I have come a long way “since then,”
but then again, we all have,
even if we haven’t
because life still moves,
even if we are stagnant or still,
the world keeps turning around, like . . .
on a regular basis
for free.
I stand before you, convicted and equally
a changed man, yet my changes are ongoing
because we are all ongoing
until we return as in
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
I am about to offer myself to you
in different stages of truth,
from youth to adulthood,
or from truth to the lies
which I tried to hide
and the life I lived
which I tried to defend.
It is closing in on the warmer months
which, historically,
has always been
some kind of seasonal challenge for me
when it comes to summer,
or the messages of warmth and uncovered skin.
I say this to you because, me as I am,
have never been comfortable in my skin
or comfortable with me
as I am.
I thought that somehow,
I was lacking.
But here’s why.
I am a product of misconceptions
and the follower of misperceived lessons
which I have indoctrinated into law
and kept them sacred.
Yet, I am unfolding myself now or better,
I am unraveling the tangled ideas
which I have weaved into
different shapes of vast confusion.
It comes to the point where,
as people,
we don’t want to be confused anymore
or uncomfortable,
or awkward
or wondering constantly,
why?
So . . . Are you ready?
Good.
Then please
let me begin.
I remember youth as it was
or as it was to me, which is, of course, subjective as ever,
but this is what I presumed and hence,
I assumed that everyone saw the same thing.
I lost to what I like to call
the deception of my perception.
But, I can tell you this
life is a silly place.
I assumed that everyone had their own beat
and their own drum
and whether we played music together
or if our rhythm was in sync
or out of tune or not the same,
everyone has their own vibration
and harmony
and their own way of thinking and being.
Everyone has a story, and everyone has a secret to defend.
I remember my stance as it was,
which I tried to perfect as best as I could.
I tried to perfect this
to protect myself, or so it seemed.
I tried to perfect my sickness
and my crazy ways, my look, and my posture
and my approach,
of course, because what
or who would I be without a lean
or without some kind of substance
or mystique about me?
I remember standing in a crowd,
at night in the park, acting like I knew
or acting as if I couldn’t care less,
when meanwhile, I knew that I cared and deep down,
I knew that I cared too much and too deeply
and like a downward spiral, I knew that my thinking
had the ability to sink me down
through the holes
and into the depths of my own crazy fears.
But not on the surface.
No.
This is where I had my mask and
shield to hide my secrets
(and keep me sick).
Never let them see you.
Never let them know.
Never let anyone in
or show your weak side or else,
you’ll be vulnerable or susceptible
and in the grand mass of social interaction
an injustice occurs when people seek out the weak
to feed from the meat of their lives
and strengthen their spine
with the juice of someone else’s demise.
What was my biggest fear?
To be weak.
To be used.
To be the last to get the joke or worse,
to see that everyone is laughing
and find out that yeah,
the joke is on me.
However,
I do believe in the functions of love.
I believe in this more now than before
but then again, before now,
there was the absence of experience or better yet;
before now,
there was the inability to see anything
more than my shortsighted thoughts
or the fears which kept me blind.
I admit to who I was and to my own dysfunctions,
which is not to say
that I am sexually dysfunctional from a physical standpoint.
No, I mean that my ineptness
was due to a swarm of different fears
and different battles with past rejections
or from past lessons of humiliation
exposed as the weak one,
the poor one
or the one who otherwise
is unwantable by anyone.
It was never a problem with “getting”
when it came to attention
but holding on was a problem
because fear was a problem
and shame
and blame
and being secure
or understanding and allowing the free-flowing light
that kindles between two people—which in order to burn
or burn brightly, this would have to come
from both sides, where two become one
which is brave . . .
or to be humbled and modest,
or to be mutual and reciprocal, or better yet,
for the flame to rise
both would have to be equal, which means that yes,
it takes two to make things work
and me—I was always afraid to find out
that I never qualified or equaled much
or that I was “not enough” or that
my insecurities were true and thus,
my love was either served with an unjust assumption,
or, while on guard,
my fears would never allow me
the ability to surface
or let myself be known.
And yes,
I know what loss is.
I know what it means to gain someone
or something
enough to understand the ideas or the feelings
which I have come to define as fulfillment.
However, love is a risk and so is our daily life.
I could meet my maker at any time
or even later on today and if so,
or if there is a maker indeed;
then what would I say or
how would I answer for my life?
It’s not the same now—like the way it used to be
when we were young and pretending “to know”
or understand,
as if we had all the answers,
when I fact,
all I had was a drive to think and feel
or to be more
but the worries and my fears
held me back
Always . . .
I think about the nights
when I had the freedom of different choices
when I could have gone right,
instead of left.
The City:
Teardrop lightbulbs hang over like orbs
or pendants of humming light
and dip above a hometown street
in the heat of summer and ah, yes,
alive were the bodies by the sea
and half-exposed to the sunlight, where the mind sees the skin
and thinks of sin with a smile.
I have progressed some—especially since the days
of lying about experiences
that never really happened,
other than in my mind.
I can never undo what was done
but . . .
I can walk away from this now
and my bullshit, James Dean approach at being cool.
I have nothing to prove anymore
and nor should I, nor do I have to enter
into another interpersonal competition
to see who has the most notches on their belt
or who paid more consequences
or who has the bigger scars.
To be honest
I have enough scars.
I’d rather have movie nights below the full moon
and see the City
or see the lights and their teardrop pendants
that branch over the avenues,
or perhaps, if given the chance,
maybe you and I can take a walk down the cobblestone streets
where our yesterdays began,
and we were just two kids, looking for love,
or hoping to scratch the surface of an adrenaline
that came with the downtown scene
or like SoHo or The Village Lullabies
which you and I can have the chance to be young again
and to love again,
better than two kids
or better than ever before—
if we choose to.
I’d love to
If you’d love to too . . .
The Written Addiction 