I can go months-
Years without a cigarette.
Until I get a certain sad that only smoking (thus far) relieves… maladaptive or not…
it’s a coping skill too…
Said certain sadness passes…
Cue subsequent guilt for even purchasing…
Then! (as if to punish myself for it)
I am compelled to finish the pack.
We’re never really finished, I guess.
Surrounded by the ever present Spectre of death…
Mortality itself has haunted since the 11th year-
Family & friends dying like the Hemingways and Fondas having a competition…
Addictions and violence permeate a life… a society… a culture.
Supporting those you love,
Facing my own fears;
Tasked with aiding those in grief…
A lifetime of training?
They don’t tell you the right things to say…
Or even the wrong things to say.
“It will always come in waves… they just get further between…”
Weak tea for the knock kneed.
Birth to death and all between;
Beautiful acceptance to righteous anger-
Fuck this mortal coil.
It’s not crazy-
To question all of your decisions-
While holding your knees and rocking…
At the bottom…
of a dark closet-
and experiencing déjà vu…
realizing the trauma root to your aesthetic preferences…
synthesizing information, emotions, perceptions, programming…
Understanding leads to despair and experience leads to scripted good guesses…
“Fear is the path to the dark side.”
Leaps of faith…
Crisis of confidence?
Hope being what’s left and hoping because there’s nothing left-
Love or fear, only two choices…
At the heart of it…
Bottom of a dark closet.
beneath the typhoon in my bedroom…
I’m always ok.
it’s not crazy- it’s human, right?
Have you ever wanted something so bad,
you work and sacrifice….
Go a little mad…
Obtain said goal.
As though you had been…
chasing the proverbial dragon,
you are again unsatisfied?
Its easy to feel very sad and isolated-
Lonely in this big house-
Full of white noise and silences…
Inconsistently closed yet open doors.
Still trying to adjust- adapt…
Handle all the new noises
Suppress all the annoying ones,
Lament the loss of the old ones;
Not regret not covet-
Missing the tiny place somehow-
Although cramped quarters-
Happiness was found in those small spaces;
No choice but intimacy-
And shared purpose.
How much can one heart hold:
Swelling and contracting
Heaving like a deep breathing chest
Rising and falling;
like rapid cycling moods.
Hearts can heal
All too often it seems
Just in time to break-
Love is a tricky bitch.
Hope is a fickle mistress.