A Fault, a Seed

The flaw runs along the length

of my pale, clay and shale torso.

A tectonic fault

brought about by wanton weather patterns

iridescent shifts

fffin the eyes

fffin the palms

forgotten hymns remixed within

embalmed Toonami psalms.

 

I learned how to plant trees as a child.

Often they grew, thanking me for the soil.

You’d think, after years of building life by

filling spaces for the betterment

of the (immediate) world

I would know how to re-purpose a shovel,

I would know that one needs to add each single, solid, soft layer

of earth, of mineral, of sand and solar love

one at a god damn time.

All the way from the bottom

up through the star

hidden in the bridge of my nose.

 

Instead, I took a 2 dimensional spoon from some cartoon on the tube
and slammed it against the surrounding edges of my canyon
smiling at the delirious, dehydrated state of the being I was, laughing at the deepening, increasingly busted state of the psyche I toiled to correct.

Shrugging sunburnt shoulders and exclaiming, with no certainty and no care for it aside, “hopefully the dust settles such that all is well and fine, the hole is filled and once again we can think about sunshine, or perhaps even a solitary emotion rooted in more than air and empty arcs.”

Would you like to know why, dear writer, you will never be worthy of the sun? Of that last cup of water, of a kiss beneath a crimson blanket as the song you hate most plays and you forget to care about the overly crusted chorus?

No matter how long you spend dreaming up a field of molten love and distant skies fit to brim with salubrious storms, no matter how many drinks you can fit behind your glazed eyes before the night is done, and no matter how few times you say “I truly despise your character”, the smoke will always fall off of that same balcony beneath the same moon and it’s neighborhood stars.

Friendly?

Ah, but no one said friendly.

It was always assumed.

Your heart is gold and your hands are cold, Halsey.

But my heart is a weak and fearful sponge, and my hands are too recklessly uncreative to find a way to say anything better about that which pumps them full of purpose, second in and second out.

I know what you’re asking, dear writer. It’s what you always ask on nights like this. Nights where, you feel you’ve finally beat enough dust into the air to hide the fact that there even is a canyon anymore. A gap of any sort. One can hardly find an uneven surface, so long as they refrain from wincing.

“What do I do? How do I finally do it? Why am I still like this, even though I am no longer like that?”

I will never have an answer better than this. This. What you are doing. Actually thinking about helping and doing your best to go and go and go until there is some sort of brighter future on the horizon, for you, or for anyone really, to chase.

Keep going. Create the horizon. You know you want to because you keep looking at it, asking, pleading, knowing it will not answer. So make it answer. Create the horizon, and dye the storms with your eyes.

I cannot help with the canyon, however. I’m a poem, not a therapist. Get a therapist, and make sure they have the right kind of shovel–the short handle one with the nice plastic grip surrounding decent iron, the one you used to plant 100 trees in a single day. Let them toil away at you, as you toil at the world. Everyone needs help. Get help.

Get help so that you yourself can help. So that you yourself can finally, maybe, perhaps at last, sing the song buried at the bottom of your canyon, the one that needs good top soil reaching all the way to the surface. The one that yes, will then need water every single day after the hole is filled and yes, the one that will need sunlight from each separate dawn until the dawn’s respective end and yes, mulch that will not simply be tossed away by the next alcoholic breeze.

You want to finally sprout? You’d like a tree that means something? A day where you finally feel worthy of a kiss, of sweet songs written with the quills of the moon?

Soil. Water. Sun. Mulch. Love.

Love throughout.

Love instead.

Love even so.

Love, in rest.

Now play me out with the droopy notes threatening to end the concert of your eyelids earlier than expected. There are jobs to do that tired folk should not be doing.

photo credit to lunacameo

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Becoming Me (Blog Post)

I have a strong desire to become myself.

I have always held, in my mind, an idealized version of myself. For a long time, I tricked myself into thinking I was that man. I didn’t do the things he did, and I didn’t think the way he would think. However, is till tricked myself into thinking I had what it took to be him.

This is not the case anymore, thankfully.

It is more depressing, living a life in which you truly recognize who it is that you really are. The person that walks around in your shoes all day, pulls them off with relief at night, speaks the words that seep from your mouth, eats the food you choose to eat…this is a person you have no choice but to face. I am learning this more and more every day. It hurts to come closer to myself, because it is so far and away from the idealized being who has, for so long, lived within the catacombs of my mind.

I had so much free time to work on becoming that person, for so long. Now, I am pressed for time, and feel as if I have all but become the opposite of my desired self. Lately, I have been trying more, which is good. By lately, I meant the last couple years. I come and go in spurts of inspiration and attempt at change, slowly going back to my old, lazy ways, inching closer to a reality in which I die with nothing but regret for the life I have led.

Today is another change-day. I am doing things to better myself, to realize some of these dreams. That feels alright. It never really feels good anymore, because I know it mostly counts for nothing unless I make a habit of it.

I hope that everyone out there with similar struggles has a productive and peaceful day. I know those can be hard to find.

I went to a Jimmy John’s this past Monday, and I read a sign there that said to me, “working hard is a better cure for worry than whiskey”. I found this to be very crucial to my understanding of how to live a better life, even if my preference of late is vodka.