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)

Dream No. 3

dreams, Internal Poetry, Line Poetry, Poetry, Problems, This Doesn't Feel Right

In my dreams last night,

There was fleeting sex with an evil person whose feel I can’t remember,

On the second floor of a bunk-bed in front of a Netflix screen.

I don’t remember courting, nor the catch-up about what happened after doing each other wrong,

Merely doing each other.

There was snow on the ground,

As if this presence passed through my security

Because I never let go of them in the first place.

I do not feel disgust looking at this,

I stare only with blank eyes.

I need to consult this with the film over my corneas.

What are you doing there in the first place?

I look at my bed, empty in reality.

What were you doing there in the first place?

Back in the Deep-Fryer

Family, Internal Poetry, Problems, Prose, Stuff to do

“So whaddaya think of the new head cover?”

He was a sweet man.

Said,

“Right?”

often.

Always called you by the name.

A bright smile across his face with the slight corny nature of an aging man.

 

TRUMP GOLF” was embroidered, smack dab on the cover.

 

I worked for a Trump supporter today, and he took care of me.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

Reassuring words of “professionalism” ring in response,

But isn’t that an enemy in the first place?

 

After 10 years of North Brookfield tugging on my mother,

She finally succumbed towards the middle.

The TV is the lexicon, creation exists in her deft, colorful baskets

But the previous compassion has been weathered away by a decade of mistreatment.

There are good people in my life,

Blessings in human form,

Full of toxins that have deep-fried the azures and scarlets and oranges

From their souls.

I can feel my skin bubbling, and I’m submerged. Back in the first parts of home.

I fear how strong my self-interest is becoming, how it dominates conversations.

Partly because I’m afraid to ask how you’re doing.

I know you’re good. I don’t want to contribute to that rinse/repeat small talk.

But how do I engage outside of that?

I need to kick back. Open the sacrum, see through my real eyes.

Keep reading that Post-Colonialist literature.

Keep writing with the focus of empathy.

Never let the generation of entropy get you down, or be forgotten about.

That’s my code.

The spiderwebs we’ve weaved have reverted to dusty dungeons.

The repetition for results is a game of catch

Where lyrical acrobatics create the illusion of

“Yeah, I caught it!”

The game doesn’t end.

The colors all bled into each other, the light murked into a dull brown

Like oatmeal getting moldy in the back of a murky store room.

But we’re here again.

12:24 PM and the day’s already been lived-

Everything else is necessary overtime.

I swipe hundreds of cards but couldn’t unlock my own door.

My laptop, like myself, incapable of charging their battery.

I’ve listened to maybe three songs in the past week,

But everyone keeps asking me to describe how music makes them be feel,

And be smart. Eloquent.

Genuine feelings turn into pedestal soliloquies that fade away like background trophies you don’t think you deserve.

Teeter-tottering between drowning and flying away on the boat, I’m jetskiing into an uncertain future.

I don’t know what the hell’s gonna happen.

And I’m learning to be okay with it.

The first step to this peace is to start back in the things that made me feel alive.

The first of those, is you.

You reading this? Yeah, you.

Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Stuff to do, Throwback

More than Welcome

"Man, I'm Pissed Off", Dingus, Family, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems

I hear the words stumble off your lips

And cringe-smile somewhere in between

At the ridiculousness of it. Six whole days?

Passing up the space to be loved and flourish in

For a house to myself and nobody to go to.

Feel more than welcome to forsake your other life.

Again.

Yet here I am, it’s Thursday, and I’m a damn damsel in distress.

The plans I’ve weathered this loneliness for are, of course,

Matters you’d be more than happy to take care of.

I feel like I’m being tricked whenever I hear you get sweet.

I feel like I’m being trapped when I’m here for so damn long.

It’s just a week, but you occupy far more than I’m comfortable with.

I’m marooned on an island I bought a one-way ticket to.

No growth is potent enough. No high is high enough.

There’s no “enough” of anything I can do to be satisfied with this.

I won’t mess around and it’s frigid-ass cold out,

My friends are towns away and I’ve got nothing but my feet to make do till Sunday.

 

You’re more than welcome to fail again to live up to your promises.

You’re more than welcome to leave your friends wondering where you are again.

You’re more than welcome to keep your cousins missing you without reason.

You’re more than welcome to let her drink her “together” booze alone.

You’re more than welcome to turn away from the love Western Mass has to give.

But she’s going to drive you back, right?

 

I’m livid. Enough to mindfully consider breaking my Lent promises.

And what in the hell do I get from this place?

A couple handshakes and a fancy suit don’t justify this.

This clogs my pores and frays my nerves.

I hate missing the bus. I hate missing my family.

It feels like cars and friends have been reduced to strategic isolation

Masked up with duct-tape comfort and half-assed words

That don’t need to be meaningful because I’m STUCK.

It’s the same sugar I see the dogs walking behind their barrier for.

And now I’m trying to do that same thing to someone else to get some meaning from all of this.

I’ve got two and a half hours left to defy this restriction.

But any effort I make will prove unsatisfactory.

I’m livid.

I want my own home again,

Because every time I become a son

I start feeling y’all pulling at me again.

Ghost:

Dingus, Internal Poetry, Problems, Uncategorized

Before we get to that point

Where I become fascinated at first glance,

Before the first (real damn heavy) word leaves my mouth,

A preface:

 

I’ve got a cousin that met Bill Murray once

And I’ve got a chip on my shoulder.

Trouble’s gonna come with a disappearing act.

I’ve already ran the numbers,

They make my head dizzy and still don’t give me the specifics

Of just what in the hell makes it so damn hard

to acknowledge

I exist.

We’re all busting our asses to the bone

to make something of ourselves

people will smile at.

We all have better things to do than deal with than the

worry poison

melting a hole in us from the inside out.

We’ve all done it before,

save the saints and the savants who’ve

been wise enough not to trifle.

You know the feeling of how stupid you get

when you realize somebody that you didn’t give the time of day to

was worth millions more than what you gave?

It still pumps through my veins with every beat.

Ba-bump, you damned moron.

Ba-bump, you weren’t worth their time.

 

The patient ones are always the best of us,

They receive disappointment like a skill to practice

And have become used to making a plan b.

Even though so many of them CLEARLY know what’s going on,

They give their space to the blockheads

Who don’t think hard enough to question their

damn flapping gums.

I feel like I’m stuck in cement between gaining patience

And being too oblivious to see fault.

Maybe there is no fault, just the way things are.

If it is, there’s tonight’s dose of disappointment to make me strong tomorrow.

to make me strong tomorrow.

 

Hallelujah.

A Prayer to the Still

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Joylessness, Poetry, Problems

It’s time I stop giving anxiety a baseless poetic mouthpiece.

The pangs of wanderlust are beasts I haven’t been spared from.

Tides come in like levis breaking

And recede like retreating thieves,

Having pillaged their target for necessary moments.

I want to travel to spread the beauty and good I’ve done well to harness,

But I’m helpless without others’ wheels to spin for me.

My space is uneven

And the space in my room and head is tangling worse.

Every minute spent cleaning is a minute gone.

Every minute spent writing is a minute at risk of shikva.

A loss due to forgetting- of thoughts or devices.

I tangle myself deeper, unable to move and soon breathe.

Dysphoria becomes the parting between oceans in my heart.

 

But one wire untangles, and the choir of scribbles

Unstick themselves from me like sprites running under the floor.

The universe has funny ways of reassuring.

 

I envision myself sitting, suspended in a pool of bubbling balm contained in granite,

Swathes of flickering reds and blues, running over the basin I sit weightless atop.

“May you continue to let your love and emotion overflow, until we can’t help but overflow in return.”

May the nuances of the chord I strike, containing millions of notes in constellation memories

Whisper like they roar.

The basin cracks, and fluid gushes out to hold the rest steady.

I can sustain this.

My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy

Shall fill the cracks of my neurosis

And I shall breathe life like a dragon,

Making peace with my insignificance.

I’ve Been There Before

Joylessness, love, Peace, Poetry, Problems, The World is Beautiful

I can see it right in front of me.

The look on two people’s faces, closely conjoined

One shows the other something they love,

You can tell it in the wrinkles of their smile and the high in their eyes.

The other person- disjointed. Façades of pleasure coat themselves in a silicone mask

To feign the feelings the other has, naturally coursing through them.

I’m sorry you’re forced to receive the plastic. You deserve organic joy from the things that shake you.

I can see the annoyance on your face mirroring their smirk,

Your time is limited and it’s a feeling I know all too well.

We’ve descended into the desert- lent has begun for this observer, and with it the promise of

and with it the promise of

One hell of a trial.

And yet, there is goodness no farther away than out the corner of my eye.

If I keep that sense of encompassing love around me,

I’ll be able to glow right through the spooks.

Today is a day to avoid cemeteries,

But how do we abstain from the mausoleums in others’ hearts?

How do we find peace in our subconscious when our dreams are constantly attacked?

Surgeons, domestic terrorists, and insect amalgamates are throwing everything they can

To disrupt our pace and our peace.

As I write on top of this monolith,

My fingers feel the ease of flow and the nimbleness

Of a well-warmed guitar.

Even if my heart is unprepared,

Even if my mind is clouded,

Even if my voice is murmurs and grape juice,

My fingers flow, and express their love.

This is the scape I know the best,

So I’ll just let my fingers go, and be free and love how they wish.

Perch:

Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Stuff to do

My fingers tap tremolos against the side of the monolith.

I flap my arms loose and frenetic.

three poems, nine hundred cut words,

four minutes of recorded music and four hours work,

I’ve become the blue-hearted tactician

Who wishes to peel the muscle from their backs

And shape them outward to turn to wings.

I scale the vertical antagonist in myself,

Frequencies ascending with every boisterous, desperate step.

If I can take two steps up stairs, why not three?

If I can take three steps at a time, why not four?

It’s always only a matter of how far my limbs are willing to extend,

And then becoming familiar with that strain.

I’m constantly changing, a walking acid trip with wings I can’t keep

Frequencies so exponentially upwards and unstable

That the lines holding myself together quiver like Rick & Morty pupils.

Every day I rescind a little more of what makes me human.

The ascension’s robbed my eyes of their vials unless I hear something I deem

Worthy of aspiration.

Emotions are too slow,

And nobody can handle them when I try to ease the brakes.

It’s only okay to cry at the picture of one day making it there.

But after the achievement, the aspiration is tossed aside

Like the scraps of ugly old habits that found new habitation.

I’ve found human routine in inhuman matters.

Every step upwards is a step away from more people,

People I love become familiar faces that fade into greetings practice.

The self-proclaimed judge of frequency I play as, determines how to spend my time.

Who in the world gave me the right?

My eyes climb further to see colder

And narrow their gaze into squints I believe capture what I need to know.

My heartbeat hastens- Time exits my sweat glands from the inside out

And I devote myself to the love that doesn’t waste time with conditions.

Every step forward is a step away from the people I love.

Music, writing, and Osbourne are what take up the space of my love

In a place tens of thousands thick with people able, deserving, needing

Love. I don’t have it right now.

I don’t want to deal with flaws if I’m not helping remove them.

But where do I draw the line in my personal crusade?

I want to be the bird that perches on the peak and scans frigidity across the horizon.

How can I be  when the height alone frightens me so much?

I can see the fall.

You’re Not Doing Half Bad

Internal Poetry, Peace, Problems, Questions, The World is Beautiful

I woke up today to the normally scheduled sleep pattern

But I got out from one hell of a dummy dream.

Every now and again, my subconscious likes to trick me into believing

I’ve wasted my time, it all flies before me,

And I can’t hold my own through a paper bag.

So sometimes, it takes the manifestations of my slumber

And injects truly nonsensical moments into the dream,

Where I completely fail at everything I do

And respond with a dumb “Oh well,” before

Moving on to fuck the next thing up.

Amusement park rides and pseudo band camps

Illustrate distant worries and fears that I’ve yet to fully tackle.

But they’re well on their way.

Accountability is on its way to becoming habitual.

My afterburner productivity mornings are on their way to the routine.

I want to make this and continue to be Fabulous,

But the road is long and daunting,

And even my own dreamscape has money against me.

So how In the world do you still love yourself like you’re the champ?

It’s been months since I picked up the “fake it till you make it” mentality

Gathering dust in the corner pile behind the high school prom memories

(I never went to prom)

Even if I am afraid of failure,

I’m nailing the majority of my grades.

I’m creating content left and right across all mediums.

I’ve got a surplus of $ in the bank from things I’ve started this semester.

I’ve turned the month of loose change time we’ve spent here

And turned it into unfathomable memories,

Celestial alignments,

Massive teachings,

Epiphanies, left and right

Friendship congregations

Struggles overcome with patience

Emotional support

And the accountability I was afraid of losing.

I’ve taken victory from the jaws of defeat

And had my cup overflow with merry.

I’ve certainly gotten my money’s worth with investor’s acumen,

And I don’t intend to stop.

So we’ll lace up,

Hit the track,

Hit the papers,

Grab the pen,

Roll the papers,

Roll my Rs,

Roll my steps,

Write the words,

Write to live

Write to love

Write to forgive.