Footprints

Every victory is a tipped tank carving the shards of me with hard angles, my darn ankles roll like grandma’s head in pa’s stranglehold!

Trophy is gold. Hands are brown. Heart is black. I curse, it attacks, I pray, it distracts, I may have a way to unbraid all the tracks, send the train off the map, this pain isn’t gain it’s terrain on collapse!

My footing stays unsteady. Without the bottle in my fingers my arms start feelin heavy. I can’t escape from escapism because when you’re not sick there is no remedy. Oh jiminy. God forsaken brevity. I’d burn a cross on mount Olympus if it meant experiencing divine levity.

Han wasn’t the laser brain. That goblin was me. Lightsaber straight through the center of my cranium. Severed identity. I’m sorry Carrie. I keep feeling like I’m betraying your legacy. What am I supposed to do when doing right and doing wrong are still being true to me?

TD Jakes said that being famous is the side effect of being effective… like a sycamore searching for sustenance in asgaard- I’m not sure where that leaves me. Honesty is the best policy nobody wants to cash in on. Poets are really practicing politicians posing as paupers and players of God’s midnight song, but late in the midnight hour all the magic of facade is gone.

Too many nights alone. Creating fragmented memories and calling them poems. The sound in the forest that nobody hears is the melodic tone on which my life steers. There’s no drop of golden sun for thirst of female deer, just West coast homeless probes in an autotuned tunic. I guess every superhero needs his theme music. 

But my theme is red light district. Look around. I blew it. And that line might have gone too far, but when you’re the only friend equipped to go the extra mile, you realize…

Most of your life will be dark patches of moonlight. Without even an echo to find your way home.

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Glimmer

A contorted expression of twisted responsibility. I hate it. I’m trapped in a lake of loneliness. Locked into a promise that only guarantees lies to me.

Lies of belonging, when really my only belongings will forever be the emotional myriad of internal longings… I crave access to normality. To pull it over my crazed identity like a cloak and pose like one of these folks who don’t bear the hero’s worry of the soul.

But I could be standing on a stage and still my presence would be staged. Tapping on hollow mics, not for praise, but merely recognition… acknowledgement.

Hello, can you see me, is this thing on? I’m looking for the place the wanderers call home… Hello, can you see me, is thing on? Right when I’m in need I notice everybody I need is gone…

Invisibility is profitable only for the heartless.

I don’t know how to not need… how to not be what I am…

All I know is how to be alone. I’ve gotten it down to an art form. A science. Heck I’m even writing a poem about it-

Oh how the lies make fools of us all…

Deuces

No words…
Cardiac arrest.
Heart stop…
Blood clot…
No words.
Mind stuck…
Social bust…
Cussing… out
Fussing… now
No words.
Help required…
Call who?
Dial tone…
All alone…
No words.
The anomaly…
Very surprised…
Disheartened me…
My eyes.
They speak.
No words.
Farewell loves.
Skyward bound.
By myself…….
No words.

**
~The Wordsmith

The Hurt

I’ve never known what to do with it…
Whether to ex it out as a lie or proceed with my true feelings…
Many different packages, like Christmas’ dark paradox, but the only thing I’m given is a keyless room full doors with closed locks…
Great.
A friendship with she who is my heart winning, but then misfortune curses my mobility, and now I am no longer…
She went to great lengths to assist, but at the end she left me out in the cold…
Well its not really, but my feelings are.
I didn’t ask.  Didn’t want to be a burden…
And now I’m hurtin cuz she left me out here under these stars, our pathway is now uncertain…
Maybe I don’t have a right to these feelings, but hey they chose me.
Lord knows I would gladly accept numbing healing against all this internal reeling…
And I know, I am he who conquered Jericho, and its scary though, because I thought we had a bright light, but perhaps its only a little glow…
Or maybe I DID see correctly but I must make my feelings known…
We shall never know.
And then there is the incident itself…
I am not so brash as to challenge God, but God, what the-  Heaven?
Have I misread or been blinded?
Or is there really a such thing as” that’s just life”?
… I am he who is always there, yet has no one…
The sacrifice everyone is willing to make.
I suppose none of this would be so bad, or affect me or make things worse except-
It hurts.
… And I do not know what to do with it.

**
~The Wordsmith

Fatal

So this is agony.  For so long I thought it was physical suffering, over-mothering, having too little for everything, or maybe living with veiled loving… What I have found, is that these are symptoms.  The problem is me.  My head.  My psyche.  Thinking is killing me.  Reflection is a slow killing poison which I heedlessly keep injecting… Its like a drug.  I gotta have it.  Gotta watch.  Gotta perceive.  Gotta know.  Gotta ponder it all.  See if the taste changes by stickin in my big toe… But what I want is out of reach.  One can always gain further understanding, but it is accompanied by mortalizing limits, and stumbling so is there truly anything under me, standing?

I suck in information until my head goes helium, and my eyes roll inside my head.  I suck faster, hoping for more… Hoping this straw of balanced interpretation isn’t becoming my Lord.  Craving to finally see and to know, and detesting the craving at the same time.  It is getting me nowhere, and accomplishing nothing.  Yet it is as if I have placed my hand upon a sheet of fly paper… The more I struggle to let it go, the more hopelessly entangled I become.  I am it.  It is me.  Disjunction and I are one. One mind, one aspiration, one doubt, one hope, one trick, one love, one ponder, one package of infinite analysis…

I’m laughing to keep from going mad – or perhaps because of it? – and I know that it’s sad because I’m striving for a covenant, that I know not if it exists, hoping that with all of my intent senses, when it makes an appearance, I won’t miss it.  I stay up all night defying sleep to remind myself that my will does have some effect… When I awake, I come correct, wishing for the days end to flex my power once again.  I am plagued by things forgotten, things attempted… The outfits of those around me, and their psychological constituents.  Often to my detriment.  Even chancing that I successfully removed the veil, what then?  What purpose is found in pondering and perception?  Delirium.

Why so serious?  Why not?  Everything is material for the agile mind to dance around like hop scotch or hip-hop.  Nothing is too minute, and nothing too grand.  Everything gets calculated.  Everything – or at least as much as I can.  Sometimes I move and accomplish things… Make sprints in the direction of my dreams… But then I wonder – is that my dream at all?  At which point do most stumble, and which do most stand tall?  Probably many are playing it so safe that falling is a near impossibility.  I cannot do that willingly, I need some wily nily, a dose of silly, a question like “Really?”, to explode like C4 and see what takes place, to examine my warm and see if it’s chilly.

Flat line… Reflection is a slow killing poison which I heedlessly keep injecting… It kills my activity, but something keeps resurrecting.  My feet are glued to the pedal, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

Thinking… Always thinking…

Well when you are alone in this world – what else is a guy to do?

~The Wordsmith