And then comes the question
which is often based on the theories
of our inaccurate math.
What comes next?
What comes after the concept
of a life that was unexpected?
What do we do?
Or say?
Better yet,
what now?
What happens now?
What happens when we realize
that our paths have changed?
What do we do
when we see that tomorrow
is not going to be the same
as it was, ever again?
What’s next?
What happens
when the sap and the nectar of life
are spoiled and then
what do we do when the depended sweetness
has either dried up
or gone away?
What do we do
when we come to the questions
and look to define
the mistakes of our own math;
which is also known as
the equations in our head.
Hence, what comes from the math
that was derived in the mind?
And while based on inaccuracies and imperfections,
what happens to the concepts
or the numbers of missed warnings
which we see now
and what comes next,
as we try so hard to find
the coefficient of the word “if”
or X, or otherwise,
what happens when the mind
is trying to find the value
of the unknown?
And yet,
we come up lacking.
I have never been good in math.
This has never been my strongest subject.
Let alone emotional math,
because my skills of adding and subtracting
are poor enough; however, add the unknown values
of “X” or “Why?“
and I find myself in troubled territory.
I have never been good with questions
or the worded math problems
about locomotives that moved
at a certain mile per hour
and left their station at a certain time
and then,
what time would the train reach
its destination if, say,
there were no stops
or emergencies, and barring any unforeseen,
unknown, or unexpected tragedies,
I have never been good
with the trying to determine
an accurate arrival of our destination,
which means, my timing has always been off;
either that,
or my hopes weren’t meant to be.
I have never been good with mathematical word problems—and so,
in this case, I am not sure about
the speed of sight nor can I calculate
the momentum of the heart.
I do not understand why I would care
if a train left Pennsylvania Station
at approximately 8:45 am,
and moving at, say, 76 miles per hour,
what time would someone realize,
that they’re waiting for something
that would never be, and later,
or alone
what time would the realization come
that heartbreak or heartache
was inevitable
when going back to
somewhat of a foreign
or empty apartment?
Was it real?
A dream?
Or, maybe life is more of a hopeful lie
to which we pretended
and in the end,
deep down.
we saw the warning signs
but the hopeful lies
we just so goddamned beautiful.
What happens when your expectations change
and your life changes, instantly?
Due to circumstances beyond your control,
what do you do
when you find out your investments
went wrong
and in the face or your emotional bankruptcy
you find yourself at a moment of awareness
and suddenly,
every red flag appears
to leave you feeling foolish.
What happens when the stars change
and Venus will no longer agree
to coincide with Mars
and what do you do when
the earth and sun
no longer share the same warmth
together?
Kind of cold, no?
How do you change yourself
at the moment of realization
that your life and your direction
is no longer going the way you planned,
or otherwise,
what do you do when you realize
that due to an outside decision
your expectation of “forever”
is no more,
and in that moment of awareness,
the next question becomes
who the hell am I going to be now?
Who will I be
especially when “now”
is not the present which I expected
and dreamed about,
or hoped for; therefore,
in the chaos of crisis,
and in the mix of both
emotional and personal warfare,
after the fights
and insults to injury,
what happens now,
now that the future is no longer possible?
Ah, love
how you trick people,
how you fool us,
and how you detail the mind
or whet the appetite,
and salivate the tongue . . .
Or how you lure us in
with hopeful designs
of white picket fences,
beautiful futures
and hopes for long trips and vacations
all built around homes, which are only fantasy
or so-called “white picket lust”
or a symbol,
like the purity of
those white picket fences,
to act like white swords, double-edged, and stain free,
surrounding a dream
that we once depended on
or saw as
worth defending . . .
What happens when the mistruths
or the discovered dishonesties
of hopeful lies
come clear,
and the foolish notion takes hold
and the realization takes place
which is like
when the light goes on
and you ask yourself
What the hell was I thinking?
Or, why didn’t I pay attention
to the obvious?
What happens then?
Even love can be a bitch sometimes . . .
A big one too.
And real love . . .
Yeah, well.
Apparently real love does too –
And so, behold: The Book of Chaos
and the crimes of crisis.
Behold the wars of the tongue
and the cutting sharpness
of razor-like words
which cut too deeply,
and sure, of course,
everyone wishes they could take back
what they said
(after they’ve said it),
but sometimes
there’s no going back,
and even going forward,
there’s no looking back
because, well . . .
the truth hurts too much.
Who are we now,
aside from not who we planned;
and who were we then,
that is
if then was even real?
And so goes the questions:
What could have been?
What could have happened?
The answer . . .
I don’t know
What I do know is
whatever should have happened
did happen.
But,
at least I can say
I stood up when the tide came in.
I faced the world with accountability.
I gave it what I had
but what I had
was not a match
for the things I wished
or hoped that could have been.
It is said it is better to have loved
and lost,
than not to have loved at all.
I wonder though.
I wonder
if the person who said this
was the person who
experienced the loss.
Or were they just some asshole friend
stepping in to say
“hey, just get over it!”
or, “you’ll be okay”
or more accurately,
I wonder if the person who said
it’s better to have loved and lost
was some asshole friend
who selfishly didn’t want
to hear the sad bullshit
anymore . . .
So they came up with something crafty to say.
It’s better to have loved and lost,
huh?
I’m sure there are a few people
who would beg to differ.
Know what I mean?
I never walked across
the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then again, I guess I don’t need to
anymore.
The Written Addiction 