written enough and yet I know, it still will never be enough

I'm gone and slowly faded

Art I've created was never enough

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Looking out at the crowd, looking back at me

wondering why words won't come as easily to mind

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I'm looking out, searching for my own crowd

Instead, I'm a self-indulgent, sad kid dragging around his own sad cloud

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I'm exhausted from soulless searching

And pulling hope from endless bottles

Cope scraping, mental state deteriorating

Blaming all my ghosts, as if I was worth saving

As if you would save me

Tore myself to pieces, finding a place to waste away

Searching for peace in between the 5 and 9 daze

Ethanol accosting mind and body

Tearing holes in this fucking city

Drinking, leaching off tomorrow's sunshine to find a shred of light in my darkest days

Like it'd fucking save me

I'd lose myself to daydream if it weren't so empty

Economy desperate, money hungry, such a pity

Pathetic politicians who won't know my name

Making excuses for every consequences

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I've got the bookends and lists of long lost regrets

Filled libraries on wasted pages of self help books I wished I had turned

Thinking on all the black ink wasted on yellowed pages I'd much rather burn

Leaving all the literature in between

A lost soul searching to be free

And a forgotten life trying to find

Shows you and me

Gave me a couple decades and I've spent

Days wondering when the suffering of everyday living stops

I've made weekends of my weekdays

A lifetime of circling the drain

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oI

I remember the 21, nothing

I remember the 27, almost something

I remember the 29, chasing (pursuing) mediatory

I'll birth a 30 nothing, mediocre and hoping

I remember (a) the 21, (nothing) something

I remember a (the) 27, nothing (something)

I remember my 29th, chasing (forever) (pursuing) auditory (meditory)

(Give(ing) birth to)An (almost) 30 (almost) nothing

(always) mediocre and (always) (forever) hoping

And now I've spent two weeks, two months, too many years outside of (my) nothing

I'm bored. I'm not me. I'm not you. (I am) Wishing I was me.

I've dropped (lost) personal connection (s) and I (don't) miss being so small, that this world would blow me away

I'm the pencil, paper and the eraser

Turning on myself, (you) left (all but) no disclosure

Blurring ink, miss ritalin, bleeding onto the paper