Before I go onward, I recognize that I am and that I will forever be a fan.
I am a fan of different things. But more, I am a fan of things that make me think or feel. I am a fan of things that drive me to be unafraid to change or walk against the grain. I am a fan of anything that makes me move or causes me to choose and find my own path.
Before I move farther with this, I have to say that yes, I am a fan.
Music. . .
The best saying I have ever heard is “sometimes being bad feels pretty good.”
And I do confirm. Sometimes being bad does feel pretty good.
I stand behind the belief that sometimes you have to defy the rules.
You have to go against the odds. You have to experience what it feels like to lose your mind.
I swear.
You have to howl.
You have to scream and most of all, you have to dance until sweat pours from your body.
This is a must.
I love the feelings I have when sitting on rooftops.
I always have and I always will . . .
I have always liked this, since youth, or since the time when I realized
that my thoughts needed more than just my bedroom to settle down.
I can see how our thoughts can be infinite, like the stars
and I can see how our dreams can be ongoing –
like the universe.
You know, I was a kid once.
I had dreams. I wondered of the moon was really made of green cheese.
I wondered if there was a cow that really jumped over the moon –
and if there was, I always wondered what happened when the cow landed.
I mean, that’s a far drop from way up there, to way down here,
This one is not new.
Then again, everything I write to you is current, as in now and taking place as we speak.
The question itself is old and the question is this:
What would you say to yourself if you could go back to you at any age?
My answers have changed over the years.
Then again, so have I and so has my motivation.
I see them.
all the time
the youth
the young
or some may call them
the so-called disenfranchised youth
and the misunderstood, or the unusual.
I see them and think
how this usually brings us around
to the reason why
there are differences
at the different tables
in the school’s cafeteria.
Soon enough
the sun comes closer to the north
and the red breasted robins
will show up to signify proof
of spring.
This means
it is only a short ways away
from summer.
I suppose the worst thing to be
is to be the sum
of someone else’s assumptions,
or at least, I assume
the worst I can be is the sum
of someone’s conclusion.
Never be the beast
that someone else
claims you to be
and before anything else
never be the sum
of someone’s predictions.
Never do this
unless, of course
they predict something better
than the predictions
which you have predicted
for yourself.
And so, what does it mean
to be beautiful?
I wonder.
I stand at the corner of hope
and wish that perhaps someday
I will find myself in greener pastures.
beautiful as ever, or if ever
I my hope is that
I should find my place
where I belong . . .
and when I do
I hope this place is graced
by golden sunsets that surpass
my wildest dreams.
Verse 1:
Life comes
and I shake my head.
It amazes me.
All of this
Everything from the ground up
or from the grass roots of how we are
or where we come from; all of this
from the floor of our existence
and upwards to the limitless sky –
all of our “everything”
is amazing to me.
Still,
as beautiful as the world may be
and as amazing as the sunsets can appear
I understand.
The summer is gone
and it’s been a minute
since the warmth from the sun
was enough to bronze the skin
I know . . .
My feelings for the seaside moments
will be with me until the day that I die.
I’m sure.
Of course, I’m sure.
At the same time,
if it were my choice
people like you and I would never die
because the truth is –
I could live forever
wherever the tides come in
and out
and allow me to forget
that you and I were once
forgotten.
Since it is so
that one became two
and two became four, then of course,
I understand the aftermath
of what takes place
when we decide to walk away.
Everyone has a past, you know?
Everyone has a history
and everyone has a story
that sits behind their secrets
or keeps us quiet
even when we scream.
In the beginning
I suppose we all started
with the best of intentions
at least, I can say this is true
in most cases.
Or, so
I hope.
1)
Silly kids . . .
It is really no point in
reviving the arguments
or fighting the fights
just to keep them alive
when essentially
they mean nothing.
Literally . . .
. . . nothing.
One became two
and two became four
and so on
and somehow,
age takes place
and here I am now
much older than I am younger.
One by one,
the world turns around the sun
another time.
Verse 1:
The concept of last night
means everything and anything
to me.
This entails anything that
I can dream about
which means that anything and everything
is within my reach.
But then again
hindsight is always perfect
especially, after the aftermath
unfolds.
Please Note:
This journal will be written more as an artform or in different forms of poetry. Either way, all of my entries will come from my streams of consciousness.
No thoughts to the words.
No acting or pretending.
Just writing.
Just words from the heart.
That’s all.
I feel this; therefore, I’ll write this.
And this is my plan.
Today is the day that I put an end to this.
I am done with the lunatics in my head and done with all else that distracts me from who I am or who I choose to be.
There are nights when I have dreams and I am faced with the younger version of myself.
I see this clearly.
I see the way I was and how I behaved. or I might see a place that I used to go to.
Sometimes I see the places where I used to hide.
And I wonder . . .
I wonder what life might have been if I decided to go on my own instead of trying to be someone else.
And then I wonder about who I am now and who was I meant to be.
Is this it?
When you escape the fact that no one is coming to save your life, and when you realize that your freedom can only be claimed by you, then you have no other choice but to save your own life.
You have to do this without exception.
And, if you are broken, then you are already broken. The only thing you can do is either get back up and start to repair yourself, or remain on the ground, lay still and become dust, or stay broken and be left behind.
Your last role in the toxic playground amazes me. This is not to say that you are toxic or that you and I are toxic together.
No, I have no place or position to point fingers at anyone and nor do I have the right to judge or condemn.
Let me say this, when it comes to playing the game of life at this level, and when we talk about being toxic or toxic people, it seems to me that our choices came from a place that caused us to either do or accept the unacceptable things.
The sun came up from the east as usual this morning. I dreamt about the horizon and how the underbelly held the colors of sunrise.
I love these moments. They are limited by number, but beautiful nonetheless.
I love the early mornings when the heavens above are laced with scattered clouds, all powdery and stretched out like the feathers of an Angel’s wings
These things are beautiful—the soft pastel colors of morning in the sky, a gentle breeze that feels kind when the wind blows against my face, and the view we see of our Loving Mother, Mother Earth.
I love it this way—a good, quiet morning.
Perfect.
These notes to myself from my prison cell have helped. But I am still lost and my defense has yet to get off the ground.
I have appealed to the process is killing me
(slowly)
I hate this real fiction business.
But it is what it is.
The wind was howling sometime around midnight last night. Then everything turned quiet.
There was an odd, yet somber tension to the moment. I suppose this is because this morning is called Christmas Eve on the other side of Purgatory.
No one spoke last night. No one set any notes down the tier to the different prison cells. Not even the demons or the guards made a peep last night.
Even the hounds were quiet.
I suppose that even here, there is a presence known to this day. Even here, there is a promise or the light of hope, which can lead us all to the beacon of truth.
And when there is nowhere left to turn, or when you have nothing else, not even hope, all you can do is stand to the best of your ability, even if you can’t take the pain, and face the world.
When all are gone, or when all have abandoned hope, and when there is no one left to help you, all you can do is dig deep and face what comes.
That is all.
It is morning, again.
Another night went by and another gurney took away another inmate, gurgling their last breaths, bleeding from an apparent mauling by the guards and in return, all that was left was the bloodshed inside of an empty prison cell, which we all assume will be filled again before breakfast ends and the day begins.
There was something in the air. I can say that.
I knew something was about to happen.
I would have no other way to describe it other than I could feel something coming, like a sense of impending news, crucial and hard, and yet there was an understanding—like a strange calmness that this is life and these are the rules of our engagement.
I was told about another death last night. The news hit home.
However, this is par for the course, and these are the rules of the game.
No one knows the hour or the day is what I was told.
And life?
I wat this more than before. Then again. I am not sure who I was before.
That is of course, if there was such a thing as before.
But there always is. Isn’t there?
There is always a time before now; and now is the time.
Now is the time when my eyes are opened enough that I can see what I have endured, what I have missed, and what I have squandered.
I am not so different from the Prodigal Son; only, I have yet to return and I have yet to be forgiven by my Father.
I want more. I want more than before but to be clear; I’ve always wanted this, even before I found myself here, which is where I am, and waiting for the prosecution to rest their case
Continue readingIt is no different to assume a loss than it is to lose in the physical sense. Either way, the mind sees what the mind sees; whereas my time has been confined to this small place and yet, there is a great big world outside and around me.
The receptors in the mind do not know the difference between fantasy and reality, whereas I can dream and picture myself or imagine my losses, and whether my thoughts are reality or fiction, the results of my emotions are the same.
The rain fell hard last night. I could hear the raindrops hit the rooftop which kept me awake for a while. And so, I laid back and looked up at the ceiling.
I thought about the hours and the days and even the minutes I spent elsewhere, looking at life with all too much confidence that nothing is threatened because tomorrow would always be there, —until it wasn’t.
This is how things go when we are young.
We never seem to think that age is real until it creeps up on us.
Age is something that happens to old people.
And one day, we turn around to realize that decades have escaped without leaving a sign and much of our dreams have all gone deferred.
“Are you back again?”
I suppose so.
“Did they give you anything yet?
I’m not sure. But the voices are louder this time.
“What about the smell?
Of the people you mean?
“That’s when you know it’s real.”
I don’t think I know if anything is real
(anymore)
I heard the cages banging last night. There was a threat of prisoners looking to riot, which is nothing more than another day here, alive, and living with the beasts.
In all fairness, I have to admit to the truth. And the truth is I am afraid. The truth is I am afraid of everyone. And I’ve always been afraid.
I was afraid to care.
I’ve been afraid to be the fool or afraid to be hurt and I have always been afraid to be weak or soft and used.
I was thinking about the way we speak with each other. I was thinking about the words we use and their value to us.
Or more to the point, I was about how we invest in the words we say or hear.
Then I started to think about our selective hearing. Or maybe it would be better for me to tick to the plan and explain about my own selective hearing.
I was thinking about the most important and meaningful three words in our English language
I was thinking about words like, I love you.
Or how about the words, I need you
Or what does it mean to you when someone says, “You mean the world to me!”
What does any of these words mean when someone says these things and yet, we struggle to feel them or believe their words are true.
There was snow over the weekend in Purgatory. There wasn’t much. But there was enough to coat the ground and keep the nighttime from being as dark.
Alone above, the moon took on the bluish hint and the holiday lights made the season feel more festive for a while.
These things are bitter sweet for me.
I don’t mind the snow. I don’t mind the cold.
No, really.
I don’t mind these things at all.
I have these dreams, which are not dreams at all. They are more like pictures and memories of times, long ago, or back when I was old enough to understand but to young to know that I had the right to question the life in front of me.
I am sick now, late in some regards, and older, achy, and unforgivably defiant against the ideas that yes, “this is it!” and this is as good as it gets.
No. I refuse this.
I know there has to be more.
There are memories I have. I swear.
I was young once. Wild too, and I was crazy in the best ways possible.
I was eager and afraid.
And I remember.
I remember the ideas and the thoughts and the cravings which came over me like a wave as it falls across the shore.
I remember some of my drives, long ago.
I remember driving over the 59th Street Bridge.
The Big City. And there she was.
New York, New York.
She is bright like a dream and complete with every urge or desire.
She is complete with every idea or every kink or fetish.
And hey, don’t judge.
Or don’t knock it, until you try it.
You never know.
There comes a time when silence is best.
Just be quiet. Be still.
Let your eyes close and let your breathing slow down.
Relax.
And when there’s nothing else, then there’s nothing left to lose.
So, sit still. Be calm.
Close your eyes and fade.
The truth of the matter is that no one knows. No one cares. No one is paying attention and yet, we assume that everyone sees the same thing that we see.
Not true.
The fact is that everyone has their own life. Everyone has their own motivation, their own agenda, and everyone sees from their own perspective.
It is all too often that we take on more than we need, and I say this with the ideas of people, places, and things.
I have talked about the deception of our perception and the inaccuracies of emotion and assumption.
This is a link to my greatest downfall.
The meds from last night hit me hard.
My grogginess was amazing to me.
Literally.
I could hardly understand my whereabouts, yet I am where I am because I was where I was.
This is for sure.
The handcuffs are figurative but tight. Then again, so is the reality of fiction and so are the details of today’s courtroom proceedings.
Here we we go, I suppose.
Such is life under the watchful eyes of those who study the inmates in our private Alcatraz.
But ah, the benefits of the accusers and how they try to lead me with their advantages.
And so, I have to ask . . .
What have you seen that made you change the way you see the world?
What happened?
What changed? Or what snapped?
What broke and never went back into place?
It has always been hard for me to believe in the terms of God, or God the Father. It has always been too curious for me to look around and see the hurt or the destruction of our everyday life.
How could there be something all-knowing, and all-great, yet here we are, living on this rock, which is third from the sun.
When there is nothing left, then there is nothing left to lose. And yet, we find ourselves pondering the losses and mourning the irretrievable. And we weep and we cry and we beg and we plead with the Gods, as if something or anything could eve be changed.
Laugh all they want, I know what I have lost. And I know what I have gained in the absence or the aftermath of my own aggression.
I’ve lost and I’ve tried and I’ve found myself in the emptiest place, late and past the midnight hours, and talking to myself, aimlessly, and with hope that somehow —I can find my way or find something that makes sense to me.
Are you who I think you are?
I am . . .
And in walks the devil without remorse for the fire.
The guards told me to be on the lookout.
They said you could appear at any moment.
They tell me you feel at home here.
Well . . .
Here I am.
I can see that.
And in he comes –
just like that.
Beware the smiles you see, I was told.
Not all of them are friendly.
Be careful who you listen to, I was told.
Everybody has an angle.
Everyone has their own truth.
Tread carefully . . .
The weather gets rough from time to time.
I heard the guards whistle this morning. I assume this was one of their many codes to warn one another.
But I don’t know.
At least, not for sure.
I come here in the mornings first, of course. I suppose this is the best time for me to come clean. or if nothing else, at least let me start clean. Let me purge now before the impurities of the day take away the purities in my heart.
It is hard though. Not the mornings or the ideas.
It isn’t hard to confess or to come clean either.
I suppose that this place is as safe as any to come clean, or confess.
The trouble is the anticipation.
It’s the building and the mounting anxieties that start, one by one, and it’s the worry about the impending doom that often carries me away.
But here I am. Good or bad, like it or not, it’s showtime.
I remember hearing two of the more famous questions, back when I was a kid. “What the hell were you thinking?”
The second question was “Why?” to which yes, of course my stock answer was always the typical, “I don’t know!”
Maybe this was age appropriate. Or maybe there’s truth to the saying that I have run away more as an adult than I ever did when I was a kid.
Maybe it’s hard to make better choices when our minds are elsewhere.
Or maybe we act accordingly.
If I’m being honest, I knew why I did what I did.
And I knew what I was thinking. .
The mind is the trick.
I know.
And as for thoughts?
Our thoughts are just thoughts and feelings are just feelings.
Emotion is emotion and life is life.
We both understand this.
I know that we are all involved in this big project which I often call Project Earth.
And therefore, what i tell you is something that I have to tell you.
I have to say this because leaving this unsaid would be another sin for me to face.
Dear Mom,
I know it’s been a while since my last letter to you. I suppose so much has happened that I don’t know where to begin. Then again, I find myself like I often do. I am a stranger in a familiar territory and here I am once more, facing a new beginning and another learning curve.
But like you always told me, this is life.
December, and the year is moving towards the end. So much has happened and yet, I am in the same place and doing the same things, and somehow, the year is about to change. I have seen more than my share this year. I have lived as much as I have died. But then again, this is life, which is what I always say.
This is life. We live a little and we die a little.
The world is turning right now. So much is happening as we speak and yet, the oddness of being still or waiting for something to come can be enough to drive someone crazy.
Continue readingI had to stop for a moment and take a day off. It’s been a long time since I felt this sick. But a promise is a promise, and a commitment is a commitment. And so, here I am, defending my life and placing my thoughts in another entry.
Suddenly, I am thinking about the times when there was someone there to care for me. Then again, no one was there. Least of all, someone else who cares for me.
And fevers?
Fevers are a bitch . . .
I know.
I see this as the morning after. This is just another page of real fiction and so, life keeps moving like the pocket watch that’s hidden in the inside pocket of the watchman’s jacket.
Or to be more precise, the word “after’ means to follow the preceding rank of either time, people, places, or things.
And this is after. This is a moment before the next aftermath, or known as a moment of clarity and a spiritual awakening.
I can learn from this too.
You know?
This too.
This is a moment after the morning of awareness or as I see it, this is a pivotal moment which took place beneath the eyes of The Lord, and so, I see how we follow like a convoy and travel in single file.
They decided to let the workers have a day off today, which means purgatory is closed for the day.
I am told this was done so that those who choose can spend the day with their family, friends, or whomever it is they prefer to spend today with.
They say the purpose of today is dedicated to being thankful.
Thankful for what, you ask?
We are to be thankful for what we have. Even if we don’t have much, I am told that we all have something to be thankful for.
Although, I am sure there are people among us who believe otherwise.
Just ask some of the other inmates and you’ll find out pretty fast.
The dampness in the morning is rough on the joints. A man can only see what’s in front of him. Yet, the darkness of morning before the light is hard for me. I’m not sure if it is darkest before the dawn.
I see myself where I am. I know the courts await and the cell, although not ideal, has become somewhat understandable to me.
I know what I am. I might not know who I am to anyone else. But I know who I am to me.
And who am I?
What does it mean to stand up and shout? Or better yet, what does it mean to scream out at the top of your lungs?
Could you imagine?
Imagine climbing up to the highest peak of a mountaintop. The sky is blue. The sun is bright. The air is cool and thin and everything is crisp.
Imagine the outfit you’d wear and how this would look to you.
Think about the last few steps of this climb and how you made it after all these years; finally, you made it to the top.
Imagine what this would look like to you.
Imagine there is no one around.
Now, scream. . .
What would you scream?
What would you say?
The Written Addiction 