Sola

You’ve died a thousand deaths.
From way too far away lives.
Yet you always come back here,
To walk among us,
Just like us.
Because we never learn.
And whatever it is,
That the universe fancies,
We are at its mercy.
And if it sees,
That yes, we never learn,
We’ll get thrown back to the seas
Of faces, and places,
Of forgetfulness.
And a tinge of bliss.

It was never fair.
For we have no way to carry out
What we knew before
To who we are now,
And maybe that’s the point–
It’s hit or miss,
All or nothing,
1 or 0.
Though,
It cannot be that exact.
It can’t be definite.

But who am I to ask?
I know nothing.
We know nothing.
I am nothing.
We are nothing.
Or perhaps no,
Not really,
Not exactly.

A Premature Eulogy

Your death.
The struggle.
Everything.
To you it was a beautiful tragedy,
Line, song, poem-worthy.

You cling to every single thing,
Like fancy trinkets,
At the mercy of the wind,
And gravity.
And you rest your heart,
On what you know will let you down,
And you said it won’t,
But yes it did.

You’d love the sound of it,
But hate the reality of it,
A confused romaticist,
Just like what no one would care to admit,
But still, now, not quite a misfit.

I tried to save you.
But you didn’t want any saving.
Not from me, at least.
But I kept telling you.
We kept telling you.
It might never come.
And you perished waiting for it,
And our cries?
You’re impervious to them,
For you yourself knew nothing,
Understood nothing,
Didn’t have anything.

But this.
It’s something.

Final Relapse

Because now I’m just a name,
And you’re some broken link,
And the other way around.

Because I’ve set myself free,
As you’ve found your sacred place,
And chose who should be around.

Because I’m up on my feet,
And you’re in her arms,
And you don’t have to say it,
I know.

Because it still ache,
And yours does not,
And that’s the way it is.

Because it was a mistake,
Or perhaps, not,
But it’s here all the same.

Because I’ve found my peace,
And where I’ll never be back,
And finally, I can sleep tonight.

Special

“For special times only,”
Grandma said as she  closed the lid,
Locked it, and kept the keys,
In her pocket,
Safe,
Away.

“But when IS special?”
Mom said,
Tried to fish the keys,
But it was too far,
She stood there,
Disheartened.

And she just sat there,
Impervious of what’s special,
What’s kept,
And what should be out.
She looked at the drawer,
A set of pretty plates,
And saucers,
Locked up in an eternity,
Waiting,
For the special.

And so everyone looked,
And marveled,
“Ahh yes, it’s pretty–
But it’s for the special,”
And moved along with their lives.

The cracks are showing.
And so do the paints chipping.
Special never came.
Or perhaps,
It came along,
But never had the chance
To feel it,
To be with it,
Because it was in the glass case.
And the glass case,
It means it is kept,
For the special,
So like others,
Special moved along.

And so the girl.
Oblivious,
Or perhaps not,
Sat there,
Wondering.
Why.

Text.

It’s like drinking acid,
Maybe.
The white hot pain in the chest,
And the cold hands,
And toes curling,
Ears throbbing,
Stomach churning.

It makes me sick in the stomach,
Like throwing up,
From the heart,
If that’s possible.
Please let me take it back,
Back to my room,
It was a bad idea,
I take it back,
Let me take it back.

Right at the last moment,
I’d think it might be a bad call,
But it’s to late for that,
So might as well see it through,
To the death.

It is,
I know it is.
The final blow,
To kill it all.
To end it all.
To put everything behind,
Out the windows,
Back to the real world.

0052

And at that moment you first gasped for air,
You signed up for the longest countdown of your life,
Your own life,
With spectators who come and go,
And the only one that stays,
Is the presider,
And the timer themselves,
Tragically oblivious,
Impervious,
For innocence has its merits,
And nervous,
As time passes by,
And every breath,
Every blink,
Every move,
Every idle moment,
Is a step close to the end.

But you died once,
When the world lets you down,
Or perhaps you let yourself down,
But you get back up
And exhume yourself,
And you’re alive again,
Back to counting,
Back to waiting.

You died again,
At eighteen, and twenty  and perhaps more,
As small parts of you went down to the grave,
So the new ones can grow in you,
To start anew.

Then it matters less and less
Til you reach the real one,
But what is the real one?
No one knows,
But when it comes,
You know,
You spent more on the living,
Than on the counting,
And if it comes soon enough,
Or farther in the future,
It matters little,
For now is now,
And you live in it
Each and every time.

I Got Them Gold Tickets Today

I got them gold tickets today,
Front row seats for the trip,
No more backseat driving for me,
I’d take those wheels, this is how I reap.

I might write a song or two,
But I’m not fancy, like that,
I’d take a swig, if I drink too,
But I don’t, not in front of my cat.

I’m playing with words,
For no reasons why,
Except that I know I am my world,
And it’s great to be alive.

In this moment of lucidity,
Or perhaps lack thereof,
A sudden burst of happiness,
Here as I nurse the sick (who is me).

Funny that you feel most alive,
When, and after, you lose a “reason” why.
But years in life has taught me that,
Such is life, such is life.

And I’m back on track,
For the time being,
That what will be will be,
And I’ll never get a hold of the full rein,
But what I can do is smile,
Again and again.