bloody hell i am inconsistent with this blog. i’m techinically a year older. it’s been more than a month past me birthday. thanksgiving has just passed and i think i may be going slightly crazy. or as my sister likes to say, i already have been crazy for rather a long bit.
then again, it appears i’m inconsistent with most things in my life, so it shouldn’t be any surprise now eh? maybe drifting into and out of lucidity is how my life is ‘sposed to be. candles flicker, so doesn’t the sun. so what makes me so fucking special?
let me take this space to just write. i’m not saying any of what i write will be good. that’s a promise that i can’t make. hell, i’, not even going to try to promise to be consistent, because that would most likely be a lie.
what i will promise is that i will make at least an effort to be candid, to be truthful, to reveal of myself whatever i can.
fuck using this website as a place to tour and such.
let’s face it, i ain’t gigging nearly as much anymore and i don’t enjoy gigging any more. maybe i’ll slam or go to an open mic or sommat for old time’s sake, but while fun, it isn’t nearly as addictive as it once was. it’s almost passe. there isn’t the same excitement, the same connection.
maybe it’s me own fault. maybe i’ve grown callous. isn’t that what becoming an adult is about anyways? becoming more callous i mean? hiding the reality of emotion, both cruel and virtuous behind veneers of gentility that allow us to more easily interact with one another. it makes us numb, allows us to trample over others and ourselves. admittedly, kids do the same shit, but at least they’re honest about it.
i’m writing here because i can’t seem to write anywhere else. my ability to do homework is bloody non existent. it’s fucking horrible, because it’s so late in the season. i need to be operating at bloody peak efficiency, but that’s certainly not happening.
so i procrastinate like we all do.
drive myself up the wall.
i need to learn to let go. and bloody hell does that ever sound cheesy. there’s such an aversion in me to thinking and feeling in cliché, but the more i go about it, this growing up business, the more i realize that cliches are there for a reason. what i feel is not unique. or if it is unique, it is only unique in the sense that every snowflake, though it maybe chemically identical to every other, is different in some form or another, in its shape, its size, its depth.
fuck me, but i’m rambling. here’s a poem.
punching bag
i swung, like a marionette,
spine creaking after the beat
of fists against sides
jabs and crosses in rhythms of flesh
you walked away.
you’ve gone, left scars
scrapes, a hundred blemishes
across skin,
numerous like misplaced dreams, empty beer bottles
the blotches across my tears
patchwork, haphazardly sewn
with duct tape, scavenged leather
the tenderness in fingers i fell in love with, gentle
as your hands never are, always
tempestuous in their impotent frustrations
you held me, quiet
your cauliflower ears, your cheekbones
resting like gaunt knives
against the cracked softness of my chest
the only sounds, the subsiding
of your breathing into the spent silence,
the sweat dripping laconically;
my trembling
a handful of years you’ve had me
mute companion, ready vessel
for when the rage
or the unbearable bleakness of being
would slip its way from the laughter in your eyes
rise like hurricane winds, like thousands of voices
in supplication, like wildfires up mountains
to consume all that i was made to be
everything i am, you have
my flesh, an offering, my life
but for you
empty in this space, these times
we’ve created, my presence
unwavering through all, through the dark
and the day following
that confirms it’s not just a nightmare
i’ve given the good fight,
gotten in my licks, snatched scraps
when you weren’t looking
knocked you on your ass
for lack of respect, giving
and receiving, deserved or not
for someone else to decide
so tired now, the stuff
of my heart grown thin, barely any weight
within these battered confines
barely enough to hold your troubles, treasure
the tears that imprint themselves
like tattoos down my shoulders, seams
that hold me together
tonight, you say you’ved moved on
that it ends,
take me from my place, send me away
with only a final caress on some mark,
some flaw you left some
forgotten night ago, maybe
a rarely seen smile,
not enough.