A piece I wrote on my phone awhile back.
You should want to live, they say,
But I don’t,
And in their eyes that’s the problem.
Why is my only goal wrong?
Just because I want death
that must mean there’s something wrong
with my brain.
But what if the problem lies with them?
What if they’re the ones with the broken brains?
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my goal.
I think there’s something wrong with their expectations.
Originally written 3/15/17
For the creative spirit
Boredom often translates
Into idleness that spawns an outpouring.
Sometimes, however, boredom and idleness become monotony.
From monotony rarely does the artist find inspiration;
More often than not, monotony breeds apathy,
And apathy is the absolute death of creativity.
Do not allow yourself ennui!
Do not become complacent!
Creative death is the death of spirit.
I was bored at work writing this poem. Let that reality speak for itself.
I have commitment issues.
There. I said it.
You got me to verbally commit to non-committal.
There’s no such thing as permanence,
So why do I want to be locked into any one thing?
I won’t sign on a dotted line!
I like my freedom.
I enjoy being a hummingbird,
Flitting from one flower to the next.
That’s the bumblebee’s job:
Like the buffalo.
I call the open road home,
I won’t be roped and saddled;
I’m the stallion
And I’m free!
I’ve overstayed my welcome,
But don’t worry!
I’ll leave quietly.
That’s what I’m good at,
Exiting stage left with nary a qualm or quibble.
You’ll only know I’m gone
By the absolute silence left in my absence
When you glance around the stage, and realize
Quite some time has passed since you last saw me.
And you’ll wonder:
“What ever happened to that girl in the background?”
But then you’ll shrug, and move on—
After all, she was only an extra.
Small towns and small minds make small talk;
Peering from behind curtains, spying on the neighbors,
Hoping for scandal, only so there’s something to discuss before church on Sunday.
Small towns are like exclusive clubs:
Born and raised, your membership can never be revoked.
“You can never go home,” they say,
But that’s untrue.
The truth is that you can never leave home.
Even when you think you’ve left behind town lines,
Your roots are still firmly planted in the family’s dirt.
Small towns are like gangs:
You’ll take a beating if you want to get out,
And most people just end up crawling back anyway.
Originally written 2/28/17
Let me out of this house!
Trying to be as silent as a mouse,
A hallway down which I creep
(Darkness lurking deep).
There’s a monster in me,
And it’s always fighting to get free.
Originally written 1/19/17
To: My aging, ailing Poodums.
I’ve written at least two or three other letters to you over the course of your life. It seems a foolish thing to do since you’re a dog, but I suppose I justify my actions with love. In a way, I guess you could call these love letters. I know you’re incapable of reading these, but honestly, this exercise isn’t for you; its for me. Like funerals are for the living, not the dead. Some things you just have to do.
I’m watching you sleep on the living room floor while I write this. You’re lying on the little brown pillow that matches my comforter, with your back against your dog bed (the one you’ve always used as a pillow instead of a bed). In your old age you sleep more soundly now than you ever used to. That’s because you’re going deaf. I could play Shawn Mendes at top volume, and you’d only know it because of the vibrations shaking the floor.
Gone are the days when getting up from the couch would warrant you popping up from a light doze to follow me into another room of the house. These days I can traverse the whole house without you ever knowing, provided I do it after you’ve closed your eyes.
Speaking of eyes, I’ve laughed at you time and again when you can’t find food I throw to you on the floor, because you’re going blind. I only laugh because watching you age breaks my heart. At 14 years old, you’ve seen and done a lot more than I ever expected. In all honesty, I expected you to have been run over by a car long before now. You’re a tougher pup than I ever took you for. You’ve proved me wrong in a lot of ways. I’m grateful for that. You proved to our family what unconditional love was, not because you loved us unconditionally, but because we loved you unconditionally. For me, more than I can say for anyone else, you taught me to care about those living creatures who cannot wholly fend for themselves.
By no means has our relationship been without issue, but the problems came on my part. You’re just a dog, after all. Your purpose is to teach me to not only love unconditionally, but to have patience in all situations; to be kind and compassionate to everyone I cross paths with.
I love you for the ways in which you’ve changed me for the better. For crying out loud! I’m tearing up while writing a letter for my dog! That’s partially due to the fact that I’m a sensitive little snowflake, but mostly the incredibly profound way in which you’ve affected my life. It seems amazing to me how true those words are.
As a child, I wanted a dog for many years. I was always told a dog is a large responsibility, and that’s why for so many years we didn’t get one. There’s nothing untrue or unjust about that logic. You’re a large responsibility, and now that you’re in your twilight years that responsibility has grown exponentially. Yet, I regret none of it. Perhaps this is how some parents feel about their children. I don’t know. I only have my fur baby, and I intend to keep him until he closes his eyes for the last time.
The logical/rational part of my brain screams that it’s stupid to feel this way about a four-legged animal, but my emotions have always defied logic. I love you, Buster, forever and always.
Originally written 2/21/17
Burn it all.”
Says the Arsonist.
“Burn it to the ground,”
“Burn bridges. Burn it all down.”
“Leave nothing left alive
that can’t breathe smoke,
and writhe inside the flames.”
His announcement goes unnoticed,
but the fire cannot be ignored.
It rages, it writhes;
it inhales oxygen,
and exhales devastation.
Let the cleansing begin,
and burn it all. Burn it down.
Burn it all to the ground.
Leave nothing left alive.
Let fire thrive.
I was hoping coffee would inspire me,
would open up neural pathways previously undeveloped,
but I’m still physically exhausted,
and my mind wants to pull down the shades and call it quits for the night
I was hopeful, when I was a child, that everything would turn out all right.
That the world wasn’t really as scary as it seemed,
but even with age I’ve found that numerous pathways don’t bring happiness.
My body is exhausted from working long hours,
and my mind is bored of tedious tasks.
I want to sleep forever, until the world looks to me the way it did
when I was only a child.