Addiction is a place inside your head,
Where you become locked in a cell
You’re the warden of– your own hell–
You can’t escape, but…
Just walk through the front door.
Stop scheming, be dreaming of
Relief, relaxation from that need–
Realize you’re better being you than
That prisoner of your own mind.
musings & scribbles
Enter the Maid, a traveler from another side of the city.
Across from the Maid enters Adani, a lover of modern necessities, but classic styles.
Maid (whispering): The carn’val barker knows t’ whispa,
so be c’r’ful of a soft breeze ‘t’s-not
movin’ thr’u’ th’ trees– it’s-a ploy, a plot
to hide y’r drown-in’ in anoth’r’s chatt’r.
Andi: What? I’ve heard that before. Do you know where that’s from?
Maid: Oh, it’s always bein’ said here. s’plains a lot. Can’t always trust a soft speaker!
you’re so far from here,
but i can feel your presence, my dear,
shaking me from the boundaries and into thoughts
of us not having to be missed, but right on time for
never delete. revise, revise, revise, through giving yourself enough time to separate from the thought.
that’s what humans KNOW and PRACTICE every day, but don’t really employ (at all) as often– revising through time, not through repetition and brute force. give something to the world. let what you’ve given mature enough to tinge with rust and brittled corners. once you’ve forgotten what you’ve done, and had time to revise it in your head (there is the greatest space we have and the most time), proceed to revise a copied version. keep the original, so you can do the same thing later. with this method, you will know yourself more than a moment in time you witnessed.
humans never respond the same way– we evolve thought and practice the art of augmentation, ignoring repetition unless it’s the most mundane sub-tasks to our lives. we don’t really let ourselves become overburdened with the fact that our days are all the same, lined up and examined as though they were different– hell, we’d even find ourselves saying a day is better than the last, despite it being the same as today. our hearts follow a course and feel it’s more than the everyday we try to ignore– we never realize we’re doing the same thing until we look back and ask ourselves, “what the fuck was i doing for so long?” it’d be nice to be able to push back the end of a sentence to where it fits and where it doesn’t interrupt an otherwise productive day. but, we must end everything eventually. we must begin to build ourselves as more than who we were– by picking out the smallest subsets of our lives, as with a microscope, and presenting without examination to a crowd.
i sit and stare at a spot i’ve not looked at before,
hoping the clarity returns and i can think of something more to say.
but words find there way around me, not intersecting with my thoughts, no.. no way to say how much i’ve missed you, how many times a day i find myself lost in thought of you and all you meant to me.
so intangible, the rough tongue of reality licks my hand and i try to think of something more to tell you. i try to think of what you don’t already know, and i fall short again.
interruptions, like craters, complicate our terrain and make it harder to run in a straight line to you, but i think we can make it if we go around. — at least that’s how the crisis-ridden got where they are. i don’t want that; i won’t be a better person by forgetting who i was. i can’t live life like a soldier when i’m a poet.
so many thoughts have come when we’re awake and ready, but never bother to write them down. “told you.” yeah, you did, but i’ve never listened and probably never will– it’s much less effort to make a mistake than correct the problem.
i cleaned my room, sat for a bit and stared at all i had left to do.
can’t say much, but when i speak i say it all.
felt alone again today, just because you were gone.
forever, i try to be a better person, but it’s hard to be better when you only see your weaknesses.
i’m a witness to the rebirth of a nation of those, like me, who know nothing more than debt and its collection.
dreams are for believers in tonight, but i only see tomorrow, so i wake up blank and hope to start anew.
rarely, i wake up hopeful for what i’ve seen– i just hope where i think i’m going is where i will have been.
8 lines of myself, written as though i knew everything i said– but, that’s hard when you forget yourself each night, only letting that little nugget in your head remind you of the feelings you should have but don’t understand why.
anger. anger is the pit you can throw everything into, but can’t crawl out of without trying to find yourself someone to latch onto and see the grassline as the sky– a perfect symbol of freedom for someone stuck in perpetual falling, or engulfment.
my shoes stink.
provide me a simple beat,
i’ll try to come up with a clever way to show you how sophisticated the mundane can be.
if you missed my jabs, it’s alright, i’ll let you catch up with the hooks.
the world stands awkwardly by
as i try to figure out who i am–
it’s none of their fault, no,
that i can’t find who i am through
the pages i’ve turned, the glossaries
i’ve read or the times i’ve been told
what i can and cannot do.
i opened my heart
without closing my eyes
and you slipped right in
you slipped right inside.
i held out my hand
without turning my head
and you slipped right in
you slipped right inside.
these days we’ve seen
are nothing more than miles
on a car we know won’t breakdown,
so let’s go as far as we can on one tank
and worry about filling up later.
these days we’ve seen
are all i’ve got for memory
in a life we know will end,
so let’s go further than we have before
and worry about getting back later.
you filled my heart
without closing yours
and you fit so well
you slipped right inside.
you took my hand
to say more than breath can stand
and you fit so well
you slipped right inside.
bring me another day and i’ll give you years worth of smiles, kisses, and tender touches worth noting for their sincerity– i’m not a man of much emotion, except when tapping or jotting, but i’ll try to tell you everything when i can see your eyes and you can see mine– sincerity is the secret ingredient and we all have enough, we all have enough to give.
quarter of a million miles away
i sit and stare out a new window
created by my insecurities
in the middle of a hallway frequented by those less-than-desirables
/what’s that phrase even mean, anyway?/
not sure i’m seeing everything right
this can’t be– there’s me,
staring back at me
wondering why i’m sitting here,
gutted over and blind to my own obesity
intake/i’ve got to give back
i’ve got to be a blessing through the work i do
and the people i pay forward to
Baby, you
Just came home
ANd all I can see
Are your eyes
Calling me in
To be your cover
From a long/hard
Day.
Baby, you
Just woke up to
Me rolling over
To be closer to
You, and all
I can see are your
Lips/your eyes
Saying to me,
“Welcome home,
You’re right where
You need to be.”
And I say,
“Ah.”