Daybreak—
I want to make a change. Or better yet,
I have to make one
as fast as I can,
but sometimes,
you can change direction
or switch gears
as fast as you’d like.
I want to break away,
or break free, or escape in some way,
and excuse myself from
my burdens of “self” and
offer myself a moment of reprieve.
I want to allow myself a gesture
or a pardon,
which is not to say that I am a convict
nor have I been convicted of a crime,
aside from the crimes of my own, of course,
or the crimes of the heart.
I want to go.
I want to step away.
I want to step outside of my front door
and let my feet take me from the patio,
down the red-brick steps,
and down the street, quiet and empty
and then on, and onwards.
I can move forward or towards
a new way of thinking, or to define
a new way of pleasurable mindsets.
The time is early spring yet
the trees are still empty–
New York City
The bridges back and forth
the places I go, each day, from the city
back to the suburbs;
and my street, which is familiar and odd,
are all concept’s of time and places
and the empty trees around me
are still winterized and with branches,
like black tips of crooked swords,
bent or gnarled, like the angry old hands
of Father Time’s frustration,
the branches knife the sky in such a way
as if to emulate or somehow memorialize
a moment of conflict which, of course,
ah-ha; behold, the book of chaos.
I want to stop or, if anything,
I can say that at least
I want to hit the brakes
and take a minute to reassess myself,
or turn this ship around,
but there is no rudder
and no way to change direction
in this ocean
Yet,
Still . . .
I want to stop.
I want to hit the switch and shut the lights
for a minute
or, if possible,
I want to find a way to hit the reverse button,
if there was one,
and if there was one, even if the rule said,
“Only use once,”
I’d have to say that
probably,
I’d hit the button twice,
just in case the first time
didn’t take—so-to-speak.
I want to step outside or step away from myself
and let my footprints indent upon the pavement
and let my heels dig into the concrete
and with each step intending to propel me forward,
or away, I want my steps to make a statement
or, if possible,
to steer me towards freedom
or whichever comes first;
like the chicken,
or the egg.
AKA: Blame or fault.
Either one is irrelevant
if we think about it
because either one is only a cop out
as to why we never dared
or “really” tried
to make things work.
I think this is called an excuse,
which we use
when, in fact,
we never jumped on the chance
for whatever reason.
I want to move or change or switch hands,
but at the same time,
I know that there is no such thing
as a reverse button. I know there is no way
to pause the game
or to replay the same hand
after hindsight shows us a trick
and there is no way to rewind the hands of time
or undo what fate has already done.
Still, I want to try but . . .
ever fall in slow motion?
It’s like, you know you’re falling down
and you have a full awareness of what’s happening,
only, there’s no way to stop the fall
and there’s no way you can stop the momentum,
which you can feel as this happens in both
real-time
and slow motion
both, at once
and at the bottom of it all,
you know the only thing you can do
is wait for the crash or the collision,
which is when you hit
or feel the impact, or otherwise;
there is nothing you can do,
but wait for the finality of the situation,
which is when your body hits the ground
and before you feel the pain,
you can hear “umph!”
or the sound of your fall,
as if the speed of sight and sound is faster
than the expected realization
of the crash itself.
Ever fall and know that there was nothing you could do
but hit the ground
or take the pain?
And while you do what you can,
whether you try to protect yourself
or if you try to tuck, duck and roll,
or no matter how you trained yourself,
or no matter how prepared you tried to be,
nothing really prepares you for the time
when you hit the ground—and boom,
the fall is finally achieved.
Ever find yourself in a uphill battle?
Ever try to run uphill with weights on your back
such as a past that you can’t escape?
Ever feel motion sickness?
It’s like being on a bad roller coaster
that falls deeper and swirls you around,
with twists and turns
and screaming or wishing you could stop or “get off,”
there’s nothing you can do
but let the ride take you down,
until it’s all over.
I want to stop the madness
I want to break the cycle.
I want to get away from the lies,
which are both foreign and domestic,
or perhaps I should say that I want to step away
from both the internal and external dilemmas
that come with the chaos around us
or, should I keep this subjective?
And instead, I will regard
the chaos around me
I want to step hard into the pavement
and walk away
and with each step, I want to slam my feet into the ground,
as if to stomp my exclamation point into the ground.
Each step is nothing more than a cry for victory
as if to say, I’m gone now
and there is no going back . . .
The chaos will have to live on
without me.
I want to stop the wheels
which have been in motion, all too long,
or in other words. I want to stop the ride and get off
or get out of the car I’m in—and walk for a while,
so this way, I can stop the battles or the wars
and end the scars
which are both foreign
and domestic.
The end is the end.
Over is over.
Rehashing or trying to reshape my thoughts
or looking to relitigate truth to adhere to an unjust
or an unfit life
is not going to help me improve.
Neither are the wars or the battles
or the fights . . .
but yet, people are armed to the teeth
in this world, which again
this is a problem on both sides,
both foreign
and domestic.
Perhaps, for now, there’s nothing I can do
but step forward, even if my muscles are sore
and my legs are tired.
Even if my heart is weary and my eyes
are tired
or if insomnia took hold;
all I can do is step away,
or take a walk—or run, if I have to,
but eventually, no matter where I go,
there I am, which means that I can pretend all I want
but I know my part in this dysfunction
like it or not . . .
And, if I choose to keep the battles,
then I will always be at war, and hence
I will always lose to the same enemy
Repeatedly
I don’t need anymore enemies.
Besides, there’s one on every corner
and sometimes, our enemies
used to be loved ones
who changes sides
and wears different colors
now . . .
The Written Addiction 