Poem

A cool, dull roar echoes in my head
Drowning out any other thoughts and feelings.
When I dare to feel
My heart doesn’t let me.

My heart doesn’t have an outlet
Or an inlet.
When it beats, when it pulses
It echoes in my head
But in life
That resonance has nowhere to go.

So when I feel, it is all I feel
But it doesn’t change anything.
When I feel
It overwhelms me.
And I have to learn to bundle it back up
Lock it away.

So I have learned to instinctively shut off every feeling at the source.
Tightening the valve

And when I want to play
When I want to capture a feeling
When I want to remember what it felt like
To love
To lust
To desire
My heart clamps down on it and warns me.

It knows better.

Caged animal

Snarling, pacing, barking
Chewing at bars which file and crack my teeth
Pacing in circles
Faster and faster
Anxious
Eyes fixed on the spectators
An accusing, fixed stare
Throwing my body against the bars
As though will alone was enough to break free

Words and voices

Words.

Words words words.

I get so sick of them.

Incomplete, misleading, substanceless...

Incredibly versatile.

Able to form any argument regardless of reason.

But I like voices.

Lyrical tones unique as fingerprints.

Rhythm, cadence, pitch, and emphasis say more about a person than the structure of their words.

Voice...

It's my own voice that echos ceaselessly in my head.

Grown seasick upon my own rhythms.

Finishing my own thoughts before I have them.

I wonder... is all life in service to a voice?

Do we find meaning in this?

The voice of family... the voice of God or country... our own voice, if we find it so entertaining.

I do not.

For all the good words I surround myself with, my life lacks any voice other than my own.

It isn't enough.

Poetry

Separated.

Words fail me.

My voice seems a weak, discordant thing.

Mangled, quiet, confused.

Echoing in my head repetitively.

Betrayed by words

Frightful things

Can kill you

But never in your power

A source of deception

Self-deception

Delusion

To own a thing by naming it

To capture its essence in a sound

Reduced the sound to abstract symbols

And train your mind to think the word was greater than the reality.

----

Alone.

I live a life with a cardboard cut out.

A place holder.

An imaginary friend

Who I forget is there.

I lie in bed at night with pillow on either side of me

Large pillows that feel like another body next to me

Which ever side I want to sleep on

I have a pillow to hold.

I can't sleep without the sound of a running ceiling fan.

It drowns out all other sound

Like a heart beat or another breath.

I never cook

But I love to cook.

I love to experiment with cooking.

But when you don't have much money

And only yourself to feed

There is no need to impress anyone

And I don't feel the same sense of satisfaction

From delighting my own taste buds.

I take a lot of pleasure from the emotions of others.

I live vicariously through them.

I love to watch TV shows or movies with friends.

Their laughter makes things funnier

Or maybe I'm just laughing at how hard they are laughing.

Women get more emotionally involved with films.

It is fun when they become emotionally attached to entirely fictional events.

I'm a little too detached, I think.

Without company, television and movies aren't much fun.

The conversations I miss most of all.

Our conversations seemed to go on forever.

Or is my memory wrong?

Were there many uncomfortable silences

Or periods when we were just plain boring?

I don't remember it that way.

I remember long-winding conversations spiraling to and from every point

From irrelevant pop culture to social observations to spiritual philosophy

Nothing left unexplored

And no end in sight.

The mornings are always disappointing.

I never remember a dream

But wake with my mind racing

On trivial things

The same things I think of when I'm awake.

Morning wood tempting me

I sometimes resist.

But usually I lie deep under the covers

My sore eyes struggle to focus on the alarm clock

I wake up way too early.

I always wake up way too early.
Waking, like sleeping, is a waiting game.

Staring at the clock for hours

Negotiating the minutes in my mind

But I always wait as long as possible

Gathering the blankets close around me to protect me from the morning air

Finally, I crawl out of bed frozen and with a haze in my brain.

I stumble into the bathroom

My eyes adjust to harsh white light.

I try to focus on the tub

And spot the daily trail of ants seeking water.

I try to drown as many as possible with the shower head.

It's an ugly way to start the day.

And I spend the time thawing

Trying to prepare for a new day

And knowing that when it is over

I have this to look forward to the following morning.

Showers are a much better thing to share.

A cramped, awkward, and dangerous shower shared

Is far better than a spacious one alone.

Someone to wash your back for you

And tweak your nipple when you aren't expecting it.

Warm, wet bodies.

Nothing quite like the sensation of a warm, wet, naked hug.

And is it my imagination

Or are people more beautiful in the shower?

----

Vanilla girl

She's a good girl.

I love her deeply.

The sweetest laugh.

Adoring eyes.

The brightest smile.

She thinks the world of me.

And attributes to me wisdom

That I doubt I have.

She holds me with affection

And fears I'll one day leave.

I hold her closer.

Protecting her like porcelain.

But all I want

What I really need

Is for her to hold me down.

I don't need much.

I don't want much.

A word.

A whisper.

Not a slap

But a tug on the leash.

A subtle reminder

That she holds me

Owns me.

Not because I let her

But because my heart does.

Only then can I be free.

That she would but think to claim me.

That she would choose to have me.

If she could only know

The power she possesses over me

If only she would claim it.

I long for the strength of surrender.

The feeling of purpose and dedication.

With the love that such a close bond must engender.

But I can only love you as a father does

Protecting but never nurturing.

Always guiding, but never guided.

Always responsible.

Always carrying the burden.

----

Floundering

What a wonderfully descriptive word

Like a fish lying on the dock

Desperate to return to the water

But not possessing a single muscle capable of navigating the alien landscape.

By chance alone

His floundering might enable him to reach the water

But when chance and strength fail

The fish stops struggling

Only a few flips and flops

More instinct than ambition

Until it is just trying to breathe

Eyes open

Always.