Random Dread

Fear, Internal Poetry, Line Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Societal Poetry

Self-improvement can’t save us.

Living your dreams isn’t gonna save us from our demons.

Gucci watches won’t prevent migrant crises.

Trips to London won’t lower Earth’s temperature.

Writing and music can heal the heart,

But they aren’t going to break bipartisan gridlock,

Or save the world from the wealthy white man and his irrevocably similar friends.

I struggle to find peace in the wake of every moving part of global calamity I see.

I don’t have the stomach to discover what else plagues a global population.

My words aren’t enough to restore stability to Syria.

My enthusiasm won’t get big pharma to stop the opioid crisis,

It’s helping their bottom line too much.

 

So the wealthy white man convinces his friends and the people who wish to join the club

How to exchange human lives for profit.

My good intentions can’t un-teach that.

 

My verse can’t free us of our addiction to winning.

It can erase “cash crop” from our memory,

But it can’t erase slave labor from American history.

I struggle to find peace under every problematic stone I come across.

 

Guitar fingers can’t take Central Massachusetts out of me.

God save the souls of the folks whose ideologies are less developed

Than the rural denizens of Central Massachusetts.

Lord knows I can’t save them.

 

My existential dread can’t snap the country out of the thought

That these things aren’t normal.

The bubble would burst and my friends would all fill with an even worse existential dread.

 

I struggle to find peace in an inconceivably huge world whose heart has crusted over,

So I seek refuge in the small world of a large bowl,

And try to remind myself that tomorrow is a new day.

 

(Credit to K.C. Green for the most iconic meme portrayal of denial ever made)

It Doesn’t Have To Be Like This.

Family, Fear, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Questions, Societal Poetry

It doesn’t have to be like this.

Unpacking the car, this is one of the first things I say to myself.

My mind is too wrapped up to sort out the layers of how different the connection between here and there is.

I love my mother. I love my family. I love the life I’ve lived and the places I’ve been to.

I see my mother. I see my family. I fear to see the life I’ve lived.

My eyes strain themselves from looking through their eyes.

I wish for the peace of a home by the forest, connecting and creating ad infinitum.

The conifers to draw and the bird songs to learn.

A little bit of space to sink into, learn, and fall in love with.

I’ve been growing like a sapling in compost towards the sun I feel gracing my pores,

Constructing my layers and growing my frequency to achieve something beyond human.

The life of now isn’t anything the me of sixteen could have dreamed of.

But I’m back again, in the bedroom of the person I tried so hard to escape.

I’m sleeping with the shadows and memories of myself.

I’m falling into the same frustrating cycles with my loved ones,

Knee-jerk reactions of “fine, I know, and okay” come flooding back to my thoughtful head like accidental expletives. There is no accidental expletive, as with any normalized curse.

I can feel my form shrinking, I long for open fields and skies to meditate in an under.

I long to be away from fresh-reintroduced trauma of a past I never lived to know.

But in a matter of time, I’ll be back to forgetting.

A Good, Hard Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

The door slams shut. 

I pace over my torn carpet, taking slow, deep breaths.

I know today is a stress volcano, 

But I’m charging myself through its brunt, welding anthem in my pocket, hands first. 

“I can do this. I can surmount this. I am strong.”

 I’m becoming my own leader, rather than my torturer. But don’t get me wrong, I I have to make it a conscious decision to cup my fist. 

 I will not hang weights on myself through this day. 

 Im gonna make the bed. I’m gonna fold the clothes, grab my phone, read those pages.. 

 No. After the clothes I put in the money to get my next little book. It’s been too long. 

 Denial creeps itself up into my list. I feel the need to take a second and worry. But that’s why I went here.

 Im gonna take my worry and put it in the lines. I’m gonna wrap it up with a pretty verbal bow and send it off to market, where it’s fangs and claws can’t touch me. 

 And then, I’m gonna change my shoes and leave for the rest of this. 

 I’m gonna remember to get some vitamins next winter,

 Because the sun came out today and it felt like the first time on months where I could breathe, and open my eyes. 

Pompeii could unravel again before my open eyes, but I can handle a pocket-sized catastrophe. 

Lobby Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Politics, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

It was a regular Thursday. 

Wax oozed from the walls and the pores of our faces. 

We stepped through the marble edifices of political gods, 

Men and women like most of us. The wax was doctrine. 

The surface deflected every scent but superiority. 

Quiet howls shrieked, smothered by business casual. There are no people here. 

Only lobbyists. 

Pentacles carved into these wondrous halls can’t be a coincidence if nothing is coincidence. 

I am not coincidence. They are not coincidence. 

So why I’m the world do we feel so out of our own skin? 

Photo opps, flag halls. Pseudo strategy. Stop the anxiety. 

The wax drips from these Corinthian bullies, 

Bright eyes in white guise stand marbled with intimidating decorum. 

If only we could connect with this history. 

Of Sarah, and patriotism, Oliver Ames, Amen I say to you. To history. 

Timidness stands where reverence deserves, 

The wax coats these bodies fully

And I haven’t the chisel to break it. 

Hurry up and wait. 

Heat the wax, so it may set

And paralyze us all. 

Why must this be so on Lobby Day? 

Let it Die

Internal Poetry, love, Party Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Societal Poetry

I keep on changing.

The smudge of disappointment on my lips

Doesn’t rub off with water the way it used to.

It stays, lingering on my flannel like cigarette smoke in a

Lightless firepit.

I’ve fallen out of love with the ghosts around me,

I know I’m one of them still.

—–’s going to be out and gone,

But she was gone the moment I saw her.

Serendipity’s fury turned to sudden disappointment,

Friends sent us blind daggers through

“Setting an example” tunnel vision.

They’ve promised their recompense,

So I swallow my words and smile.

My stomach’s contents are filling with the latent breaths of anger

Less and less, they starve, unable to feast upon that which gives me energy.

Disappointment is a coated synapse.

I want this to turn me into a better person.

I want the person I fell for to be falling at a healthy mutuality,

But I can’t impose.

Keeping my distance, biding my time. Leaving my fingernails alone, they’re grown so tall.

Deep breath in, and out.

Hundreds of friends in sight,

There’s no shoulder to cry on.

This isn’t the first I’ve felt scared, alone, in crowds like this

And it won’t be the last.

All I can hope for is the day to turn tomorrow,

The karmic scales to replenish,

And for happiness to return.

Until then, I’ll keep practicing my patience.

A miserable skill to garner, until the miserable voice in your head dies of neglect.

Clearer Canopies

Empowerment, Internal Poetry, Questions, Societal Poetry, Throwback

The expanse and canopy above

Have grown wider again.

I’m faced with a choice to ascend

On vines that smell like burning hair

In the likeness of golden metaphors

I’ve hoarded in my time.

 

I want to liberate like the heroes I’ve learned of.

It’s time to think about my own

Post-Colonialist

Love Song.

 

It’s time to learn to pluck the places from my dreams

And project their impossibility into real life.

It’s time for my subconscious to find its

Partner in flesh, blood, and equal pace.

It’s time to sculpt the gems of who I want to be

To place in the crown throbbing in my veins.

 

Hiatus Kaiyote. Sergio Medina. Miyazaki and so many more.

To finally learn to wear the clothes revealing my true self.

I thought my journey had completed for now,

But an impass has formed itself.

 

At the end of a ragged and brutal 4 months,

I’ve helped bury my grandmother in deed and word.

My form has grown sleek, colder.

I’ve learned to withstand.

 

And now in this month, I will flourish.

It’s time to set myself into pace.

Objects higher than mortal pleasures await.

May I hang this poem on my eyelids

So my direction never becomes obscured.

Let’s start with the Celestine Prophecy.

 

12/16/16

Sanctuary

Peace, Poetry, Problems, Societal Poetry

You always feel out of place until you’ve become comfortable enough with discomfort

To shut the inner dissenters off

And contribute without fear of what you are or aren’t.

Hundreds of bodies got it told the way 200 level diversity class wouldn’t even touch in the Moodle.

Student Kale became a tool of dissent.

That entire two-story block got lit with repeated pyrocaust.

From the tiles to the walls, up the stairs and around the hatch, the words dripped longing.

“Fuck white supremacy.”

Chilling history of Jacksonian justified, indigenous decimation.

“Operation Wetback” showed us how often our cherished values became

Vehicles preserving the hubris of isolationism.

 

If that’s what we’re doomed to signify, I don’t want to be white.

My privilege is default validity, superimposed into the space of the

Bodies deemed hierarchally south.

The Irish only made it to the White Kids Table

cause they decided to hop in on the violence towards darker bodies.

We set the threshold of what paint swathe we could attack.

Any darker than this, and it’s the tire iron for ’em.

Redemption was a pledge to further the gap and violence to kids that we didn’t beget.

Money and status grew- insubstantial humans became the expectation, God forbid.

Those days have been reviled by those who mean their progressive title.

I want black power. Brown power, immigrant power, queer power, woman power.

Power to the poor, the hungry, the voiceless, disabled.

I want to recite the Beatitudes into global policy,

But my name is buried in legacy of opposing friction- oppression.

These two don’t have to be a toss-up,

Let alone the Catch-22 mental deathtrap so many many it out to be.

Fight with love. Fight with emotion. Keep compassion, empathy, and your objective at the forefront, and you’ll make it.

We’ll make it, and turn this place into a Sanctuary.

The Answers Aren’t Mine

Questions, Societal Poetry

Have you ever felt the horror of losing a child in the supermarket?

Have you ever felt the despair of your creations burning before you?

What is the importance of an emergency banana to you?

Does running in a snowstorm sound like something you’d want?

What shoes would you wear?

How many gusts of subzero air would it take you to give up?

How many pages in a day is sufficient writing? How about meals?

Who loses their cool first you or your professor?

What would you do if you could start something up from the ground and call it yours?

Do you like to hear your voice in a silent room full of people?

How many meetings can you attend at once?

How many minutes of time to yourself is enough to survive?

How important, really, is food to you?

Is a hundred a big number?

Where do all the people you’ve promised your time go when they’ve realized you abandoned them?

Given the circumstances, is life still worth it?

How do you give the best dap to a buddy?

Have you ever felt afraid when a friend messages you?

How long do you think your patience string is?

How long until the next computer crash?

Where is the person who first told you to back up your data?

Do you miss them?

Do you love them?

Why are there so many questions in the first place?

What??

Fear, Internal Poetry, love, Poetry, Societal Poetry

Chagrin stains my cheeks today

As the one question I can’t answer keeps playing pinball

Through my head.

How did this happen?

It all pointed to epiphany,

My palms felt empty on the frigid walk home.

Without substance to quell the jeers of those banshee breezes.

The fates unzipped my shoulder and left me to remain patient

In the hunting grounds for instant gratification.

I didn’t want to me be, but I kept on breathing heaving spores,

and kept love close while envy festered.

I couldn’t connect outside passing gasps underwater

To connect, WMUA, with the totem man

Whose perpetual presence is an unfaltering aegis.

Coincidnces hurled themselves at me

And snickered at my inability, flirt-flitting in and out.

Like bring frozen opaque in a starstorm,

Hopeless to the spectacle.

I didn’t want to change myself

So I screamed and hollered camaraderie with the dozens of buddies

And tried my best on the inside to zip my lonely self back together.

Have you ever stood in a room of friends and still felt your fingers go numb?

Just keep breathing. Don’t let the preoccupation take root.

Just keep breathing. Don’t cave in to how much fun everyone else is having.

Just keep breathing. Heal.

Even if the back of your head is screaming through the 2007 throwback slaughterhouse,

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Just keep breathing.

 

I’m scared to treat a human test of my patience

As the outcome of celestial alignment,

The previous time ended in a similar flavor of tragedy

But God, I don’t want to leave here empty handed.

Celebrity:

Party Poetry, Poetry, Societal Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I feel like Harry Potter in his first potions class,

If the cauldrons were filled with Henny and Dr. Pepper.

 

The Flip flipped my shit,

Whip this lick to stiff whicks,

Chicks’ thicc,

Mick’s quick,

Shift lift and thrift spliffs

“Hey look it’s Fitz”

 

Hundreds of honeys and buddies like these whack catacombs,

Dulces and sweeties and rich baritones

In the zone, fusion dancing, prancing

It’s tone confusion glancing like France in

April, that’s my staple Jasmine Tea free,

Suckling maple from Yasmin’s knee, whee,

Hold it there the gun’s a BB,

Huns in a three-piece

Trying for world peace

Dying in whirled fleece.

Cashin’s the mission

That moon juice I’m missin

The dank’s got me flitting

Like dark politicians,

The mark of the Kishin,

Those ladies are kissing

The Fitzy is fitting

You know what you’re missing.

 

(Props and love to the buddies at the Flip who host and play such dank events. They’re magic. Some of this poetry is fictious, some of it isn’t! Regardless, it was a tight night.)