A wrongness

I'm the butt of their jokes
I tell myself
As I lie on my back
In bed
Tears rolling into my ears.
Every one of my words
I analyze
Turn over and over and over,
Understanding my
Obvious idiocy
Too late.
My mind
My thoughts and my
Inside world
These things never convey properly
And I'm terrified to even
Open my mouth sometimes
For fear of showing my
Wrongness.

Stuff

Superficial
comfort
enough space
convenience
stuff
That's all this shit is
it's stuff
Lovely to the eye
repulsive to the soul
Knocking into all these
Things
In my way
In my way
But you wanted me
They all cry
We could have been
Your freedom
They all plead
It's good backdrop
For the imaginary
For drunken mind movies
But really
None of it's
Real.

What is
real
Sideways glances
Bare feet
Raw soul
Shivers
Buried truth
Lovely mystery
Tragic injustice
And coincidence
Each worth more
Than any if this
Stuff/Shit.

Maybe Tomorrow

It's only me
Again
Drinking to silence
Wondering who is real
Who is paper.
Pin point thoughts
Burn so bright
so small
Build such intensity
A crescendo
Until I'm exhausted.
I can't keep up this high.
I keep bouncing
The same question
Out into space
With no return.
I'm getting
Tired.
Maybe
Tomorrow.

The Roy Force

I try at
a telepathic
and ultimately
miserable
force.

I can make it
so
much
easier.

I know I can
but I don't.
I project
and I wait.
Project
and wait.

I know it can't work
but I still hope.
Still try.

I want those
elements of my
imagination
to be real.

When all I really
need
is a spine.

Dream Thief

Either
Reality
Is beginning
To steal
From my
dreams
Or
I'm about
To wake
Up.

Quit fucking with me
Morpheus.

Over.

So what do I care?
Huh?
It's been awhile
and my senses
have evolved.
I get into a spot
though
once in a while.
Some drinks and such
put me in a
state.
Yeah.
I wonder things.
Questions form like bile
in the back of my throat.
Doubt hangs around
until I'm
over it.
Who cares?
Who fucking cares
now
but my
liquor
soaked
brain
?

runs in the family

it's an awkward corner
we're turned around in
when things are left bare

glaring ugly
uncomfortable
and plain

I never wanted to enter
their sick contest.

I've worn the same scars,
inherited it all but
buried underneath them
insignificant

I hate asking for help
that I don't
want

there's words and whiskey
and dreams of other realities
other worlds filled with
lovely ghosts
that they want to erase
with pills

I'm afraid of losing
the beauty
along with the
pain.
And I'm not entirely
sure

that they're not
the same
thing.

A Little Crazy

It's cold and late
and my imagined everything
has become quietly hostile.
As if my pretend friends
have all left me
to talk behind my back.
And maybe none of you
are real.
Maybe this is all me.
All a bad dream.
If I fold in on myself,
hide,
this world will stop
confusing me and
leave me the hell
alone.
I know I'm all wrong.
I don't need to wonder
who else knows.

daydream delusions

it's hopeless, this.
the air is failing,
I'm tucked inside and
suffocating within lost things
imagined things
there's such a crowd of ghosts
in my head
they're people who were never people
apparitions, actors,
wearing familiar masks,
playing out dark scenarios
with quiet thirst.

my brain is conducting
a parade of beautiful shit.
it pays no mind to what's real
or expected or even possible.
what the dream desires
the waking mind fabricates.
what the nightmare fears
the waking mind produces.
fuck you, waking mind.

The Dream Field

Last time I passed by the spot
of tire marks in the field
some kind of farmy field
on the way to my parents' home,
I got the spooks,
chest aches.
I always pass that way
although there is another
less traumatic route,
one that still ruffles the feathers
though I can't say why,
can't understand why any of it
really bothers me.
It's just dreams and daymares.

In The Field Dream
which was,
what,
eight years ago?
I was hovering over
myself in a car.
I was crying,
or at least
the Driving Me was crying.
Broken down breath stealing sobs.
Alone in an old red Chevy Beretta.
Swerving
squealing my tires
and finally drifting
off the road and into the
grassy tire ruts.
I knew it was my Place.
I knew that's where I stopped.
Forever.

Passing the field
awake,
now,
it's like walking over
my own
grave.

38.911207, -78.552091

ignorance

we need to sever ourselves
from this soup
this
thick
sludge
it's sucking and slurping
and sucking
and slurping
and if we wait
if we wait
it will grow teeth
and chew us
all
up

the smell, the stink
of this sickening stew
makes me ache
in my gut
makes me heave when
I breathe in
it's vapid chatter
and I can feel it
I feel the stain
of this
vile mindlessness
eating through my
dwindling
time
left.

it's been
sneaking in,
hijacking sources
we once trusted.
moving in slowly.
slithering through
the cracks
squeezing into
gaps.
mimic and pretend.
it lies
convincingly.

we're broken early,
some of us.
weakened with
religion and media.
some of us dive in
willingly.
taught to like it.
taught to teach it.

the rest of us
it's forced
like a rape
like a tidal wave
knocking us down
and pulling us under
making us
swallow
mouthfuls of
bullshit.

but there's this
safe house
between my ears
where i'm sheltered from
it's grasp,
I've got plenty here
to fight with,
I've got books
and skepticism
and reason
as guards.

worry

it was maybe a day
of silence,
background chatter,
the drone of sameness.
but this is the same as
silence,
really.

so I would busy myself,
quietly
turning things over,
attempting to fill
a void
with thought,
unfocused as it was.

it began to
gnaw at me,
and soon I was certain
that a sadness was lurking,
something horrible.

even though,
hey,
sure,
it was only a day.
one day of nothing.
maybe not even
that.

but silence
amid the
cacophony,
it's like the still
before the climax
of a tragedy.

after a period of mourning,
it washed back in,
a storm of euphoria
filling my pores with
relief,
flooding my senses.

one can't always
appreciate
the importance of rain
until
drought.

melodramatically stricken with the common cold

when i'm sick
like
now

a darkness
creeps in
round the
edges

shrouding
life in
gray cobwebs,
a mustiness
dirtying
everything

spreading
towards
the center

even melancholia
loses its
romantic
luster.

my heart is a
cold
damp
basement.

wheeze.

unanswered humanity

sincerity
for me
is usually found
at the bottom of my
third glass of whiskey.
by this time
my soul is palpable,
though my speech slurred,
i feel compelled to scream
something Real
something Beautiful
to an indifferent world.
i demand nothing but
this boomerang returned
with the same
sentiment.

maybe it got
stuck in a tree
somewhere.

birthday reminder

it is the birthday
of a dead man
facebook reminds me
of this
urges me
to send him a gift
but he hung himself
shortly after his
last birthday
so i don't think
he'll be
needing anything.

his widow
however
i know her
and she deserves
more
for what she found
which was his
swaying body
dangling there
lifeless.
she deserves
fucking
everything.

smoke signals

sometimes
thoughts are left out
for a reason
like hooks
or smoke signals
flares to passing ships
i'm here

everyday horrors

i watched a video
today
about growing up
teased.
bullied.

i try to be casual
about this topic.
sure i'm a nerd.
I wear that badge with
pride.
i didn't
however
when i was a kid.

i was the
friendless kid
then.
the awkward girl.
the ugly girl.
the kid that was made to feel
that just her last name
alone
was a
dirty word.

thick glasses.
crooked teeth
overbite and i was
shy.

the teachers
even had a go at me.

well, fuck them.
with something sharp.

who treats a child that way?
who the fuck?

it was between 3rd and 6th grade
when the worst of it came at me.
i was too young
to know anything of suicide,
which was good
because i hated myself every day
every
damn
day.

i lied to my parents
told them school was fine
and after a while
they stopped asking.

i cried under my bed while
my brothers continued
my name calling
at home.

it stopped
for the most part
during high school.
i moved, made friends.
no one knew they were supposed to
hate me.

those years
however
have made me
extremely insecure
defensive
detached
and a little jaded
when it comes to meeting
new people
or even when relating
to those who i am supposedly
close to.

now i have kids of my own
and it disturbs me to think
they could experience the same
sort of hell.
they are both
beautiful children
but different, smart.
the smart ones always are
singled out.
and i know
that if they are anything like me
they will never tell me
about their own
everyday horrors.

quiet mind station

loneliness
has nothing to do with
who is surrounding you.
it's how many people
or the lack thereof
that are operating at the same
frequency.

I'm drinking alone
which i like
to be alone sometimes
but nights like these
i feel like the only one
on this channel.

i'm the only one
switched on.

i love hate that.

Tragedy

i saw it on the news
this girl was hit,
they say 'woman'
but she was still
in her teens.
the train came
while they were
fishing,
he made it
but
she slipped.

it's sad
but i didn't
know her.

i do know
the men
on that train,
know them
from the hotel
where i work.

the conductor
he's a nice guy.
like one of those nice guys
that you don't flirt with
nothing like that
but maybe makes a bad day
a little better
with just an upbeat
hello.

they say he won't
talk to anyone
won't answer his phone.

i know
it's worse that a girl
was killed
but i didn't know her.

he won't talk to anyone
and it's not his fault.
those trains, man
they take so long to stop.
she shouldn't have been there.

a good person's shininess was
taken
a nice guy is haunted
and that is
tragic
also.

you don't read that part
in the news.

How I feel after my third glass of pink wine.

Things feel so full.
The air feels
more
substantial.
Corners
sharper.
Shadows
deeeeeper.
I have more resolve
and smile
when my eyes close.
I don't know
and that is
fine.
I don't need to.
What I feel is
Real.
I am the bright center
of my existance,
that is all I know,
it's all that matters.
So BOOM.

How I feel after my second glass of pink wine.

I'm so mundane.
I sit here and drink
and I
watch whatever the fuck is playing
on whatever the fuck TV channel
I don't care
I never care.
It's just noise and light.
The real
the Me
it bubbles up silently
while I drink my wine
it wells up and hurts
in my guts.
I need eyes
I need confirmation
that never comes.
But the sun
still shines
and the hours still
tick by slower than is comfortable
and I'm still here,
waiting for something
speculating
wishing I knew more
and cared less.
Wishing.

Lazy

I didn't do anything today.
I wandered from room to room
sat and thought about what I should be doing
drank hard cider before the agreed on 5:00
and it didn't help my disposition.
My usefulness
where ever that part is located
has atrophied.
I can't start.
I stalled as soon as these
lazy feet swung out of bed
ready to waste the day.

And now it's almost over.

Out of place in the waking world

I wish for eternity and solitude,
ache for sleep,
for the world to sleep.
The chords only fit my song
when thunderstorms beat at my door.
I want to fall into dream.
An eerie, rainy, dark trip,
the warm air saturated with humid love.
I want to pull others in with me,
reside there permanently and
never speak aloud again.

Bewitch

Look at me
she said,
just before the rope pulled
right before he was pushed
to the rocks below.
And they looked.
Even when
she never opened her mouth
they heard, knew.
To have that power,
look at me.
I would use it for good,
I swear.
The ability to reach into,
capture
transmit
connect
without words.
LOOK AT ME.

I stay up too late. I ramble.

There's things that matter
and there's things that should matter.
And the difference between the two,
well,
that's my problem,
that there is a difference at all.

The gap between the two,
I think,
is the result of my shitty disfuctional mind.
Selfishness and delusion, maybe a little
hope mixed with depression,
and just a smidgen of insecurity.

I'm keeping myself awake with this shit.

Over-analyzing imaginary situations
and some such,
this can't be healthy.

My brain is a hoarder.
It holds on to Fucking. Everything.
Okay, maybe not everything,
but the useless bits,
the dead cats and turned yogurt of thought.
It collects rusty nails.

Dangerous scrap thoughts.

But what the fuck would be the equivalent
of cleaning the house?
A lobotomy?
No, what I think I've done here
is go too far with a stupid metaphor.

Got the shitties. Not the poopy kind.

I've been lost
surrounded by cotton
nothing hurts enough
the nerves are
so
dull

so
fucking

dull.

I want things.

I thought I did.

I'm ashamed
of being human
and female
and sometimes
typical.

I'm a child
confused.

I'm self-centered
but I'm not important.
Nonexistent.
Ineffective.
Defective.

I've lost connection.

Life

It's so more worth living
When fucks are not given.

BOOM!

Me.

I'm better than I've been.
This outpouring of crap.
Nonsensical soup of sighs.

I'm going for a walk
to see the world
and fall in love with
me.

That's right, bitches.

ME.

OPEN

I want to scream.
I have people
out there
I know I do
Connections
Soul brothers and sisters
Why are you all
Sleeping
When I sit here
Drunk and
Awake and
Lonely
?

Fucking
WAKE THE FUCK UP
MUTHAFUCKAS

I'm more open than a fucking
7-11,
And I've got better shit than
SLURPEES.

Tonight

Decimated.

It's
so
good.

So much
lines up.

I'm putty.