Posts tagged personal
What a stupid, worthless age. At least at 21 I could buy beer, but I’d already been doing that for three years anyway (the benefits of being 6’ 1” and having a beard since age 17).
What do you do with 22? Nothing, legally speaking. It’s the first time since 11 that my age is a palindrome, so I guess that’s something. This would have been the age when I graduated from college, had I not taken time off after I realized that college, when you get right down to it, is pretty silly. This isn’t a knock at education by any means- put a bunch of twenty-somethings in an enclosed space with a burned-out professor and it’s not really a recipe for inspiring moments. More like paper after paper and then sex, maybe (usually not).
Come to think of it, I don’t even remember the last time I really did anything for my birthday. Something special, I mean, like a big party. Last year, I just got shitfaced drinking wine, and watched Mystery Science Theater 3000 until I fell asleep on my friend’s floor. I woke up hungover, had to go to class, and that’s when it hit me: birthdays are a celebration of aging.
We shouldn’t celebrate aging. Aging kills people, dagnabbit. We don’t pop the Champagne when someone steps on a rusty nail, do we? Can’t remember the last kegger I attended in celebration of a kidney infection, either.
Ah, but I’m just being silly. Birthdays are special, I guess, in the way that equipment is speical to MMO players. It changes your numbers, makes them bigger, more imposing, makes you look like you have more experience than you really do. I just don’t feel any different, physically anyway. I’ve always said that my mind ages faster than my body. I’m not saying I get smarter faster, I’m saying there are days when I think that by 25, I’ll be yelling at the neighbor kids to get the fuck off my lawn. What causes it? Frustration, I think. I don’t have direction- in my writing, in life in general. And racking up another year just makes me feel like I’ve missed the mark yet again. S.E. Hinton was published at 16. Alexander the Great conquered half the world when he was just a bit older than I am. And here is Devin Louis, the eldest Michelson boy, sitting at a laptop, drinking bad coffee, typing with two fingers very slowly because he never paid any attention to the typing lessons at school. Thinking, smoking, and worrying too much.
But I don’t want to depress anybody. After all, I was born on a Wednesday, and you know what they say about Wednesday’s child. You don’t? Oh, well allow me to tell you:
Wednesday’s child is full of woe. That’s in a poem about birthdays. All the other days got bright and sunny things, about how they are happy, or generous, but Wednesday gets totally fucked. Mother Goose, you’re a filthy whore.
So, I’m in a reflective mood, in case you couldn’t tell. I don’t even know why I’ve written this much, seeing as I’m really not all that interesting. I’ve already said too much, so to close, I’ll just say that I’m going to just…continue. That’s good. I’m just going to continue. Tomorrow, I’ll go to work (I need money), then later eat cake, then go to sleep, and then it’ll be just like it always is. I’ll be here, writing things, and sometimes people will read them. Who knows? Tomorrow may be the start of a great adventure.
Hopefully it’s to Japan. Have you tried octopus? It’s really good.
i think we’re the same person just raveled in different skin and you’re full of this inconsistency like when you look to the floor after kissing me, but it mimics my stance after you grab my legs and pull me towards you.
i’ve been making the speech in my head for four goddamn days now:
i will push you away to get under your skin
until you love me and love me and love me-
until you want nothing but me because
i want all of you, like the aftermath of a flood
and the devastation that reflected in your eyes
when i averted my attention away from you.
you play it over again in your mind because
you fell in love with the comfort of sadness.
all the cracks and scars
that you try to shrug off as bad karma.
i’ve invented words describing beauty that explain all your freckles
but you can’t even look into the mirror without getting sick
you tell me i’m neurotic as hell but you can’t get my taste
out of your mouth or my smell out of your head
and you’re so happy that you found someone
who’s just as crazy as you are.
we whisper things to each other like-
“those people, they don’t mean shit” and “i know
you’ve already given most of yourself today but
i find myself begging to get my share.”
you speak to me as we lay in bed together with something close to panic:
there’s this gap
between my hands and i can’t pick anything up.
nothing will fill it, it leaves me empty and
soggy and my damn glass keeps on spilling
but there’s no one there to clean it up.
I have a little box inside of me,
A little wooden box,
Not terribly fancy,
And not prone to rot.
This little box is velvet lined,
And locked with a key,
It has no engraving,
Its simple unlike me.
This box is not for sharing,
Its not for show and tell,
Its not near my heart,
And its certainly not for sale.
This little wooden box
Is precious to me,
It contains special things,
I do not often open it,
Its not all great,
I often try to burn it,
But I don’t have enough hate.
So the little wooden box
Stays nestled deep inside,
In its own little black hole
It will forever hide.
You, I never had you.
A sip of your own destiny
awaits your attention while
gloom lurks in the corners
while alcoholic fire spreads
in your throat, your lungs already in
ashes and dust wanders in your
veins like crystals without shine;
you, I never had you.
Combustion, explosion, emotions
thudding like missile launches in the
ocean with bottoms,
you, I never had you and
rocking the cradle of pure psychosis
at its murkiest, one, two, three, until
gloom lurks in the corners
while you watch the cradle fall with
your eyes shut with frightened silence
screaming and kicking you in the heart
so let’s break its legs to destroy, rebirth,
a sip of your own destiny with a cup
full of rust and sickly bacteria, dementia,
You, I never had you, but you, I never had.
Evaporate from the world. Free your mind from the burden that this cage impresses upon you. Release yourself from the shackles of actuality and mock the silver-lining between reality and fantasy.
Here’s a poem.
Whilst pain eludes.
Draining my will,
Can’t even move.
A smoke might help…
If I had the energy.
To lift that little white stick of death.
Place it between my lips.
Where is the feeling?
Nothing but hollow.
there are quiet moments when I’d like to tell you
that the beauty of the romance of your fingers on the strings of your guitar
makes me want to laugh with breathless joy and weep with depthless sorrow
for the countless endeavors of love that will never quite match
the sweetness of that look you get
when you pull the chords just right.
You sat against the window ledge with your heart on your sleeve,
crying into the darkness; you waited
but no one could hear.
Begging for a way out with dreams and needs,
yet no one bothered to lift you up
when you were at your most empty, starlight dripping in your eyes.
Too many ups and downs, while the world was shoving you
this way and that, forced down while I fear sometimes:
I will not be able to say I love you before you go.
Angry because you couldn’t find your way into the dark,
yet you screamed at me to let you jump and meet the concrete;
I waited for you to speak to me as the wind rushed in your ears.
Time passed and the terror subsided, knowing you were frightened;
tormented, torturous lies; deep in my throat I hated for you,
until all I knew was the power of words, some sting like bees.
Sticks and stones may break my bones yet words dig
far deeper and circumstances cut scars so much further than
that knife and the drop staring back at you, little spider scenes.
In the end you could not fit through the window,
scratches and scrapes; still
I would beg you to stay, any day.
I miss the way you used to look at me,
The ocean on the brim of your lashes
And your heart on the edge of its bay
I miss the way you used to handle me,
With all the caution of a child, playing far
From a mother’s watchful eye
I miss the way you used to touch me,
The contours of your throat dipping low
As sweat shielded skin from discovery
I miss the way you used to counsel me,
How the tides would shift with the waning moon
And you, waist-deep, would find the water’s womb
I miss you for all you did for me;
I loved the privilege, but never you.
When I hear the sirens, I imagine they’re for him.
I see them come in and grab him by the shoulders,
Throw him against the squad car,
And pull his hands behind his back.
They’ll take him in,
For something he didn’t do. And I’ll say,
Then we can all be comfortable again.
Except, that thing you did –
What possessed you to take such an action?
(It may now cause some discomfort, don’t you see?)
I’ll have to remind myself to wait it out.
Soon, he’ll lose interest and gain wings.
The squad cars and sirens will have nothing to do with that.
But I’ll be the one who’s still here,
Late night whispers of a future
birthed from wistful thinking was
too extravagant for my broken mind.
I must have been the anchor at the bottom,
must have been, because I only could
ever catch the sun rippling like your words
ambiguous and fickle, my heart like sea waves.
Never drown with me, never,
for you can only hold your breaths
and silence your insecurities for so long;
I fear that if I pin you down to the sands
uncomfortably sleeping at the bottom of
this ocean too blue to reflect happiness,
your restless heart will rust and alter to
the core, your smiles hysterical for freedom.
The humble cannot be saturated with the extravagant.
This romance should not be nurtured with the extremes.
I can see your shadow
flicker in the corner
eyes and a shoulder
my soul is reeling
I want you closer
but like air I cannot grasp you
to pull you into me
So I stand in the moonlight
and wait for this shadow to split in two
Come and seize
else my absence t’will snap with a bite.
There are no echoes in the white-dark of a snow storm.
It’s as if sound itself has frozen.
But even without the echoes, there is this sound of blood.
Rushing and beating.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Poe’s Tell Tale has nothing on this rhythm.
More times than we made love, you said that you loved me,
were in love with me.
Which puts that number in the thousands, at least.
But love, true love, is eternal.
A stone is a stone, was a stone, WILL ALWAYS BE A STONE.
So it is with love.
So when you say that you don’t love me anymore,
Because I turned my cloak to you, because I walked away.
When you say you cannot love me because I hurt you, you are really saying.
“I never loved you.”
There is no WAS. There is no THEN.
A STONE IS A STONE WAS A STONE, WILL ALWAYS BE A STONE.
Love is love was love will always be love,
Failing that, it is but an infant’s fancy.
So I don’t believe you for a second,
I was always the colder of us,
How might you expect me to believe the flame of your love would burn its wick to the quick, before mine?
What kind of Liar are you?
I forgot to tell you
there was so much sun in your eyes
the day you jumped for the last time.
I’ve never seen a person so completely illuminated by their own
How close were you to the fingertips of God?
The day your mother carried you from your hospital bed
and laid you down like she would a newborn baby
her touch was so gentle I was convinced
that every single person in that room was made of glass.
Nobody told me
your heart was too weak to last.
My father promised me you’d live.
He’d never broken a promise before.
I broke his teeth. We didn’t talk for a while after that.
My family is sewed together with broken strings.
I learned too early in life that you can’t fix people
like you’d fix a car.
If a car is broken you just take it to somebody who knows mechanics
as well as they know how the sunlight highlights their lover’s skin.
But if a person is broken, well
sometimes their own skin becomes a place of wreckage
a place where more has been taken away than given.
How close is anyone
to the fingertips of God?
You found me in between
underneath the only cloud of a clear day
Your searching eyes, mine desperate
for a storm to pour as many droplets
equivalent to my tears
And you wished me fair well
my wrist flicked
my lips smirked
and I could never understand why
I’d ever want another rainy day
to ruin your sundressed smile