Forests for Empty Spaces

Pleasure, satisfaction,

Common creature comforts,

Health and habitation;

Leave them with your home.

Nothing to distract you,

Nothing to build on,

Bound to wit and wilderness,

What do you become?

Sunlight burning, reddened raw.

Rocks cutting, scraping skin.

Sitting in the biting swarms.

Body aches in all its parts.

Brutality from the beautiful,

Faerie forests nearly sacred,

Hiding waterfalls and sunsets,

And myriads of stars.

Little to be done,

Even fewer things to say,

Letting go for silence

To graze on natural sounds.

Falling out,

Letting loose the inner void

And filling it somberly

With the only things around.

Over Control

You must behave.

Those emotions screaming to be gratified

Must be tamed,

And so you learn to self-control.

Radically closed,

Fear outweighing your need for expression.

Disfiguring yourself

In accordance with the principles of shame.

A pavlovian animal

Afraid to eat before it hears a bell.

Over-controlling,

You atrophy your capacity to love.

Trying to be yourself

Triggers your own self-loathing and disgust.

Connection is impossible,

So you’ll suffer to remain in isolation.

Once you know,

Once you recognize how detached you’ve become,

Your walls become flesh

And they won’t fall away without your blood.

Opening up,

Slowly, like unraveling a tender wound,

The glue and gauze

Still clinging tightly to your flesh.

Even then,

It groans and aches under pressure,

And you’ll shake

Knowing how frail you genuinely are.

Standing precariously,

You brace for the inevitable plunge.

Embracing uncertainty,

Choosing vulnerability over control.

When Shedding Skin

It becomes obvious

How much damage was done.

How much you were stained

From the effects of your surroundings.

Like the yellowing of smoke,

Pure white turning dim,

Recollections of abuses

In a dirge to your past.

Mistakes and misfortunes

Painted alike

On the ever-aging flesh

Wrinkling steadily to dust.

Wash it away,

Pull yourself out

And see who you were

With clearer eyes.

Let it fall off,

Feel it loosening

And setting you free

From cares long dead.

Shedding skin,

The ghost of past scars.

Rejuvenating

And flowing forth.

Feeling Good

The pit of yearning

Maybe, can never be filled.

Like literal hunger,

It only eases for a while.

What kind of fuel

Feeds our happiness best?

Friendship burns

As Love swallows whole.

Nothing is still,

Even feelings have dimension.

Fear and empathy

Are almost equally absurd.

Stress and agitation,

Like a spring set to pounce,

The default position

Of a trauma endured.

Years in a minute

As tremors to anxious thoughts,

Like clarity of perception

When proportion rears its head.

Afloat outside a stream

Where timelessness meets space

Precarious indeed,

The scope of happy and of sad.

 

Lay Awake

Stillness and restraint,

A body bound in ruffled sheets.

Living, but sedate,

Concerned only with its dreams.

Needful little wishes,

Faintly nibbling at perfection

For unresolved conflicts

Shrouding comfort in their impression.

Disassociate the brain,

In separation from the ache

Of toil’s jagged teeth

Dragging steadily while awake.

Restore and repair

The imbalances in the night.

Feeling and fantasy

Flowing inward, mind alight.

Purest completion,

Sheltered from the pangs of life.

Inverted creation,

Eyeless sockets stealing sight.

 

 

 

 

There Is No Path

Maybe no one is truly aware

As much as we aim to be.

Living, growing, transformation,

Post-stagnation apathy.

A step forward is learned

As all mistakes are lessons.

Lack of use atrophies

Like love does in depression.

Lost in some quagmire

I’m watching you flail

With the confident notion

I’ve passes where you fail.

It’s pitiful to see,

But each life is its own.

As much as I’ve flailed

Is as much as I’ve known.

But even one step

In your chosen direction

Could lead you astray

In an open-end question.

Answers are elusive,

However much we must learn,

But even a fragment

Of perception is well-earned.

 

My Recurring Themes

Being loved for me

Without expectation or fantasy

Seems difficult to believe

With my experience of me.

Not so much a wreck,

I survive and reflect

On which parts feel neglect

Like an Art without affect.

My solace is stained,

In my solitude contained

With a sadness ingrained

And expression estranged.

I mumble and shake,

Needs pulsing and awake,

Demanding that I break

Whatever is at stake.

I’ve worn out these flaws,

Dissected their causes,

Accepted my losses,

But still wrapped in their familiar claws.