Negative Current

I make jokes in self defense

Most of the time,

I don’t make sense

to anyone but me

But that’s the draw, the intrigue

I drink tea that’s

steeped in dreams

To regulate the breath I

breathe

Otherwise,

it’s too much too soon

And I’m half a mile

past the moon

You’re a tree, and

I’m your branch

bur we’ll parish if not rooted

at the stance

We’ll grow separately

But that’s the pull,

the mystery

There’s proof within

the insulation

That we are more than our

obligations

We are cut from

the same mold

Dying young in clothes

of gold

Loopholes

I’m mere feet from home,

but that doesn’t make me safe.

I think before I act,

but that doesn’t make me wise.

I’m far beneath the sky,

but that doesn’t make me grounded.

I don’t always tell the truth,

but that doesn’t make them lies.

Hung up

via Daily Prompt: Maybe


Maybe they’re not obstacles,

but mere extra steps

Forcing me to think the thoughts

I hung up to dry

but that I could never quite get

wrinkle-free

Maybe

Maybe I am set to be

the minnow to your stream

Wriggling away from

near-certain death

beneath prepubescent heels

And though I may cheat demise

a couple dozen times

Who’s to say I won’t swim

into the mouth

of my most famed predator?

Or be hung up myself?

It very well

may come to be

Maybe

Good Place

There was more of me then

More to this skin and bone template

My face lit up well with such livelihood

It complemented me like the bad does the good

Now I’ve been bulldozed by he who came before

I was in a good place but not anymore

There was less of the moon then

Less of a light at night and I slept soundly

Now I major in shortcomings and I study my flaws

Sharp with resentment and threatening like claws

Now my feathers are plucked and I’m stripped to the core

I was in a good place but not anymore

You’ll have to excuse my morose sense of reality

But I’ve learned that Hell’s arrows don’t specifically aim for me

And the ones that do strike leave a lasting impression

I’ve lived through all this and yet I’m still second-guessing

There was more to me then

More than just primary colors

But my wheels keep turning despite their golden rust

There are beautiful things that can be built from the dust

Now the crows may have perched next to my eyes

But I’m in a good place this time

Pro-Antagonism

I’ve been an antagonist

towards my favorite people

and even still,

memories of those instances

pour over me, thick and oily,

tough to remove.

I don’t like to be reminded

that I was a child once,

that I sat with legs limp over the edge

of my mother’s bookshelf;

frozen but watching.

It’s the growing process,

I’m told,

and while I’m forgiven,

I can’t seem to release myself

from the threshold

of preadolescent tantrum.

I wasn’t alone,

but that’s not my concern;

don’t these patterns repeat,

and am I conscious enough

to feel them coming on?

Am I mature enough

to slam the brakes

before they fail?

Moment of Clarity

There’s no growth without struggle. It’s necessary and imperative that you fuck up several thousand times in order to learn. Even at twenty-three, I’m still making amateur mistakes and laying brick after brick without mortar. Then I wonder why my foundations aren’t sturdy. It’s all about what you take from your experiences, and crafting from them the next few feet in your path ahead. When it abruptly ends, you’ve got to keep building. You have to lay out your own direction. Trust your struggle. We’re all children, and there’s always room for improvement.

Lifting You Up

When you get home

you’ll look back and say that your path was worth its rocky terrain

even though you wore backless shoes

and cut up your heels

you’ll know nothing you did was in vain

While en route, though

you’ll struggle to see that you shine

albeit caked with dirt

and your eyes will become mouths

to the rivers that flow down to your jawline

and drop off onto your shirt

You’ll decide your roots are all you want to know

because they’re where you were comfortable

and you’ll try to go back

but when you turn around you’ll find

that the wake of your path

has turned to black

propelling you forward

You’ll question whether where you’re going

is even feasible to reach

but you’ll shake the thought

due to the warnings you disregarded

and the trust you will have breached

But if there’s anything I’ll have you learn

before you’re past the point of discretion

it’s that ‘home’ is not a destination

but rather a direction

and along your way

the things you see, the things you say

matter just as much

because they’re the means

and the end

is as far off as you want it to be

and maybe even not in sight

Ruminating

Childhood is brilliant. You’re amazed by the simplest of concepts and able to play pretend so vividly that it’s reality for you. You’re not yet at an age where anything matters for more than a few minutes…no worrying about how you look, why (s)he never called back, deadlines. No anxiety surrounding overwhelming debt, or difficult tests, or which direction your life is headed in. Not a care in the world beyond your imagination. I understand it’s a stage, and one that inevitably ends. But are we really meant to pull a complete 180 and grow into these amoebic, money-hungry robots that live by rote and value the personal lives of others above all else? What happened to the beautiful nature of finding amusement in simplicity? Where has it gone, and is it lost forever?

There’s Nothing to Composing

I’m a wanderer now; sorrow befalls me. I laugh often so, I suppose, I’m going to be fine.

–Meg & Dia, Here, Here, and Here

Gravitas

Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious.

–Brendan Gill