Presence - r1

My perspective was bright, from time to
time, filled to the brim with ambition;
social cognition was a fallacy
I would prove innate along the way.
Three years at University,

and I was becoming transparent.
Like so many others, I was determined
to change the world; instead, I stumbled
my way to Psych services. I am part of a lost
generation, beyond Hemingway's understanding

of the concept—like many before me;
like the young adults I see today.
However, this is fact not fiction—soon
they'll be out creating ultra-violence,
listening to Beethoven's ninth,

and calling each other 'droogies'.
Maybe that was my generation, lost
in transition, bred for recognition
of failed architecture. We are the Zoloft era,
and age is unrestrictive at this point;

fed pills and coerced onto couches
to be treated by doctors
with more problems than our own.
It's nothing that can't be learned
by looking towards the night sky.

The stars, while otherworldly, share
with us the same lessons: everything is
always moving—I orbit you, as you orbit me.
Duality is lost in two grains of sand;
don't stare too long at an illusion.

In the Deep - r1

I have been anesthetized by the Deep,
and here under a starless sky
I found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep.  No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek, to greet
with unquiet praise—instead, the wretched
soulless wraiths have gathered round
with hauteur flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.

Cold as winter's breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates, and their shivers
are enough to shake both worlds which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so strange it is, the lending of a foreign hand.

Missing Pieces - r1

He sits upright in bed staring at the empty wall, thinking about life—about how he wants to hit snooze again and forget he's alive—about how he knows he's going to get yelled at for being late again. What does it matter though? He doesn't care about his boss; in fact, he barely even cares about his job. He barely ever shows affection to anyone these days, head pointed to the ground, eyes lonesome. He feels like a part of him is missing—like someone reached inside his chest and pulled out the piece he tried so many years to keep a hold of. He looks at the world differently now; the expressions on faces—the smiles he knew were never real. He tells himself the dream will end soon. He laughs; wishing every morning has never made it come true—he asks anyway. Stumbling out of bed, he kicks through the clothes on the floor deciding which skin to wear today. Arrogance, fear, depression—he keeps kicking—grief, pity. Pulling fear over his head, he knows grief is not far behind. Fear for what? Fear for living—for his dream—for the next morning when he wakes up, kicking the same shit, asking the same questions. Grief for what? Grief for the fear he has walking through the halls seeing smiling faces—for the part of himself he lost. Where did that go anyway? Maybe it was too sweet and time melted it away in the heat of the days—the long nights with endless dimes and blank stares. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before it dissolved away.

Dreaming on Park Benches

Picture credited to Steven Smith

Sometimes I have dreams of you;
they seem to be the only ones I remember.
I was lost and sleeping on a bench
on your front porch.

You left your vehicle and looked down at me.
I rubbed the sun from my eyes long enough
to watch you walk right past.
When I awoke I could still feel you leaving.

The depth I felt between us was wider
than the empty space between us on the blanket
on the hill, at the concert you bought us tickets for.
It's the sadness I felt writing a letter

telling you: I Love You.  There is so much space
between your laugh, and my smile, and your
Son, and my Nephew.  I can no longer connect
the dots between us.

But I miss you.  Waiting on park benches,
waiting in my dreams: I miss you.

The Road Home (Baptism revision 2)

Here I was baptizing myself in the throes of others’ misery, wanting nothing but to remember how it felt when the pang of life was so full it overflowed up and out each orifice. I felt the presence of gravity on tears that, for once, seemed natural. To fight the uncontrollable convulsion of face muscles, and the lack of will to direct where my identity would find itself—alive, or flat faced, dying slowly, breathing its’ last fleeting gulp of air.

I felt sick. My heart squeezed harder as I attempted to understand how I should feel about what I'd just seen. Nothing made sense—I buried myself in a book while the chatter of co-workers clamored in the background, and I suddenly felt annoyed, angry—indifferent. Nothing mattered anymore—I felt lighter, as if a piece of me had been carved out, or a burden lifted.

My actions were impulsive and the impersonal droning from phone calls were enough to make the wounds seem real. I held the façade, focusing my attention on tiny holes in the ceiling and what they meant.  One cluster looked like a cloud—I imagined myself a part of it, lost in a shroud without direction.

Despite hasty driving, the ride home was long. The rain washed through me like a feverless sickness and brake lights began to blur together. I made it just one street from home, stopped at the stop-sign, and felt that pang for once, wanting to escape—I let it.

In the Deep

I have been anesthetized by the deep,
like you, and here under a starless sky
I've found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep.  No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek to greet
with unquiet praise - instead the wretched
soulless wraiths have gathered round
with hauteur flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.

Cold as winter's breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates and their shivers
are enough to shake both worlds which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so much, it's strange, the lending of a foreign hand.

Dreams

Dreams rarely come at night.
Fight for them in waking hours,
burden comes during light.

So sudden the mind shifts its pose,
claiming all powers—
during night the mind forgoes.

An arm around her slips;
circles, swarms, and forlorn—
aches for pressure of hips.

They'll wait for midnight hours;
for the presence of her lips.