some poems of mine

MALADAPTIVE

Hearing voices when there’s silence—
just to write this wets my eyelids.
Fixing absence’s quite a fix;
that’s the mindset that suffices.
Whilst these visions don’t exist,
I admit their sight is priceless.
My emotional investments
buy me time on daydream island,
where I feel the sun on skin
though it hasn’t touched me like this
since the moment that you vanished
just as mist inside that crisis.

***

CORTEX VORTEX

A tendency to visualize
this fictionalized scene,
is what I have—

have to leave.
Bitter half, bitter me.
Sinful days had bred, it seems,
a better me, no longer seen.

My mundane day
sees a hopeful change—
a chanced exchange—
when you escape from a rift in space,
and then coagulate
from faded mem’ry
to fleshly face.

O, that you would whisk me away from this place,
back to the days of my childish ways!

***

IN THE EVENT THAT I—

With wide eyes, I used to idolize my future;
it’s one I still look forward to.

But all my life, this time has seemed far off.
A surreal part of me that’d never meet reality.
Now it’s as if I’m being buckled in my seat,
Hurriedly preparing for an ejection to my dreams.

I can’t see clearly; my helmet’s gotten foggy.
All these skills and tips you’ve taught me
being endlessly dumped onto me.

One year to prepare, if I’ll even get there.

I was raised in a state of sunshine. I walk outside and fear the chill of a cold front.

But maybe this time,

next year,

same month,

it won’t be a breeze, but a blizzard packing punch.

Maybe this time, I won’t see you much.
Wont feel your love,
Expressed inside your hugs.

I see you both drive off,
Away from this snowy parking lot.
The dreams I’ve held so long,
aren’t so quick to hold me up.

But at my moment of collapse,
a hand then grabs my shoulder,
And I know it’s far from over.

I still have more to go,
To grow, as I get older.
My body shall relax,
And I’ll follow those who’ve come here.

***

A LATE EXPLANATION

Your face crinkles in concern
as you place a hand to my cheek.
“What’s wrong?” you ask me,
your ignorance bleeding from your inquiry. Inside, I chuckle. You weren’t raised to learn
that there’s a better life, unseen.

It’s not about what’s wrong;
it’s about practicing what’s right,
and the challenges that come
from the ensuing fight.

That’s why I grimace
when I grab you by the wrist and pull your hand away.
I wish I could stay; I wish I could go.
I haven’t been the best,
at doing either for too long.

It’s selfish, but I want it to be me who teaches you all of this.
I can’t, though; anymore than you can teach me to be a colorist.
Just promise that when you do hear, you’re accepting to the call of it.
I really hope that’s so, so I might see your pretty charm again.

From the shackles of my failings, I’ve finally been unfettered.
I have made mistakes, but I’ll take what I missed and I’ll make something better.

***

CONVERGENCE

I’ve come to learn that our lives, like a single strand of cloth,
run along the tides of time, and intersect across;
meeting each other at unlikely points.

For years, we’ve rolled forward like two coins— parallel in our growth.
I did not discern that someone yet unknown,
was learning lessons close to mine.

The inertia of the dimes caused a crash amidst their course. Finally, we’d converged.
We’d never explored this merging before, emotionally—in the time we’d spent unraveling.
Though now I suppose it was supposed to be, I couldn’t believe that this was happening.
Mustering up my voice, gathering up my passion, I approached you with a purpose;
I was launching into action.
“The tears behind your trail; they tell me you’ve been hurt.
I, too, use allegories, and hide behind my words.”

For the first time in our existence, we needn’t romanticize our business.
We’d just tell it as it is; face the past but with assistance.

I admit that I was tangled in some pretty messed up things.
But You corrected all my threading and soon straightened out my strings.
Jah set me on a path to finding others with my feelings.

And ever-so-slightly, I’ve left the old threads behind me.

***

I’D LIKE TO, BUT

I feel a fire—spreading—beneath the surface of my skin.

The burning in my face is akin to sweltering flames ablaze.

I’m so embarrassed these days.

People comment on my poise. But I just don’t deserve acclaim. Those moments stem from practice.

I’m not collected in any other case.

But you may have guessed this already. I’m not the best at hiding when my conflicted mind’s high-vis.

I’m just repeating what I’ve rehearsed—

when I stand on stage, observed.

The words I’ve written as my script,

now lay crumpled in my jacket.

After all my acting, I return to sit, so nervous. Half of me’s a fascist, towards myself and my performance: condescending and critical.

I‘ve kept his whispers minimal, but they still somehow are lingering— echoing ‘round my psyche in a subliminally triggering way.

Why am I like this? Dubious on the inside; abusive to my brain.

My voice rings out powerfully when we sing the ballad of those obeying.

But my tone doesn’t sound so confident
when the bowed heads start to raise;
when the hand-clasped man on stage
concludes his thoughts of praise.

There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go down—
won’t smooth out—
from my repeated efforts of swallowing.

I, too, am following after the shepherd of the flock. But it doesn’t come so easily to just approach this bunch and talk.

I see you all gathered, laughing. I want to have some of that, too. But how do I approach you? What should I say?

One of you glances my way. Your soft complexion and warming smile blur

as my eyes water up and distort my field of view.

No, I cannot do this. I’m sorry. Not that you’d hear my apology, anyways;
when I can’t even bring myself to say it.

I turn around freakishly and escape the way I came.

***

HOW DO I PUT IT?

Numbness, best explained, is deprivation of sensation.

With this, I’m well acquainted.

So if I’m feeling this so often, does it count for feeling something?

Familiar with nothing.

I have no time to answer

as I readjust my cuff links.


Pause and recollect.


Gasping for some breath.

Expected to deliver; my giving’s growing frequent.

From stage, my name is called.

Standing here, I hear it.


My feet begin to carry me down the carpeted hall of charity.

I finally reach the steps and rush up like something’s chasing me.


Take my place in front of podium.

Standing here I’m growing numb.

I need to try and build them up.

But what I have is not enough.


Concern has left me gutless.

Drifts away, the numbness.

Why’s it, half the time,

my mind is pretty loveless?


Pray to God for open lungs to keep myself from choking up.

I consider this all in seconds—

the fact that I’m a spokesman—

and my wetless lips have opened.