‘feeling so high but too far away to hold me…
I breathe in your breath
Also throbbing in your pulse
We are one
In tune in time
It’s not hard to find me
In your heart I never leave
This is me
My heart beats
Tied to death
With your breath
Submarine to the reeking green of a quenched atlas,
jurrassic and a skyline made of plastic,
but only if the slacks fit,
ridiculous patterns attracting horny females that dig a classy gent,
and a maple-honey-berry scent,
getting bent consumed my every cent,
now I’m living amongst the ravens because I couldn’t pay my rent,
my intent is to submerge my body below the sea
and get kicked out of a bar that discriminates me,
“Sorry son, but you’re no sea anenome,
and you don’t have any gills
so how the hell can you breathe?”
I said “You’re right, drugs are bad,
but also the best i’ve ever had.”
So if you see me dancing
freaky like a tiki
just know somewhere inside of me a stimulus is leaking,
the beat king,
is someone or something of omnipotence,
My heart has had it’s number one single stuck in it’s head all it’s life.
Why can’t I be that catchy?
I write good melodies
and humongous harmonies,
a folkish jig here and there that puts rhythm in my arteries,
one day my teacher told me:
“Become smarter, please.”
and I responded with…
“What came first, the rat or the cheese?”
i’ve stayed up too late, too much, that i’ve started wanting to drink the moon. maybe offer a toast to the could-have-beens, to all the witches that were once sure of the spells. but are now sleeping, dreamless. later when the morning comes i hope to see magic. may we find something to quench the thirst. because even the wolves’ throats are so dry and lonely there hasn’t been any howlings in the night.
“You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.”
if I surround myself with
my own creations,
I can drown out the thoughts in my head.
I can say “look
here is my impact.
I’m cocooned in my legacy”
I can’t quite detach from the idea that
my value is synonymous with my output
that if I can’t produce something worthy I am
but I can do this.
I can do this.
The more she looked at him, the more she felt him slip further away. He was right there and yet, so far from reach.
Can I tell you about my love affair with the stars? I am intolerable and ridiculous and intolerably ridiculous, but still. Listen to me tell this story. When I was young, so young that all my teeth were different, I saw a picture of a clear night sky filled with stars and I vowed that I would love nothing more. The problem was, I had never actually seen them. All my life, I’ve lived in a city drowning in light. At night, I would tilt my head up and look and look and I would look. Imagine my grief when I was always met with the few pinpricks of light instead. Now, I know that this is just the price you pay for very fast wifi, all the time. But, back then, I fancied God a 7-year-old boy who kept mice in a shoebox and practically, but not mercifully, poked holes in the lid so that nothing died. God, buddy, I would think, poke a few more holes. I would think; I need my heart to grow fonder of this, I need to breathe some more. But every night, without fail, the stars came alive enough only so much that I could count them. It disappointed me so because, you see, even then, I was obsessed with the idea of loving something from afar. But then, because I am intolerable and ridiculous and intolerably ridiculous, I decided that I could love the sky like this too. I could love its incompleteness. I could appreciate that 7-year-old boy/God made holes at all.
Then one night, I went to a place where the night was so dark, it became the fifth member of my family. I held my breath and I looked up at the stars and I died. I died because I didn’t realise. I didn’t realise how much. I did not realise how much.
I think I love you like that. I don’t know you that well. But one time I saw you smile at me and I felt it everywhere. I could not map out the constellations of your heart if I tried. But, oh, how I would die to.
and then you left
and I let you
and that shit felt great.
You took a picture back then. You thought that the view was beautiful, so you took out your phone from your pocket and got a shot of it. You felt pleased with the shot, and then you came back inside the unit. I remember you saying that when the sky starts to bleed, the shadows start to live. You seemed wise back then, and you loved art so much, that you wanted to reflect it, to feel it. However, when you started to get inexplicable feelings from things you see, hear, touch, you became afraid. You suddenly lost the passion to wonder and gained the fear of feeling. You spilled the colors, and now there is nowhere to run. You feel trapped because you can’t control anything. You feel trapped because something inside you has been broken. You are broken. And even if we are both the same person, I can’t seem to go back for you, let alone fix you.
make a wish at 11:11, they say. close your eyes, they say. it is 12:47 am, and with my hands clasped together, i make a wish. it is never about the time, where the hour and minute hands rest or the the ticking of the finger with every passing second. it is the heart that yearns to find you in the eyes of someone else. it is the longing carved deep in my soul to have the chance to feel the warmth of your hands on mine. all shooting stars heard the same wish “let our paths cross.”
it has been years, yet i find myself looking at the smile of everyone i meet. and my heart aches for all the moments i wished it were you.
09/04/2020 2:46PM / I went outside today. First time in weeks. Had to take a shot of vodka prior; put on a mask, protective gloves, all the rings and two rosaries for protection. I’m not even a practising Christian. I might come out of this with slight agoraphobia. Despite my personal fears, it was strangely peaceful; nobody seemed to be losing their minds, etc; everything was normal, nothing was off, nobody seemed in distress. If anything, I was the only thing that was off. I thought everyone was just as starved as I was. That is clearly not the case, it turns out, which is bad in more than just one way. Well. I am still struggling to regain my peace since the incident days ago. I thought the worst was over but it’s not; I still have some time to go. It hurts to eat, or be around people who don’t see me as human. Frankly, it will only end once I can leave the house and come back to my own. I am coming to the conclusion that marrying strictly for love is stupid. There are things and people that scare me more than the Rona and I will not sleep easy until this comes to an end. I just want to feel safe again, secure; my own person. I hate to say this but I miss cigarettes again. Fervently.
Being broken is terrifying. Seeing this person, this you, and knowing that it’s not complete, not whole, is terrifying. Looking at the tools you’ve been given and realizing they’re incomplete and you can’t do what you need to is terrifying. Looking down at your hands to find they’re shaking, you’re shaking, the world is shaking, is terrifying. Instability is the bane of joy, and a broken vase is the fear of many a foot. We are scared in ourselves of being broken, and we are scared of brokenness in others.
But what can we do? We are all broken. We sit in a field of shattered pots and we look around. “From this angle, that pot looks perfect! They are not scratched, they are not shattered like me!” You cannot see the other side of that pot. You cannot see the tiny person huddled there, sobbing without composure and wiping away desperate tears with a fist like a child’s. All you can truly see is your pot, your world, your broken edges and scarred surfaces.
But hey. Little clay friend, we are in this together. Look to the side, and you will see me. Yes, there. The small sediment girl who is waving and calling to the world. Perhaps you cannot hear me call, perhaps you cannot hear the words I am saying. But here I am, standing atop my broken pot and waving my arms. Jumping up and down, cupping my hands over my mouth in a hope you can hear me.
“You got this!” I call.
“I believe in you!” I say, waving frantically.
“HANG IN THERE I’M COMING!”
I clamber off my pot, little more than a pile of shards now. But I will not be ashamed. I know I am broken, I have been the little clay man with pearl tears dripping down my chin as I sob in an empty pot before, and I will likely be that sad doll of fate again, but right now I am running across the field of fractured pottery, trying to reach you. Soon I will be there and I will take you up in my unfired, imperfect embrace and we will sway side to side while you sob in my shoulder. I will whisper the words I have to you in comfort. Perhaps they will not be the right words, but they will be my words and my gift and my hope for you. It will take a while, but those gossamer tears will stop flowing and we will break the hug. Perhaps, then, both of us will feel better.
I will take a step back, and we will smile at each other; that sad, sweet smile still wet with tears but fresh as grass when the sun peers back over the mountains. I will walk back to my pot, though perhaps I will stop to comfort a few more broken clay people as I return. And when I look back, about to reenter the sad shattered vase that is me, I might just see there, in the distance and silhouetted by the setting sun, another little clay man climbing on top of their pot to find someone who needs part of that hug that I just shared.
And I will smile, knowing the legacy has passed along.
“What if there’s no such word or such thing as sadness?” He asked.
I stared at him with confusion, head tilted.
“What if we were only comparing that this day was happier than this day and that’s why we feel a little odd in the pits of our heart?” He explained. “What if neologist felt the need to name this feeling so it would be easier for us to say that today isn’t as happy as yesterday?”
I nod in response as it all made sense to me.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if sadness wasn’t even a thing?” Came a pause. “And we only reckon that some days are just brighter than other days.”
Sometimes I feel the world has helped me stay trapped here
By buckling me in
And when I push against the belt it locks
I am left struggling and submitting to it’s pressure
I saw this beautiful part of something else and reached for it
And the universe slammed the brakes
Turning me around
To come back to you
(Dear Anxiety, stay the hell away from me.)
~April 9, 2020~
They are all encompassing. They are warmth and passion. Sweetness and salt. They give as they ask. They mean what they say. They are soft against my own. They are yours and that is simply enough for me. (Your lips)
I have always liked staying home. But today I realised how much we take this place we call home for granted. Home isn’t just a roof over your head. Perhaps it’s the freedom and the safe feeling you have when you’re at home. But to be able to call a place a home, I think it’s a privilege, especially at times like this.
You keep saying you’re full of secrets and dark corners but what you don’t realize is I find the most comfort in the shadows