Going Where I Don't Know

My feelings aren't hurt,
no, they aren't even alive
to feel what I think they weigh
be dispensed on the sidewalk,
like something worthless,
not worth a second glance,
heck, just a nothing, made up
to excuse my thought-like trance.

Honestly, these expectations
are just too much noise;
I think I'm more, I'm not,
and then the echo deploys.
The world's caught up in it
and my friends all sign up
to what I don't understand,
and I feel it within me erupt.

There isn't much left for words,
forgiveness has already come,
and yet for it to stay with me,
control has to be left alone
so here I go, walking towards
what I don't know, unplanned
and a world's path dodged to find
the one that by it isn't manned.

Addiction To Thought

This has occurred to me several times, but perhaps it's now becoming clearest. I am addicted to thinking, and having seen what addictions can do to people, both indirectly in the media, and directly in the people that surround me, I've attempted to stay away from such external things so as to lead a more balanced life, perhaps set an example to others so that they themselves can see that they don't have to live that way. And perhaps it appears fine, from the outside, but from the inside it has not been the same peaceful picture of perfection.

The truth is, I struggle with thinking because it is my drug. It is strange to call it that because it isn't exactly some substance I feed on, but it's one I know I'm addicted to because it's so difficult to stop it. Even writing this is made difficult by the desire to make it sound good so that it can be read by people and understood and appreciated. But I will attempt to simply let my thoughts flow like a stream of consciousness, without feeding the need to be special.

Thinking is addictive. It gives me a quick-fire feeling that I am doing something. It validates me. Just like receiving a text or receiving a Facebook notification, a thought reminds me that I am alive, and there is something to acknowledge. Often, these thoughts are not positive, because if they were they would not be a bother and they would not come seemingly incessantly. I could describe it as a bombardment of sorts, thoughts coming in and landing without much care as to where, in my field of attention. As each one appears, it demands I listen to it, and if it sounds remotely believable in what it is about, it joins the cycle of consideration where it says what it says and then I hardly have time to decide if it's true or not because there's another thought on its way, usually on the same wavelength. This happens with negative thoughts.

An example: I often get the thought, when I go on Facebook, that other people's lives that I see pop up in my news feed, either through photos or through status updates or just conversations, are much richer and funner than mine. I cannot prove this, and I would not prove this, because it's a comparison based on nothing but my own feeling of inadequacy with my own life, that I'm not good enough in the eyes of others or that I'm not really worth their time because they clearly aren't having that fun with me. When I get this thought, my mind shifts into a sort of 'victim-mentality', where I tell myself that others have not looked at me honestly and considered me for what I am worth, i.e. they have judged me for what I am not. This necessarily implies that I have been attacked by them, in my mind, often taking the form of abandonment feelings or perceived exclusion. This is a lie, of course. I cannot possibly know if those faces that come up on the news feed would ever think like this, and even if they could, I doubt I'd ever done anything to deserve such cruel punishment. But my mind, enslaved in its dreams of doom, chooses to not to doubt the dream's reality and pursues an agenda of thought that reinforces the pain I feel. And so, I get thoughts that say I am unworthy, followed by ones doubting whether I really matter to the people that know me, whether my being in their lives really has any meaning beyond appearances. The thoughts usually center around particular individuals who my mind sees as worse enemies because they have betrayed my trust in not giving me the attention that I desired. They don't deserve this, not by any means. I recognise this now, because I am calm, yet in the moment, it is not as easy to discern this truth from the wall of lies that consistently put me down and swallow my attention. The impression remains once I get off the computer, kept alive by the talking in my head, telling me I'm not good enough. And I, well, believe it.

It isn't true. I tell myself this yet I wish I would believe it. There is still a part of me, that refuses to accept that even though people are not 100% in contact with me all the time, they have not abandoned me. I feel this too often though, and it is strengthened through a domino-effect of thought after thought of negative affirmations. In the case of this thought, many different reactions are possible - one could simply dismiss the thought and laugh at what it says, though I fear to do that due to not wanting to risk my pride swelling. One could indulge in drink/food/alcohol/substance in order to take their mind off the thinking. I chose avoid the ceasefire so as to drive myself insane via an internal war, a war of voices and shouting. Thoughts come and fight against other thoughts to decide on truth, as if truth hadn't already been decided. But it's like they don't want to know the truth, they just want to fight amongst themselves because at least in this way they seem to have meaning, even for the short while while they're causing me suffering.

I'm addicted to the thoughts because I don't know yet how to decide what is true and what is false. "A Course In Miracles" says that is not my job to decide, and I would graciously accept that, if I didn't believe that my ego needed to know things and could know such things too. But it in itself is false, so it'll never tell me the truth anyway. The arguments for keeping it are absurd and do not work, yet they are kept because they are kept hidden in my mind, away from the eyes of others and away from mine too. What would I do if I'd lost my ego? I'd probably live a much happier life anyway, free of cares and worries. But, there's a but. I'd have no secrets, no need for them. No shame. No embarrassment. No barriers. And thus the ego would have no meaning, and without meaning, my existence would be... meaningless? I am more than my ego, but my ego says it is necessary for functionality in this world. I don't wholly believe that, but I believe it more than not, since I haven't yet been proven otherwise.

Thinking is a form of security, protection. Against what? Against being taken over, against the reality that I'm not really in control of my life. Yet this protection limits my potential so so enormously that life becomes a scrap of damaged experiencing. Not worth it, I've told myself sometimes. I need to stop this thinking. I need to. Must. And I don't know how, but I need to do it, otherwise I won't be able to connect with anyone or anything because I'll always be blocked off by illusions and pain.

So in writing this, is my question, my call for help to God, the universe. I am here, not of this earth, but on it, for some purpose. I do not know what it is, though I could think about it and not find it. The truth is, I resort to thinking too often because I don't trust in the connection I have with You. That's to say, I don't trust You. I want to though, because I sure ain't happy trusting in myself and my personal version of hell. Help me out. I want release from my illusions and I want to see the world as it is, others as they are. I need to let go of my thoughts in order for this to happen, and I envision that will be soon, at this rate. Please be there to catch me, with a cloud or something, then take my hand, firmly, and show me the way back to You.

Nobody's Road

This poem is not about you, but
I feel you're worth mentioning.
It is written because
honesty will find me truth.

I feel excluded.
Yes, that's how it feels to me
when you share your attention
as a merchant would swap coin
in a market -
there's so many you can talk to
about everything and what -
what is there to talk about
but what is what,
and laughs about.

Hold on, before I name you not.
This is all in my head, is it not?
I'm trying to let go of you,
of this paragon you represent,
yet I hold out, hooked on a sliver
of your well-to-be shirt,
reconsidering.

Could you make me happy?
Could you be the one I want,
the one I've always called for,
even though I know,
I am nobody special,
nothing to spend much coin on,
offering little return in your eyes.
It is only in mine that you find lies,
because they stand in between
you and me, me and you -
one, but distanced as two.

And so apart we stand,
you in the middle of a bidding war,
me imprisoned behind a stall,
looking loneliness in the face,
watching it not smirk but smile
and mouth "you chose this."

I realise, I must have, I did.
By bending my thoughts back
into my fingertips, I typed,
on and on, the poetry of a sod.
I wanted your attention,
and you gave it to me in pieces -
never the whole thing.
I wonder, did you know I would
not be satisfied? Did you think
I wouldn't be, ever?

I forgive you.
It's best you didn't ruin your existence
while I was attempting to ruin mine.
Your smile, I still like it,
but I don't like it when I don't cause it.
That's right, I feel responsible
for your happiness.
And the 'sweet' things you enticed me with
give me no room to breathe
while I think them over and over
for their meaning.

You told me to find a girl.
I didn't. Not yet. Not one that would have me.
Yet I crave - crave - your approval
because I feel it will make me happy.

But - I know better now.
This is all in my head.
So, my happiness is guaranteed
if I just get you out of it,
at least off your throne.

You can't make me happy,
I can't reciprocate.
I tried. Clearly, I failed.
So what are we to each other now
but passing thoughts:
one is yearning for the other,
for the same nothing to be real,
and one is something
I can't touch.

This is nobody's road.

Brief Transition

Out of my personalised sopor I awaken;
out of a shell's worth of pieces unbroken
I hear these words being spoken,
reminders of happiness' little tree-like
veins reaching within from the extremities
to that bulging center of importance beating,
serenely, supremely succinctly,
undisturbing any appetite I may have had
for teeming, killing, suffocating, dreaming.

Repercussions, I accept
before any all secrets are unkept
and naked, I stand unkempt,
but am I free, I am free, free to feel
how it feels to feel free without feeling
a freak fleeing fear, me, upset by what has been set up,
ere stolid now solid,
but such gauze, such a window,
such a veil blowing in the wind,
such a flag, glad to be waving and saluting
to the laconic riposte of the sails on the road.

I travel, through blueprints voyage do I,
chalking a trail of words and compliments
and a backlog of unused breath mints
still on the counter, still,
like silence,
still weeping
across the bow of the horizon,
for the telling of love.

An ethereal head on an ephemeral pillow, I am,
I do, unthink
unblink
return to sender my post
a bird's nest I host
as I wake up to the scent of dust in the dehumidifier;
on
I turn myself, too;
I do keep a tumor of nerve endings
on a spot of space just beneath my skin,
just so that the day can pass through.

The Walls Came Down

Wounded is my pride that I carry with me on my back. Yes, it aches. As I am caught between a senseless conflict between the illusion of greatness without foundation and the probing lasers of the observers. The latter feeds what is seen to the cycle mind, the mind on repeat. It's a war of projection in which there are no casualties but egos. I am thus left with a mood of inevitability, a sentiment of somehow missing my worth and my devotion while I am carried, weightless, to a new place.

I imagine I am floating, drifting, going where the wind takes me. It's quite apparent in this state that my emotions have been numbed and distanced from the limbs of my body so that they merely feel within me, without attachment. As peculiar as this may be, it is close to a freedom I did not envision. I can smile, but I do not find a drive to. My pride, the fortress of it, is crumbling into the dust from whence it manifested itself. I could shed tears if I held on, but I couldn't. I let go, and in limbo is not where I expected to be. I feel relieved that I was not suppressed aside and merely left to walk out through the gates as the walls burned and the sky turned a dissimilar shade of blue. I did not come out on horseback or in a carriage named Peace. I simply ambled down the path and the threshold was passable. I went through and in the next few shots, the citadel behind me, is falling. Falling.

I am no more. No more.

There is nothing left in the wreckage. The ruins deconstruct themselves as effervescent structures. Out of mind, they go. The dust cloud is clearing and soon the way will be free of distraction or blurriness. There will be vision. There will be truth. And there will be no corners nor shadows where there are no walls. No places for fear to hide, it has to finally see itself under the yonder, among the plains.

This place, the barren, the past forgotten and the now remembered, has always been here. From here, do I truly begin. As the seed in the soil, I lift up through to the light, and I flourish, unhindered. In this empty place, a wonder grows.

Suddenly, I see the things I used to see so differently,
I feel as if I've found a new reality.
Suddenly, the noise outside my window is a symphony,
A symphony of endless possibility, right in front of me.

Suddenly, I understand the meaning of eternity.
I'm reaching out my hand to touch you,
Now I see, suddenly.

A Simple Request

And it all comes down to leaving it all behind, moving on to the rivers of love, and never be lonely again. How long have you waited? How long 'til you drown?

This gives me hope. The piano is tuned to play on my emotions, the strings that tug at my heart in vulnerability. It soothes my silent despair, my loss, my drama-addicted fuse. It tells me that they are not needed, that I can let go of them and really live. The music moves me because it sings to me what I feel, what I hope to be true.

How many times have I questioned my worth?
How many times have I lost myself in my mind?
How many times have I forgotten peace?
How many times have I not been able to answer my own questions?
How many times have I spoken to anyone truly?
How many times have I spoken to myself truly?
How many times have I taken a leap of faith?
How many times have I felt guilty for what I have done?
How many times have I been confused by my fears?
How many times have I really said something that I meant?
How many times have I gone around in circles?
How many times have I felt something to be true?

It doesn't matter. Quantity is a number and it doesn't matter. Numbers can repeat themselves over and over and not matter at all. Stock markets, Lotto tickets, binary. Rien.

Yet my focus has been programmed to concentrate on quantity. How much, how many. But the wonder of life comes from quality, the truth resonates qualitatively. It is from within me, from within depths and limitless yonders and beyond horizons and sunrises and sunsets, that life really lives. It's not magic. It's not magic. It's real, and I love to know it. To witness it. To feel it.

If you lift me up, just get me through this night, I know I'll rise tomorrow and I'll be strong enough to try.

A simple request. It is done.

Shedding Skin

Gotta wonder when it's time to feel right, when it's time to live the right life that you wanted. Don't you? Sometimes, I listen to songs and I reminisce, to myself, about the feelings that they have brought me. Somehow, those songs that once struck me with a sentiment of sadness, loss, loneliness, feel comfortable now when I listen to them. Maybe it's time to shed my skin, my exterior, for the form that's an expression of love.

Can you see how I sound? Ridiculous. Talking about love as if I even know what it is. I'm still a boy, dreaming of what love could be. Yet I know I am love. Seen from the eyes of the lost, it sounds vague, unfamiliar. Seen from the eyes within, it's true. But toggling between two visions is tiring, as I am in the transition period. I know which one I'm picking but focus isn't yet straightforward enough.

I need to know me, to remember me. I have forgotten, I have lost, which means I can regain. I can discover, I can come once more. I call love, I drink the beauty of you in.

To do this means I am willing to give up my secrets, the shades of darkness. Love is total, so must be my surrender. I don't know what it is, but I know it is worth being. Being love. Let me shed my skin so I may know.

Now is the perfect moment. Eternity beckons.

To Irk The Sum

Irk: Poetry about love, I could be writing. But you know what? I'm not.
Sum: Yeah, I know you're not.
Irk: How do you know I'm not? You're not even looking at me?
Sum: I know I'm not looking at you, you don't have to talk to me in that tone.
Irk: So then how do you know?
Sum: Well, you can't really write anything about love unless you've experienced it.
Irk: And why do you assume that I've never experienced love?
Sum: Because you just got defensive and said what you just said. You've never experienced it, you don't know what to write about, and besides... if you really sat down to write something about love you would think long and hard and longer and harder and then give up and talk to me about it and we would have a conversation like the one we are having right now except I would pace myself better and try to not have run-on sentences.
Irk: Your wisdom, or lack thereof, bores me. I'm telling you I know what love is.
Sum: Oh you do? Well... what is it?
Irk: Why should I tell you? You're probably going to annoy me once more with your useless banter and return the question back to me like an unqualified psychotherapist.
Sum: Thank you for that pathetic attempt for an insult, but you don't really expect me to change the subject now, do you? What is love?
Irk: You're full of something, you know that?
Sum: Yes, so are you, that's why we are here together.
Irk: We are not here together, you are here with me, for a good reason I imagine.
Sum: Maybe. What is love?
Irk: Maybe... that's all you have to say?
Sum: Stop avoiding the question. What is love? Or maybe you don't know but are too pathetic to admit it?
Irk: Excuse-moi, but if I was pathetic I wouldn't have such clever self-conscious dialogue to entertain you with, now would I?
Sum: I don't know. I don't care. What is love?
Irk: Please, let's not board the apathetic plane lest we crash into the sea because we stop caring about living.
Sum: Don't worry, I don't have enough money to purchase tickets. What is love?
Irk: I'm not worried, we cannot fly anyway, we don't have passports.
Sum: No further distractions. What is love?
Irk: Agreed. Love is.
Sum: Lovely.
Irk: Is it now? Do you know what love is then?
Sum: I was asking you the question, you were answering. No cheap psychotherapy, tyvm.
Irk: Ok. Then do not interrupt if you want to know my answer.
Sum: How do you know I want to know your answer?
Irk: Well you are asking me a question, are you not?
Sum: Am I? Am I now? Am I?
Irk: Are you?
Sum: Je ne sais pas. I don't feel like I was asking you anything.
Irk: Maybe your memory was shot down by your feeble attempts at humour.
Sum: Possibly.
Irk: Yes.
Sum: Mmm.
Irk: Mm.
Sum: M.
Irk: Did you just say M?
Sum: Yes, yes I did. Appalled?
Irk: I would be if you didn't expect me to be appalled. I see you are, so I am quite ambivalent.
Sum: Serious? How so?
Irk: I don't wish to bore you with the details like you have been boring me with your questions for the past unspecific amount of time.
Sum: Well that could offend me, but it does not.
Irk: I'm glad, no words can hurt you.
Sum: Nope, I'm invincible.
Irk: Yes, and so am I.
Sum: We are.
Irk: I am, you are, we are. All three pronouns we can use to describe our isness.
Sum: And isn't it funny then how we can never really point a finger to it?
Irk: I haven't quite been able to laugh at that yet. Not yet.
Sum: Really? Don't you think it's funny?
Irk: That we go around in circles?
Sum: Isn't that conversation? We take turns speaking?
Irk: Yeah, you talk, I talk, you talk, I talk, and from the point of view of the collective we both talk and that is our conversation and it goes in circles because it goes from me to you to me to you to me to you to me to you and it goes on and on like that until we stop.
Sum: Right. You would rather be doing something else?
Irk: Yes. Feeling.
Sum: You want to write poetry, don't you?
Irk: Yes. Poetry.
Sum: About?
Irk: Oh, you know, something that I can write about. Something I can express and look at and see how I feel about while I write and while I read it later if I get the chance. Something about nothing in particular, but something nonetheless because nothing in particular is really worth talking about unless it is something relevant.
Sum: Care to elaborate by giving an example?
Irk: I don't wish to elaborate because that would mean longer sentences. So I will be brief. I'm thinking... I'll write about love.
Sum: Love? Oh, and you know love?
Irk: Who doesn't?
Sum: You know about love?
Irk: Yes.
Sum: You want to talk about it?
Irk: Do I look like a teenager who just witnessed a shocking event in their life?
Sum: To be honest, I don't know what you look like.
Irk: Well, I do.
Sum: Can you show me?
Irk: Nope, I couldn't even if I wanted to. But you already know what you look like.
Sum: Yes, but I want to know what you look like so I know who I'm having this conversation with.
Irk: Yes, but you don't need to look further than yourself.
Sum: This sounds quite profound.
Irk: Sounds can be deceiving, just like appearances.
Sum: So then, what can we trust to be true? Oh, please tell me!
Irk: An exclamation!
Sum: Oh, oh, oh, oh!
Irk: Fear not, I shan't change the subject to Shakespearean England.
Sum: I am glad.
Irk: I am, too. You are glad. We are glad. All three pronouns are used.
Sum: Correct.
Irk: I wonder sometimes... who I am...
Sum: I wonder that sometimes as well.
Irk: Have you found an answer?
Sum: I don't know what to tell you. I know the answer already but it's like I want to check it with something and every time I try to find something to compare it against, it doesn't quite match up.
Irk: Is that so? Why is that?
Sum: Well, let me elaborate. There are others that I see around, and I try to get to know them and I make friends with them and if we are good friends then it means I am closer to finding a match to who I am. Then there is money, which I try to use and buy things for myself and when I have these tangibles I try to see how I feel when I have them.
Irk: And how effective has this proven to be?
Sum: Not very, I still don't have an answer.
Irk: You know why?
Sum: Yes.
Irk: I do, too.
Sum: Have you had much success in that department?
Irk: Kitchenware?
Sum: We are not in Briscoes. I mean with the question of who you are.
Irk: Yes. I have had as much success as you.
Sum: Somehow I don't believe that.
Irk: Neither do I... and I was the one that said it.
Sum: Why did you say that?
Irk: Je ne sais pas.
Sum: You should write your poetry now.
Irk: I should? Why do you say that?
Sum: Thank you for repeating my question, we have once more arrived at a common point in the circle.
Irk: We are always at the same point in the circle. The Earth moves. We don't.
Sum: Sometimes I don't even think we are on the Earth.
Irk: Why?
Sum: Because we don't move. I would expect that, if the Earth moves, we should move with it. But we don't. We seem to be stuck.
Irk: You know... you have a point. I feel stuck, too. Frozen in a loop.
Sum: You should write your poetry now.
Irk: Ah, you remembered that I should be writing my poetry now.
Sum: Yes, I do retain some memory.
Irk: What should I write my poetry about? Perhaps a memory?
Sum: You were going to write about love.
Irk: Yes. Do I know anything about love, though? You were doubting me sometime ago.
Sum: Doubt is a bitch.
Irk: No doubt.
Sum: I won't bother you with the question about love then because it would take you too long to answer it and we would end up back here again without an answer.
Irk: I might have an answer for you.
Sum: You might.
Irk: I might.
Sum: So, this love... is it grand?
Irk: You know already.
Sum: Remind me, so I know I know
Irk: Well, it's not very grand. It's not taller than Everest, smaller than a pea, juicier than a pear.
Sum: So how do you know anything about it if you want to write about it?
Irk: I know it, somehow. Inherently.
Sum: This is a new development, is it not?
Irk: No, it's the same question and answer, phrased differently, giving the illusion of originality but actually hiding behind the same thing.
Sum: That is wonderfully simple.
Irk: We are copies of each other because of it.
Sum: How do you think that makes me feel?
Irk: How I feel, but I could lie to you and tell you a different story. Then I would be inventing a narrative.
Sum: Then it would be original, would it not?
Irk: Would it? It's a copy, but it looks new. Is that new?
Sum: Je ne sais pas.
Irk: We do, we just don't want to know it yet.
Sum: How does it make sense to not want to know something that we already know?
Irk: It doesn't.
Sum: Are we waiting for Godot?
Irk: On the surface, if you had met me about an unspecific amount of time ago, I would have said yes.
Sum: But now?
Irk: Just now.
Sum: Now?
Irk: Yes.
Sum: So?
Irk: I was telling you about love, was I not?
Sum: Might've been, yes.
Irk: Ok. Well... Love is.
Sum: I hear you.
Irk: I'm glad.
Sum: So am I.

Every Point On The Line

Child, young, standing in this very spot,
Holding the escaped rebellious red ball
Looks wide-eyed at what could be th'end all,
The headlights bright, breaks heard but screaming not.
The son frozen.

"You're a legend, awesome, fantastic, the best,"
To the slaughter he now goes with all the rest.
From the white winter tops, right down to the basement
He's fallen; an abyss mirrors his replacement.
Watch and learn.

Those lessons he's receiving, to deduct the jealous,
Will purge him all of masquerading mind-made madness
For his fate is written-thus, that no self-made can alter.
With his secrets revealed, unhiding, the son cannot falter.
Be homeward bound.

No three, no four, none can claim a prize not to be won
When brothers all connect, correct and create as one.
It is forth that they must bring their minds and hearts
To unite their worth, meaning into a sum of all parts.
The lone fall.

His ways to complicate have been lost and failed,
The rhythmic contemplation, despair has sailed
Upon some wavelengths unreal, to mouths of fear.
The boy saved, has no need to run but be here.
He is returned.

What roads he has crossed, derelict, with sorrow,
Are lessons that remind him the lack of tomorrow.
He did not write himself into his being, but played a role,
An amnesia that he had to forget, to return to what is whole.
And he remains.

Worth Nothing

This set of words, it speaks to me
And I hope you too, if it be
That you share in me, today,
A hope, a smile within.

I am worth nothing.
Being of the littlest value is unlike me,
For I do not reach there.
I don't chart.
And so I want to cry at my demise,
The realisation that this shallow is a pit.
Suffocation can't occur with air in this hole
So why can't I see it?
It's cause I don't want to.
I refuse.
I refuse.
I want to be healed? No, never.
I hurt and that's that, that's my life.
I deserve it, all the pain that comes
Because I make it, it's mine.

I am a creator, I did this.
The crumbling shenanigans, the apple cores...
All mine, made in me, for me
In being misguided.

I mistook. I miscreated.
But I have held on to my glass pedestal as I would hold on to a cloud.
I didn't fly, but I wanted to.
I tried to raise myself from a platform I do not occupy.
And I never will. Ever.
I can wait and repeat the cycle, but no.
No more, I'm done.
It's too hard, the pain of suffering when I defend an illusion,
A shadow of me. Who I thought I was.
I know that it's not me, but I live,
Day to day, with the same façade
The same laugh and the same mannerism
Of a marionette.

Inside I patiently await. I am here
Waiting for you to realise what is worth more:
A lie, or a life?