I am the two-faced disappointment
Lurking in the corners of your mind
I am the independent excuse
Stabbing you through the heart from behind
I feel the rain when others feel hands
As a lover unafraid of pain
I feel scattered and biased and rash
As though my screaming was all in vain
I think in straight lines of black and grey
That by no miracle bleed colour
I think of ways to hide lack of thought
Like an unused knife getting duller
I believe in peace love and knowledge
Gracing everyone's life but my own
I believe what I convince myself
Rejecting and insulting false thrones
I play with chance like some play with decks
Grinning wide when I pull the fool card
I play not on words I play with them
Like best friends on a hateful schoolyard
Saturday, October 31, 2009
My Name
I’ve shown
Reluctance to walk around this circle I’ve been circling
I’ve known
There was something wrong with me but didn’t want to let it in
And you think
There might be an answer to the question that I represent
I’ve found
I can’t stand the things most down-to-earthen people usually love
I’ve bound
Myself to nothing but the wind and rain and thunderclouds above
And you think
The allure of my surroundings could possibly serve to be enough
I stop dead in my tracks sometimes
And look up to the sky
Try to let all my guilt unwind
And then walk on by
I wish my days could be rehearsed
Although I’m used to surprise
I’d love a life lived in reverse
Without the elegant lies
Don’t hate me as much as I do
Though reasons to cry out beside you
I’m not even sure you really know my name
I don’t even know my name
I’ve felt
Like everything I say is a substitute for important things
I’ve dealt
With unrequited friendship love and undeserved offerings
And you think
A stupid little clothes iron can attempt to work out all the kinks
I’ve spent
Sufficient time mis-analyzing every other challenge I face
I’ve lent
Out too much information bout myself to even try to retrace
And you think
That guilt’s some kind of antidote for knowing my place
I stop dead in my tracks sometimes
And look up to the sky
Try to let all my guilt unwind
And then walk on by
I wish my days could be rehearsed
Although I’m used to surprise
I’d love a life lived in reverse
Without the elegant lies
Don’t hate me as much as I do
Though reasons to cry out beside you
I’m not even sure you really know my name
I don’t even know my name
Reluctance to walk around this circle I’ve been circling
I’ve known
There was something wrong with me but didn’t want to let it in
And you think
There might be an answer to the question that I represent
I’ve found
I can’t stand the things most down-to-earthen people usually love
I’ve bound
Myself to nothing but the wind and rain and thunderclouds above
And you think
The allure of my surroundings could possibly serve to be enough
I stop dead in my tracks sometimes
And look up to the sky
Try to let all my guilt unwind
And then walk on by
I wish my days could be rehearsed
Although I’m used to surprise
I’d love a life lived in reverse
Without the elegant lies
Don’t hate me as much as I do
Though reasons to cry out beside you
I’m not even sure you really know my name
I don’t even know my name
I’ve felt
Like everything I say is a substitute for important things
I’ve dealt
With unrequited friendship love and undeserved offerings
And you think
A stupid little clothes iron can attempt to work out all the kinks
I’ve spent
Sufficient time mis-analyzing every other challenge I face
I’ve lent
Out too much information bout myself to even try to retrace
And you think
That guilt’s some kind of antidote for knowing my place
I stop dead in my tracks sometimes
And look up to the sky
Try to let all my guilt unwind
And then walk on by
I wish my days could be rehearsed
Although I’m used to surprise
I’d love a life lived in reverse
Without the elegant lies
Don’t hate me as much as I do
Though reasons to cry out beside you
I’m not even sure you really know my name
I don’t even know my name
Happy Place
I’m in a small, square room. It is many things, but foremost, it is quiet. No one is here but me. And I’m not speaking. I breathe slowly and deeply and with purpose. I sit on the warm, sturdy floor at the center of this room. It is a wood floor. Oak. Nearly flawless in grain. Smooth. Level. I am grounded on this floor. The room has a window. Big enough to welcome the sunlight, it faces the world with shimmering clarity. Open ever so slightly, it lets in a delicate breeze and nothing else. I face this window and grin faintly. Opposite the window is a door. It is closed and locked, but the key rests in the keyhole. The walls of this room are white. They know me, but do not talk. I don’t mind. I close my eyes every so often but through closed lids, I still see this room. I live here. This is my domain. I live here.
Empty Wishes
Sometimes, I forget how to think. Like no amount of effort yields discernible thought. I can sit and will myself to make sense, but I generally don’t comply with such orders. I wish I could be organized. That is to say it would be fantastic to have a mind which operates more like a library than a casino. I’m surprised I end sentences with periods instead of letting my words flow chaotically into one another. Some things I say are not worth saying at all, but my filter doesn’t work. I wish I could erase verbal sentences - make corrections with white out instead of reiterating what I say hoping it will make sense if it’s repeated well enough. I wish my judgement worked like that, too - not on the basis of regrets and changing the past, but having the presence of mind to correct mistakes as they happen. But I seldom can buckle down to call these things to mind, let alone put them into practice. I wish knowledge was indeed power. But power is money and money is fortune and fortune is luck - luck that I don’t have. I guess power ain’t my thing. I wish I could stop sitting around making empty wishes and just get things done, but alas, that’s just a wish as well...
The City
There's a city and it makes sense to me
No cars, no trucks, no people on the street
No birds, no planes, no heaven in the sky
No one left who cares to wonder why
There's a city and it makes sense to me
Locked doors, locked minds, no air for to breathe
One voice, one dream, one rule left to break
No rise from the ruins of one mistake
One mistake
And the voice on the megaphone swears it won't happen again
But the promise echoes off concrete-sheltered men
And the rain, it keeps on falling
So hard that no one hears the calling
Of the stifled sound of hope from way back when
It won't happen again
It won't happen again
There's a city and it makes sense to me
Eight months, ten tries and no one is set free
Two million eyes, one river overflowed
And a barracade denies the only road
There's a city and it makes sense to me
No telephones to impart agony
No hands, no will to seize the day
And the text of storybooks all fades away
Fades away
And the voice on the megaphone swears it won't happen again
But the promise echoes off concrete-sheltered men
And the rain, it keeps on falling
So hard that no one hears the calling
Of the stifled sound of hope from way back when
It won't happen again
It won't happen again
Flooded alleys maim foundations
Without the chance of retaliation
Citizens, like streetlamps, have all faded
In holes and corners, they are hated
By the voice on the megaphone swearing it won't happen again
But the promise echoes off concrete-sheltered men
And the rain, it keeps on falling
So hard that no one hears the calling
Of the stifled sound of hope from way back when
It won't happen again
It won't happen again
There's a city and it makes sense
It won't happen again
There's a city and it makes sense
It happened again...
No cars, no trucks, no people on the street
No birds, no planes, no heaven in the sky
No one left who cares to wonder why
There's a city and it makes sense to me
Locked doors, locked minds, no air for to breathe
One voice, one dream, one rule left to break
No rise from the ruins of one mistake
One mistake
And the voice on the megaphone swears it won't happen again
But the promise echoes off concrete-sheltered men
And the rain, it keeps on falling
So hard that no one hears the calling
Of the stifled sound of hope from way back when
It won't happen again
It won't happen again
There's a city and it makes sense to me
Eight months, ten tries and no one is set free
Two million eyes, one river overflowed
And a barracade denies the only road
There's a city and it makes sense to me
No telephones to impart agony
No hands, no will to seize the day
And the text of storybooks all fades away
Fades away
And the voice on the megaphone swears it won't happen again
But the promise echoes off concrete-sheltered men
And the rain, it keeps on falling
So hard that no one hears the calling
Of the stifled sound of hope from way back when
It won't happen again
It won't happen again
Flooded alleys maim foundations
Without the chance of retaliation
Citizens, like streetlamps, have all faded
In holes and corners, they are hated
By the voice on the megaphone swearing it won't happen again
But the promise echoes off concrete-sheltered men
And the rain, it keeps on falling
So hard that no one hears the calling
Of the stifled sound of hope from way back when
It won't happen again
It won't happen again
There's a city and it makes sense
It won't happen again
There's a city and it makes sense
It happened again...
Lead Balloons
Once in a while I know what I'm doing
Once in a while the right way persists
But undoubtedly I have failure on speed-dial
Ready to call and arrange our next tryst
And there is nothing I can do
With these lead balloons tied to my wrists
Sometimes I notice things going my way
Sometimes it seems like there's nothing amiss
But four out of five times that's an illusion
Which might be all right if I weren't so pissed
And if it weren't so hard to deal
With these lead balloons tied to my wrists
Maybe in time I'll learn to cut losses
Maybe in time I'll unclench my fists
Cause I walk just fine despite my false-stepping
Yeah I can stay calm if I think to resist
And I can build a better me
Even with these lead balloons tied to my wrists
Once in a while the right way persists
But undoubtedly I have failure on speed-dial
Ready to call and arrange our next tryst
And there is nothing I can do
With these lead balloons tied to my wrists
Sometimes I notice things going my way
Sometimes it seems like there's nothing amiss
But four out of five times that's an illusion
Which might be all right if I weren't so pissed
And if it weren't so hard to deal
With these lead balloons tied to my wrists
Maybe in time I'll learn to cut losses
Maybe in time I'll unclench my fists
Cause I walk just fine despite my false-stepping
Yeah I can stay calm if I think to resist
And I can build a better me
Even with these lead balloons tied to my wrists
Psychodrama
The landscape spun disorderly fabric enveloping the stiflingly warm car with every turn. Horrid as the music of my father’s favorite radio station was, it grounded me in reality as nothing else could at the time. The digital clock readout pierced the atmosphere between the dashboard and my eye - an offensive bright green headache waiting to happen. In reality, neither the dizziness nor the heat nor the clock was the true source of my disdain. A few hours earlier, my parents had put on a thoroughly awkward display of affection as they swaddled me in the intense and overbearing brand of care which sometimes comes with the knowledge that your child is suicidal. They weren’t even supposed to know. A ragged fury prodded at my composure as the car drew nearer to its strange an unfamiliar destination. This was fury brought on by betrayal and fury at the unknown. Of course, fury was not my only traveling partner. Alongside it rode bluest depression and blackest longing for self-conclusion.
The entrance to the hospital came into view as the violent green numbers flashed 8:00. Night was falling in slow motion, in sharp contrast to my raging thoughts. Here was this dingy blue and grey mass of buildings, adeptly suited to further dim any dim mood and here I came, red with contempt radiant enough to ignite each one.
How could he tell them? Did he not understand the meaning of confidentiality?
The waiting room clock chugged along, carrying the burden of the hours in its hands. Before I knew it, 11:00 had come and passed. The admitting doctor was slow in calling me, but quick in processing me. Thorough and thoroughly professional, he managed to extract my basic information and case description and send me packing to an onsite residence and treatment unit. I endured another awkward emotional moment with my distraught parents as I entered the unit with a small bag of personal belongings and another recently processed patient, who was to be my roommate. In the entryway, which bore the name of the unit -Westview- in regal white and gold lettering,the clock showed 12 midnight - ominous.
Needless to say, sleep did not come easily that morbid night. I lay awake for an untold period of time, eyes wide open, imagining giant green digits looming over my bed, the seconds ticking away with the light snores of my roommate. Rage and displeasure kept me fully awake. With no other option, I rose from bed and padded down the hall toward the nurses’ station. Obviously unsatisfied with her job, the middle-aged nurse stared blankly at me and reminded me that I shouldn’t leave my room during the night. Disregarding her passionate reprimand, I found a seat on a sofa in the boys’ common room and sorted my mind into the color-coded bins which lined a large shelf to my left. Half an hour of that simple impromptu remedy in addition to a few cups of water from the fountain managed to bring me softly collapsing upon the spartan bed and sleep more deeply than I thought fit.
Morning had never been my time to shine. I woke, not daring to imagine the miserable state of my hair or my complexion. Shuffling groggily out of the room, I was jarred by a shriek of primal panic.
“Let me go! Get off of me! Let me go!” begged the voice. As I turned the corner, I could see a mass of blue shirts swarming around a boy roughly my age, who was throwing his fists, hissing and spitting to be released from the constraining grip of two male staff members.
“Let! Go! Of! Me!” he sputtered, beginning to tire out. He gradually discontinued his thrashing and, sensing a conclusion to the havoc, the blue shirts let him go. Placidly, as if nothing whatsoever had occurred, the boy strode down the hallway toward the common room. Before reaching the sofa, however, he turned abruptly and proceeded to shout obscenities and various I-hate-yous at the staff, lumbering at a near sprint to what was clearly his personal solitary cell, slamming the door, and slamming himself against the interior walls, shouting the same profanities over and over again.
I gave a puzzled look to one of the staff members, whose only response was to remind me that I was expected to attend a psychodrama meeting in ten minutes. Though I wasn’t sure what it consisted of, I didn’t like the idea of being required to go, or the prefix ‘psycho’. I was no psycho -not like that kid- and I resented the otherwise suggestion. But as much contempt as I held toward all of those who played a role in landing me here, I was incapable of refusal to attend the the psychodrama.
The clock ticked ferociously, albeit sluggishly, as the spectacled, gaudily-clad woman in purple explained the terms of the group.
“...and you will be supportive to all -regardless of what they say- and try your best to act out their situations with appropriate pathos.”
First up was Brittany, who played out an angry screaming match with Chris, representing her father. She tearfully shouted accusation after accusation, voicing her hatred and finally conceding that he above all others was the reason she turned to alcohol and self-mutilation as an emotional outlet. Next was Steven, my roommate, who quietly, morosely asked Ashley, his “mother” to come back home and be the support system he never had. Three or four others followed, sharing the most mortifying and heartbreaking aspects of their lives for the review of the whole room. Some ended in shouts or sobbing, some in silence. All were grounded in truest pathos.
These kids, no more than a year my junior or senior, were ravaged by poverty, abuse, neglect, and subsequent feelings of depression, anger, and anxiety. They told of rape, substance abuse, and witnessing horrors I had never been remotely subjected to. These kids deserved this retreat; this stable environment; these helpful and compassionate surroundings to at least think about healing. I, on the other hand, had nothing to retreat from, no instability to escape, and no wounds to heal. Though they indubitably had the full extent of my sympathy and the offer of my moral support whenever they needed it, I could not empathize with them. As the clock ticked away in a spritely manner, counting away the minutes of my precious edification, I sat attentively observing the psychodrama and expounding upon all I had to be thankful for.
The entrance to the hospital came into view as the violent green numbers flashed 8:00. Night was falling in slow motion, in sharp contrast to my raging thoughts. Here was this dingy blue and grey mass of buildings, adeptly suited to further dim any dim mood and here I came, red with contempt radiant enough to ignite each one.
How could he tell them? Did he not understand the meaning of confidentiality?
The waiting room clock chugged along, carrying the burden of the hours in its hands. Before I knew it, 11:00 had come and passed. The admitting doctor was slow in calling me, but quick in processing me. Thorough and thoroughly professional, he managed to extract my basic information and case description and send me packing to an onsite residence and treatment unit. I endured another awkward emotional moment with my distraught parents as I entered the unit with a small bag of personal belongings and another recently processed patient, who was to be my roommate. In the entryway, which bore the name of the unit -Westview- in regal white and gold lettering,the clock showed 12 midnight - ominous.
Needless to say, sleep did not come easily that morbid night. I lay awake for an untold period of time, eyes wide open, imagining giant green digits looming over my bed, the seconds ticking away with the light snores of my roommate. Rage and displeasure kept me fully awake. With no other option, I rose from bed and padded down the hall toward the nurses’ station. Obviously unsatisfied with her job, the middle-aged nurse stared blankly at me and reminded me that I shouldn’t leave my room during the night. Disregarding her passionate reprimand, I found a seat on a sofa in the boys’ common room and sorted my mind into the color-coded bins which lined a large shelf to my left. Half an hour of that simple impromptu remedy in addition to a few cups of water from the fountain managed to bring me softly collapsing upon the spartan bed and sleep more deeply than I thought fit.
Morning had never been my time to shine. I woke, not daring to imagine the miserable state of my hair or my complexion. Shuffling groggily out of the room, I was jarred by a shriek of primal panic.
“Let me go! Get off of me! Let me go!” begged the voice. As I turned the corner, I could see a mass of blue shirts swarming around a boy roughly my age, who was throwing his fists, hissing and spitting to be released from the constraining grip of two male staff members.
“Let! Go! Of! Me!” he sputtered, beginning to tire out. He gradually discontinued his thrashing and, sensing a conclusion to the havoc, the blue shirts let him go. Placidly, as if nothing whatsoever had occurred, the boy strode down the hallway toward the common room. Before reaching the sofa, however, he turned abruptly and proceeded to shout obscenities and various I-hate-yous at the staff, lumbering at a near sprint to what was clearly his personal solitary cell, slamming the door, and slamming himself against the interior walls, shouting the same profanities over and over again.
I gave a puzzled look to one of the staff members, whose only response was to remind me that I was expected to attend a psychodrama meeting in ten minutes. Though I wasn’t sure what it consisted of, I didn’t like the idea of being required to go, or the prefix ‘psycho’. I was no psycho -not like that kid- and I resented the otherwise suggestion. But as much contempt as I held toward all of those who played a role in landing me here, I was incapable of refusal to attend the the psychodrama.
The clock ticked ferociously, albeit sluggishly, as the spectacled, gaudily-clad woman in purple explained the terms of the group.
“...and you will be supportive to all -regardless of what they say- and try your best to act out their situations with appropriate pathos.”
First up was Brittany, who played out an angry screaming match with Chris, representing her father. She tearfully shouted accusation after accusation, voicing her hatred and finally conceding that he above all others was the reason she turned to alcohol and self-mutilation as an emotional outlet. Next was Steven, my roommate, who quietly, morosely asked Ashley, his “mother” to come back home and be the support system he never had. Three or four others followed, sharing the most mortifying and heartbreaking aspects of their lives for the review of the whole room. Some ended in shouts or sobbing, some in silence. All were grounded in truest pathos.
These kids, no more than a year my junior or senior, were ravaged by poverty, abuse, neglect, and subsequent feelings of depression, anger, and anxiety. They told of rape, substance abuse, and witnessing horrors I had never been remotely subjected to. These kids deserved this retreat; this stable environment; these helpful and compassionate surroundings to at least think about healing. I, on the other hand, had nothing to retreat from, no instability to escape, and no wounds to heal. Though they indubitably had the full extent of my sympathy and the offer of my moral support whenever they needed it, I could not empathize with them. As the clock ticked away in a spritely manner, counting away the minutes of my precious edification, I sat attentively observing the psychodrama and expounding upon all I had to be thankful for.
Friction in a Diner
Will it be okay
Today?
Will it all reset
Tomorrow?
Is there any more to say?
Any words to utter
Steeped in shame?
In sorrow?
I’m not afraid
I swear
To you and me
I’m not afraid
Though it’s coming down
I can’t hear the sky
But I know
It is falling
Into my coffee cup
Two voices
Drowned
In the lights so dim
We can’t tell
Who is calling
Breathe one
Hello
Tell me your name
And let me know
What I’ve done
Right
Where I’ve gone
Wrong
And every
Little
Thing
I’ve known all along
The air is thick
With murky thoughts
In brown paper guise
Chafing the edges
Of fixated eyes
We speak the truth
Under more-or-less
Stress
Please don’t forgive
And don’t forget
The path to peace
Runs solely through
You
I will listen
And settle my debt
Today?
Will it all reset
Tomorrow?
Is there any more to say?
Any words to utter
Steeped in shame?
In sorrow?
I’m not afraid
I swear
To you and me
I’m not afraid
Though it’s coming down
I can’t hear the sky
But I know
It is falling
Into my coffee cup
Two voices
Drowned
In the lights so dim
We can’t tell
Who is calling
Breathe one
Hello
Tell me your name
And let me know
What I’ve done
Right
Where I’ve gone
Wrong
And every
Little
Thing
I’ve known all along
The air is thick
With murky thoughts
In brown paper guise
Chafing the edges
Of fixated eyes
We speak the truth
Under more-or-less
Stress
Please don’t forgive
And don’t forget
The path to peace
Runs solely through
You
I will listen
And settle my debt
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