R&R

There was

There was

There was

A Moment Split. A Moment Fractured.

The Halves Of That Moment Run In Separate Directions

One Half Runs Right, Solidified In Its Correctness

One Half Runs Left, Wrong, In Its Brokenness.

The variant degrees of separation are extreme

The body, made of flesh, leans.

Leans. 

(to be read: screams)

Wrong becomes left 

becomes straight 

becomes forward

becomes behind 

becomes past

becomes us

We have become that moment we have left.

Right?

there is

there is

there is

an annoying sensation of numbness in my right leg

these swimming lessons are becoming monotonous

and i have the distinct feeling that i’m not floating

i’m drowning

it’s becoming easier and easier to fall asleep in this pool

in this house shaped, me shaped, life shaped pool

there Will be

there Will be

there Will be

a.forced.smile

an.awkward.glance

a.knowing.deflection

will.power

try.to.remember

try.to.remember

try.to.remember

a.decisive.joy

an.indefinite.silence

an.insoluble.ache

a.decision

a.decision

a.decision

Happiness, shaped like something unfamiliar.

Safety, in a strangers embrace.

Touch, from skin of a different temperature.

And the ability to be okay with not knowing

(while, in fact, knowing what there is to not know)

  There was, there is, there Will be:

Rivers. And Roads.

Oh, and swimming. A lot of swimming.

A Letter to Thomas.

*NOTE: The writing below may lead people to believe that I am sad, haha. I want to make clear that I am not, and instead of writing this out of a very bad place know that it is the good place I am in that allows light to shed onto the misfortunate relational practices of humanity, myself included. It should be read more as a frustrated expression of a whole, and not as the secret depression of an individual. Wow, I hope that makes sense. 

Anyways. A letter to Thomas, enjoy.*

*DOUBLE NOTE: I don't know a Thomas. Kind of the point, poetically speaking.*

*TRIPLE NOTE: Sorry about all the notes.*

Dear Thomas,

We hope this letter finds you well,

and we hope it is wellness that it leaves you with,

although we highly doubt it, considering the focus.

We have a dead tree outside.

We've never seen it, but we're told about its visual torment.

Today, however, we were hoping to speak with you about movement.

(We'll get back to the tree in a moment.)

There is a certain satisfaction

in choosing the rate at which we have and/or maintain movement.

(If you choose to have it at all. Actually.)

It must be a choice.

A choice we take pride in regardless of what we believe in

because the choice of standing still is intoxicating.

[It's better to feel in control of nothing then out of control of anything.

Not everything, mind you.

Any. One. Thing.]

We say goodbye to planting lilies,

to black coffee and underground symphonies

because those things grow, and growth is uncontrollable.

Growth in and of itself is both terrifyingly independent

while maintaining a fascinatingly fragile existence based on

the precise measurements surrounding it.

It's magic. 

Black, most likely. 

And we will have none of it.

Instead, we decide it is better to stay the same and not change 

rather than change what has stayed the same

and have that same change stay.

Thought becomes riddle that turns into apathy,

which forms into regret and regret into an apple seed

that we plant but we don't have time to watch it change into an apple tree.

With fruit.

Whether or not we watch those trees bloom

from a seed to produce fruit

directly affects the seeds ability to grow and plant roots.

It will not do it if we do not see it.

Our attention is its sunlight.

And most trees whither in the darkness of our inner eyelids.

We do not watch. 

The seed does not grow.

We stand, not moving, and take pride in our control.

We take pride from our souls hospital bed

and, having never tasted the bittersweet citrus of fruit, we die.

Alone, but satisfied.

Say hello to the wife for us, Thomas.

Best Wishes-

The Movement.

Happenstance [unfinished]

My habits sometimes outweigh my judgments.

Like an orange thrown onto the concrete

they bleed out into the gutter of my subconscious

and mix into the sewers of my existence.

My blood and their juice become a concoction of happenstance.

I must be growing because now when they happen..

I can't stand it. 

[unfinished]

FacePalm PoemForm

I read this today on a torn piece of paper:

She put a bookmark in my heart

And then walked away

It was still August then

I don't know what it means or who its from, but it will haunt me forever. 

"1734"

Maybe it's the smoking.

Or, more likely, my past with divorcing.

Probably not so much the tattoos or my intolerable backseat driving.

(Even though my tone is mistaken as 'menacing'.)

And it's certainly not my over thinking or constant calculating.

Seriously, I calculate a billion times a day.

... Maybe its my exaggerating.

Or maybe my general lack of eating?

Or that when I do eat it's pretty unhealthy.

Could it be that I want daughters mostly

or my insistence on adopting?

I'm just having a hard time seeing

why you would stay with me?

Just give me a minute to explain when we meet

and you'll see. You'll see that I'm sorry.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll forgive me.