Intervaled Insomnia

A dream was had,

In between

Bits and tads of sleep

Vu’ed Deja

At the age of

Aches

That should not

Be had.

 

Mad?

I used to get

(And still)

 

Sad?

At times

Now always somewhere

But no such time for fret

 

Regret?

Inevitable, you see

When what once was

Becomes belief

Of what is wished

To still be.

Such sanctity defiled

For vile

Self deprecating assurance.

 

But this dream

(As this poem originally schemed)

Seemed to deem

Visions of you,

Above all else.

There was touch

Though ‘twas memory

To feel

How you

Once felt

Sweet,

And smooth,

And soft-

Or so such nocturnal visions

Pulled so taught.

 

Until waking

To the blinds of staggered light

For despite

All my tardy might

In my arms rests nothing,

Lies no one,

Not you,

The soul these arms

Used to know.

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Stringing Sayings

Words can trickle,
Be fickle,
And cause pain.
Toss blame
Bring shame

Claims humans make
Promises break
Hearts shake
And quiver
And shatter

Hands can sew tatters
And touch skin
But words can go within
Without doubt
Or with it.

(In fits of rage)
Remorse
And passion
Make bedmates
Of a fashion
That timid souls
Cannot bear
Or cannot see
If that’s how
We choose to be

Be see
And hark!
Now listen to me
Yes you,
Thee.

For the words
Can wander
And meander
But no slander
Shall fall from beyond my teeth
For when I speak
I mean to say
Thoughts I’ve buried
Tried to make dead
Inside this head
This skull
(This soul)
Owes all to you
And will
Until this body,
An organic space ship,
Withers
And wanes
And grows old

Or so goes the story
These words have told

What’s One More?

‘Twas I

(cue sad sigh)

who had that

for which most

don’t even get to try.

But why?

Oh! Why?

Would one ever let her go?

Supra-man himself could not know,

could not show,

the bastard fantasy

for its fallacy.

 

While reality,

was,

all grand and dressed with passion,

and,

abandoned in a fashion

no true knight ever would.

Yet dreadful hindsight all included

I refuse to stay secluded

for just a chance,

a single chance,

for one more dance

or lazy morning

with all the glory

of skin so soft

and eyes so longing

to get inside a soul

some poor coward

would not let in.

Doc is Short for Brian

Watered down whiskey

imprints in me

no self sympathy

catastrophe 

a closer chance

but a further glance

beyond the fever

this dreamer weaves

rests a man alone in bed

his head with less rest

from manufactured restlessness

and schemes of changing time

to get back what was mine,

I mean his,

I mean theirs,

I mean ours

 

Yellow flowers

and silent book depositories

categories 

of what was there

what still is there

somewhere

sitting with Kurt and Fitzy

who warned us what we would be

would hurt

and by we

I mean she and he

for you see- me and thee

was made not to be

so foolishly

by he who cannot rest

singing sad songs in his head

not wishing to be dead

but sorry that he said,

that he left

and though failure just might

man strives to make right

what prolonged adolescence corroded 

with words

bloated and owed to terror

of what was truly longed for

that which was there,

that which was had

A Confession, or Something

An obsession

held tight

by a boy with too much might

now damns

with despair 

the man he tries to be

could not see

forests

for trees,

or leaves,

made of that

which was right in front of thee.

 

A pity, he’d say

A sadist, she’d claim

yet,

both they

and themselves

crave

that which was lost

immense in its cost

but lost, just the same

 

In name, 

the blame

is his mythical pain

yet she maintains

responsibility

with grace,

elegance, 

and humility

 

For the boy,

the man, 

can put forth his tries

to gaze

into those eyes

that shall not

see him

again

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.6.14: On Regret and the Sort

 For a person who isn’t very good at them, I have found myself spending a lot of time apologizing. I wouldn’t have to do so if my behavior was that of a more decent human being. I’m not saying that I am always a vindictive self obsessed and loathing human being with masochistic tendencies but I certainly have my moments.

I’ve done many a great things with my life but I still have managed to spend the majority of my day brooding over the mistakes I’ve made. The good may outweigh the bad but it is difficult to see that when the tragedy and travesty hang so heavily on my mind and heart. Loneliness is a terrible thing and has caused me to do some terrible things but if I spend all my time so fixated upon my downfalls, my life would waste away in a pool of regret.

I had a few conversations today concerning my many follies and even though the demon liquor may have helped my viciousness along, to blame it entirely on that would be very incorrect. The truth is in my heart somewhere and I may just be too terrified to make right all that I have wronged. But even with all of that, many wonderful people have forgiven me for my harsh words and deeds and though I don’t understand it, they must be able to see something in my that I just refuse to look at.

I want happiness, as we all do but unlike many others, that which stands most prominently in my way always seems to be myself. It has been a long journey to get where I am and yet the same struggles keep plaguing me and they are almost all of my own invention. I’m not a liar but I certainly have a tremendous fear of the truth and as one of my many dysfunctional idols had said, the truth is what is and what should be is a dirty lie that someone told the people long ago.

But to get back to this loneliness of my own creation, I must confess that despite my talk of despise for the many negative traits of man, I still feel obligated to help save this world and all who are in it. It has a lot to do with my ego, which is a monster that often gets out of control. I want to be loved by so many and so few at the same time and yet I can’t seem to find that love for myself. I know I contradict myself constantly but I can’t seem to find the satisfaction in my soul I claim to crave so greatly. I’ve made mistakes and I know I will in the future but if I don’t do something about my pettiness, it will surely destroy me.

I say I want happiness but how could a person claim such a thing and yet always be the one preventing it? The only explanation I can give for that is my own existence which is living testament to my own inability to accept things for how they are.

But how are things?

That’s a question I have dodged like Al Capone with his taxes and if I keep it up, we may share a similar fate. I’ve been at this point before and I’ve always failed to fix what is broken. I’ve pressed on but there has to be a limit and I may be reaching it, if it hasn’t already been passed. I’m not perfect but I’m told I could be if I would just let myself be so.

I don’t know. I was hoping that writing this would bring me some answers be all I can see are more questions. I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused and I can only try and do enough good to outshine the spots of heartbreak and tragedy I’ve caused. It’s messed up, but that’s who I seem to be and who I strive to be. Maybe it has to do with the people I try to emulate and aspire to be being dysfunctional degenerates who manage to create beautiful things from that. Comedians, writers, actors musicians and the like all make wonderful things but they ones I like the best make them from sweeping up the shatters of their lives that they have broken themselves. To quote one of these men, “I don’t know someone loves me unless I can make them cry.”

Awful, I know, but you’d be just as much of a liar as I can be if you didn’t admit it was true. Someday I’ll make everything better but today I will wallow around in some self pity and deprecation. Again, I apologize and I’ll try to make it better if I can.