The Weight of Air

Invisible clouds on the hidden horizon
Press against silent hills and tall trees,
All blended together by the unseen sun
And a moon too furtive to show.

The dusky sky delays dawn
As a shimmer of heavy grey haze,
Stale moisture that rose to rain,
Rules on high and patiently presses
On a world whose bated breath
Mocks the still waiting wind.

Falling drops playfully promise
Relief from the weary weight
That clings to sticky skin
But, like a kiss that never comes,
Remains only a half-hearted hope.

Sleep Deprived

I no longer sleep because I think of you.

I can sleep no longer
              because I think of you

My weary eyes refuse to shut again
And all my dreams reach fever-pitch
Before I lurch awake
                           clutching sheets
That have tangled me in my sleep

Weary eyes with constant crusts
              forming at the corners
Unblinking and blankly stare
At my desk while I try to work

I speak in stifled yawns to my own hands
As my bleary eyes plod through the day
              and bits of conversation
                             lose all
                                          connection
                                                        and meaning

I speak in stifled yawns and bleary eyes
As I vaguely try to find my notebook
So I can write down each of the replies
I’ll no longer remember tomorrow
No one knows what to make of this
And all I can tell them is it will be fine
              at some point in the future
For now
              I trace big lines on paper
              where I was supposed to write words
And      drift away         until I can leave
To find myself a moor for the evening.

Tell Me A Story

Tell me a story that I want to hear,
Of bravery and valor, lands far and near.
Tell me a story, one I do not know,
Of grand sweeping valleys, mountains with snow.
Tell me of strong Lords, great Kings and kind Queens,
Of their glorious deeds, those seen and unseen.
Tell me of magic, of powers renowned,
Of trickster faeries and great demons bound.
Tell me of Dragons, great magical beasts,
Of great treasure troves and bounteous feasts.
Tell me a story, tales fun and tragic,
Because hearing these tales, that’s true magic!

Self-Harm

Sometimes, when you’re having a rough week and trying to deal with something really upsetting, you write really emotional poetry that exaggerates the reality of the situation because you just feel so wretched. That’s what this poem is. A mixture of metaphor, over-exaggeration, and the desperately awful way I feel sometimes. It is also rather old. I wrote this a while ago. It is not about anything going on in my life today, though I do feel a certain attraction to the dramatic pain this poem displays.


 

Daydreams of what I wish could be
Shatter in the thunderous sea
Of impinging reality
While all my hopes so quickly flee
My every desperate plea
To stay a bit longer with me.
Now all that there is left to see,
In all of its banality,
Is the somber painful decree
That what I want can never be.

~ ~ ~

Every lesion in my head–
So sharp and sweet in welling red–
Suppurates as hope is bled
In the face of rising dread
Now my dearest dream is dead.
Is every single blood-stained shred
Of the wishes I have shed
Crushed beneath my drudging tread
As I pursue the truth instead
Of allowing myself to be misled?

~ ~ ~

Self-flagellation at its best
As I put all I am to the test
And face the truth that I detest.
I laugh and say that I’m just stressed,
To worry not and get your rest,
As I clutch the truth to my chest
Hoping that you never guessed–
Those few words we never addressed,
Memories you’ve all but repressed–
Are a big part of why I’m depressed.

Filling

When the days are long
And everything turns to ash
At your touch;

When your favorite things
Are just another way to forget
The march of time;

When you pour in words
Or images like an alcoholic
Pours drinks;

When you escape with
Fleeting success the drudgery
Of your life;

When you are simply
Trying to fill the hole inside
With anything, like dropping coins
Into a well–
              Coins carrying dreams
              And whispered prayers
              As if the weight of each
              Did more than weigh
              Down your soul–
Hoping that the next one
Is all that you really needed
To fill it up;

Do you ever fill the whole inside?

What Do You Think Would Happen?

What do you think would happen
If I stopped restraining my tongue
And voiced my inner thoughts aloud:
­             If I put aside all the careful filters
             And ignored all sensible precaution,
             Telling everyone who can hear
             What I felt or thought
             Instead of what I knew
             Was the correct thing to say?

Would people know the difference
Or am I the only one who spends
Most of my time in silence,
­­             
Weighing every little word
­­             
On a set of scales
­­             
I’ve spent my life constructing
­             
To be fair and just to all?

Would anyone but me even care
Beyond the initial shock
Of a direct response
In a culture that values
Hidden agendas and vague
References to minutiae?

If I told you what first ran through my mind
When you told me your story,
Would you have listened to me?
­             
Or would I still have to spend time
­             
Learning to phrase things so your mind listens
­             
Even when your ears refuse to?

If I spoke more truthfully of my mind,
Would you value my silence less
And decide to come to me for more
Than just the slice of my truth you need
­             
Or would you learn to value my truth less
­             
Because I was dispensing it
­             
To anyone who was near enough to take it?

If I stopped restraining my tongue
And voiced my inner thoughts aloud,
­             
Would people finally hear me
­­­­             Instead of just the words I say?

 

Lost for Words

What do you do when you’re a writer and you’re lost for words?
What do you do when every word feels empty and flat:
When your lexicon fails to provide
And your tongue hangs in your mouth, empty, sluggish, and fat?

What do you do when you’re a writer and no word fits?
What do you do when you have a hole in your heart:
When you can’t fill the space
And every single page, paragraph and sentence falls apart?

What do you do when you’re a writer and you can’t explain?
What do you do when you can’t seem to speak:
When the air hangs empty
And yet full enough to make even the strongest person weak?

What do you do when you’re a writer and your tongue is tied?
What do you do when the words are there but cannot escape:
When you know what to say
And yet the words hide inside and refuse to take shape?

What do you do when you’re a writer and you want to quit?
What do you do when the words stop coming:
When you want to work
And thoughts in your head will not stop running?

So what do you do when you’re a writer and you’re lost for words?
When the words are stuck, do you start writing?
Do you stare down an empty page
And, with words that feel like drops of your own blood, keep fighting?

It was a Beautiful Day

Today was wonderful. A hike with good friends, followed by a cookout and then swimming in the lake with the same friends. It felt amazing to finally be out and about, doing things I love with people I love. I wish I had more to write, something I’d been thinking about to share, but today was all taken up by loved ones and thoughts of loved ones.

Instead, have a poem.


 

“Who are you and what do you do?”

We often ask this complex question-
Without even the smallest suggestion
Of malice or hint of aggression-
And expect answers without suppression.
We want nothing but a full confession
That includes every single transgression,
Whatever is your chosen profession,
Have you suffered manic depression
What is your favorite possession,
Do you often have indigestion
What you did during the recession,
How goes your latest obsession,
And we listen to every digression
Hoping you fit in a single expression.

Whenever this question is asked of me
I have an answer I give with glee.
“I am me; I just be;
I like to live my life simply;
I am often sad and often happy;
I live according to no decree
And I will not change myself to be free
Of your ceaseless inquiry.”
I will ignore insult and injury
And every single desperate plea
For me to conform to your would-be
Celebrated normalcy.
Instead, I will sit beneath a tree
And continue being me quietly.

Doing New Things is Scary

I’m not very good at doing new things. By which I mean that I generally do not engage in activities or experiences that are new to me, not that I lack a certain basic competency when it comes to performing tasks or participating in experiences that I have never done before. I’m actually pretty good at picking things up and running with them. Quick learning is a skill I’ve spent my life developing and is part of why I like writing new and different things.

Despite being confident that I can muddle through any new experience, I tend to avoid them these days. I started this unfortunate habit because I was so incredibly busy with work, writing, trying to live a more healthy life, and focusing on growing the relationships I was establishing in what still felt like a new city. Nowadays, I still use that excuse but I mostly avoid them because of fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of losing something important to me that is never clearly defined and never makes sense if I actually dig into it. I don’t do open mic poetry nights because I’m afraid of sharing often very emotion poetry in a setting where I actually have to look at the people hearing my poem. I can post a poem online and use the internet as a barrier to keep me insulated from any reactions to it, but I can’t do that in a setting that sometimes even encourages people to interact after hearing a poem. I dislike crying in public. Not because I think crying is bad, but as an artifact of my issues showing emotion. I don’t even like being frustrated, sad, or angry in front of other people.

I actually quite enjoy a good cry. Pop in Les Mis or something on the warmer side and I’ll watch it just for the bit that makes me cry. Feels nice, you know? Refreshing. But generally not in public and as a result of a poem of my own that I just read to a bunch of mostly strangers. I just bared my soul and am now displaying how emotional that was for me. Even though I know they’d be a bunch of people I’d probably never seen again, even the thought of possibly doing this is making me feel uncomfortable and self-conscious. Sure, you could argue that being open and emotionally vulnerable with a group of people makes them no longer strangers. You could also argue that being secure in my own emotions and experiences means there’s nothing a bunch of strangers could do to harm me or manipulate me using the emotions I just shared. I’d probably agree with you on both counts. That doesn’t make it any easier to do. And that’s just the emotional outcomes of sharing my work. What if someone hates it and starts heckling me or gives really terrible “feedback” because all they want to do is feel superior to other people? I don’t know if any of my poetry is good and I’ve never really tried to build my confidence in it the way I’ve built my confidence in my prose writing, so sticking my neck out feels especially fraught.

I used open mic poetry reading as an example (mostly because the one friend who read yesterday’s post and messaged me to let me know that it was, in fact, the one post she’s read since I started doing reflection pieces is the one who was always encouraging me to go to an open mic night), but I feel like it does a good job of illustrating just how complicated I’ll make anything new in order to avoid it. Which isn’t to say I’m wrong or that anything I brought up about going to an open mic night isn’t a legitimate consideration. Everything I’ve written about why I am disinclined to reading my poetry in front of people is true and a part of any decision I make. The big difference is I’m willing to just push past all of that consideration for things I’m more familiar with.

A D&D or Pathfinder encounters night at the local game shop? Not comfortable role-playing in a group because gamer communities at local game shops can be super tightly-knit and not the most-welcoming to new people. A book club focused around science fiction and fantasy books for people in their 20s and 30s? I don’t want to get into arguments with people about book analysis or have to defend myself if I dislike a book that everyone else liked. A local writers group to support each other as we work on our NaNoWriMo pieces? I don’t want the pressure of having strangers read my prose as I’m still working out the details of the story, nor do I want to get stuck with a group that isn’t interested in improving so much as just patting each other on the back for being a writer.

I can do it for literally anything. I actually DO it for pretty much everything. I supply my own reasons not to go or tell myself that I need to psyche myself up before I commit to doing anything like that. Then I never psyche myself up, make sure to keep the conversations with whatever friend suggested it to topics further away from “what should I do with my free time,” and eventually forget about it. At least, that’s what I did for a couple years.

Now, I’m trying to be open to doing more things. Trying new stuff. My girlfriend likes to go out and do things, like go to parties or attend performances by local artists at breweries. So I put the excuses aside, focus on the simple acts of getting there and getting back, and wind up having a good time. So far, I’ve been to more parties and local events since I started seeing her than in the almost four years I lived around Madison, WI before I met her. I even joined a Monday night D&D group with only two people I sorta knew from the foam fighting thing I do on Thursdays. I went to a performance by a small local musician she knows because one of her other friends was reading poetry from a poetry dissertation and had such a wonderful time that I’m actually considering workshopping some poetry with my beta readers to get some pieces together for an open mic night.

After writing that last sentence, I had to go take a break from writing this post to breathe deeply and think about something else. I’m still coping with stress and anxiety by ignoring it and busying myself, but there are times when no amount of addressing the anxiety is going to help and all you can do is plunge ahead despite it. This is one of those times. I don’t know when I’ll do it because I’m still nervous to the point of almost puking at the thought of getting up in front of people to read some of the poems I’ve posted here, but I’m at least thinking about it. And distracting myself with thoughts of presentation and what kind of business cards I could make to refer people to this blog for more poetry and some fiction as well. I don’t do advertisements on my blog because this isn’t about making money, but it still feels really nice to get views.

The old cliche about bravery is that “being brave” means feeling scared but doing whatever it is anyway. I don’t know if I’d want to go so far as to claim I’m being brave, but I definitely don’t want to feel as stagnant as I did a year ago and I don’t want to let fear rule my life. Which means doing new things, growing as a person, and eventually getting up in front of an audience to say something I feel is important to me. That is, after all, the point of writing stuff on this blog.

 

What You Like

I want to like the things you like.

When I see the glow in your eyes
And the way you get so excited
I want to burn with the same passion.

I want to feel the blazing light
That shines from your face
Whenever I let you run away with the conversation.

So I try to like the things you like
And warm myself in your glow.

The magic you see in children’s books
Reopens my eyes to the way
The world looked when I was small.

The walk was an easy one to make
But not one I’d thought to start
Until you bridged the gap between
The books I love and the worlds I left behind.

The unattended care of movement
Made in sync with loud music
As you cluster with your friends,
Never seeing beyond the circle
Of smiling eyes and laughing lips
Which only care that you are there.

It was never something I cared for
But I find myself there with you,
Forgetting my elbows, for once,
And the rest of the world, too.

Pastimes set aside as I try to stay
On top of chasing all my dreams
Are things you like just as well
But which were wasting my time
Until I could do them with you.

Any chance to spend some time
On any activity with you
Seems like a dream I can chase
A bit more literally than the others.

Things about myself that I can never see
No matter how long I look in the mirror
And the way my words come out,
Often halting and slower than I can bear,
Without ever doing justice to how I feel,
Earn that special smile you show me
When you want me to know you like me.

I was never something I cared for,
At least not in terms of “like” and “dislike”,
But I find myself wanting to start
Because you like me and I want to like what you do.