shortgoings...

Inasmuch as I try to find my balance
I have teetered and tottered on the verge of promise
Deftly avoiding certainty
And constantly dodging “somewhats” and “maybes”
For it gives pause to the persistence
Of relying on someone who is consistently inconsistent.

Naivete'

I long for a time
When love, in its adolescence,
Allowed one to "crush"
Without breaking...

Sob Story...

I feel more tethered than talented, honestly.
Fear sometimes engulfs me- to the point that
Drowning in sorrow is impossible
For at times it becomes the very air I breathe
So I guess you could say I'm suffocating.

I've spent too much time tracing fine lines, only to find I'm-
Out of it.
Because to be in is to be consciously cognizant
and therefore responsible.
But I'm more comfortable shunning it
Prone to aptly act like I'm running it
When it fact I flee
Jumping out of my shoes
Torn apart; afraid to lose
But I've suffered to the point of selective amnesia
So now I block out the pain
While in fantasy I cling
Injecting myself with ink
making my pen my morphine
Waiting for some semblance of happiness
Exchanging pleasantries with peasants and passersby who swear I-
have got it all together.

I've taken time that wasn't mine
So I guess I'm a thief.
But I was hungry for the space
That would be my relief.
No, I didn't know what it was when I took it
But right now it's of no consequence
Life has disguised it in such a way
That I wouldnt even know the difference.
So I meander in dreams that hover in the thoughts
Of slumbering idealists
Wondering how to proceed
-Struggling to admit that I'm in need
When in fact I dont quite FEEL it
Maybe because I've been cowering for so long
That standing up straight seems crazy
So I only dabble in the permanent ink of certainty
So I wont know the sting when all "hope" is fading
I know my rationale is flawed
I know it makes for fear
But it's no consolation when everybody is there for you
But there's no one quite "here."

Rorschach

There's a breath of foul air that greets me as I say goodbye to the one who has many times acted in reality out of the scope or frame of seconds, minutes, hours or other measurements by which I am faintly familiar and frighteningly foreign. Over this present absence I move closer to the distance, dragging my fingertips through the sand of beach-less deserts and cavernous specks. I sway in the stillness, struggle in the ease of broken easels as masterpieces pave my floors and my ceilings are dotted with canvasses that have never known the stroke of a brush nor been weighed down by the burden of tarnished thought. Such. Is. Light.

Woe

she used to
renew me
now she
leaves me
here
feeling callous
completely empty.

-Woe

Bittersweet Taboo...

In this instance, it's silence which serves as the sound of regret; better it than breathing life into words which one may never forget...

It pains me to feel this way. It's quite unsettling, actually. For fear of divulging what could possibly betray what is in my heart of hearts, permit me to be opaque. It's ironic, I know. I'm at once vulnerable and guarded. It's an offense mechanism, I assure you. -Trust me, if it was the opposite I'd tell you, or rather I'd avoid it totally. One or the other. I digress.

So it follows me. I try to elude it, but everytime I feel it I get derailed. I get picky and easily bothered. I begin to feel forlorn (i love that word) and the strength with which I hold on to its memory is evident in the sunsets of my fists- (its a rather poetic way of saying "the clenching of my palms.") Regret has a funny way of jolting you from the slumber of your safe reality. It is evident in looks, actions, and most dangerously, -in thoughts. I shudder to think of what I thought and how those thoughts affect how I think and in turn how I act as a result. I have elected scapegoats of who I have sacrificed on the altar of "what if's?" and they've unfairly paid the ultimate cost. I take full responsibility for what I've done, and for that I apologize...but it does me no good to be in this predicament and have to suffer at the lashes of piercing eyes. What of my deliverance? Where is my catharsis?

Between the lines of my verbal meanderings, it lies

But oh how it both tempts and tortures.

Epiphany #1

People go from upset to hopeful in the pursuit of the ever-eluding
point of happiness, sacrificing good judgement along the way.

It is my belief that good judgement is a staple in happiness, bad judgement seems to be one of the casualties of love.