I am the one and always will be,
the one who loves,
the one who wants forever,
to start right now
and the one who feels, sees
and seeks our moment of truth.
I am the one person,
who is the same as I have always been,
unfolding or unravelling,
and progressively, I am the one
who is opening myself up to a world,
or perhaps I am like a flower when as it blossoms
yet, as a man, it is unsafe or perhaps too daring
to describe me as soft, like the petals of tulips,
tender and soft, or as beautiful as they are
or as wonderful as the daffodil;
there is a fear of mine
which comes with this kind of vulnerability
however, if I am to be me before I am to be anything else,
then I have to be me . . .
honestly.
I am the one who has always been here,
wondering or hoping that one day (maybe)
the sun itself will shine down on me
and the gleam of light from the sky
will be like the pointed finger,
or shafts of light, like a sign of The Holy Ghost
signaling to me, and coming down from above,
as if to say that yes—now it’s my turn.
Or alas, as it was in the beginning,
is now,
and will be forever
and, of course,
blessed will be the meek,
and so shall the first be last and the last be first;
and whether I am first or last
I have no idea
where I fit in the land of judgment,
yet, all I know is judge not,
lest we be judged,
and judged by our own standards
which is a test
that no one can pass
because our judgments
are unreal—or perhaps,
self-serving.
I am me, which is who I have always been
and who I can only be; however, and at times,
I am that one;
I am that little boy, that tiny kid, scared of the dark
or scared of the junior high bullies,
or scared of the comparison of bodies
and flesh because yes,
I am that person, the stigma, and the mark of shame.
I am the one who saw so little in myself
and for whatever the reason may be,
I saw more in others and therefore,
I am the one who had to find a new persona,
or image, or mask
or something elaborate
to hide behind.
I am that boy, that little kid.
I am that young one who became a young man,
who found himself lost in more places than one
and still, I am that person, that kid,
or that young man who tried to “play it off,”
so-to speak, or to act “as if,”
in order to protect myself.
I am the one who sought to find
some kind of protection from the social bullies
or the different derivatives of social anxiety,
or to hide from the pressure, to ease the insanity
or soften the edges of a depressive mindset.
I am the one who dressed the part,
or played the role
or the one who chose to pretend,
and meanwhile,
the emptiness on the inside
was excruciating, at best, and at worst,
the varying stages of loneliness
was infuriating to me—and so,
in true form, or out of insecurity,
I had to find a way to develop thicker skin,
or to remedy the symptoms,
rather than kill the roots of the social
or emotional weeds that ruined my ability to grow
I chose to pretend
or to be someone else,
or to be anyone
other than me.
I offer this with a warning because beware,
our temporary standpoints
can become a series of permanent viewpoints;
in which case, we build walls instead of bridges,
and yes—we forget that wars are expensive,
and so,
we find that collateral damages are equally as deadly
even if this means that only a relationship has died;
the process of mourning,
or the feel or mournful regret
is no different than the pain we feel
from an actual death itself, to which case,
I offer that all should beware because at some point,
we come to an awareness
that we can do one of two things, each day….
We can either be born again, or die again,
depending on the choice.
Should we choose to live,
then we should choose to live now,
rather than allow fate the chance
to be so pivotal
or provocative
that we give away our strengths,
simply because we believe that our weakness
is to strong to overcome anything.
But wait—
That’s not true.
However,
this is true
because this is me,
honestly opening myself up
to a truthful assessment of who I was
and who I am looking to be.
I am the one.
I have always been this;
as in, this person,
or as in this soul,
this hopeful and while dreaming awake
and alive, I am the one
who wants to find myself
where the sun beats down,
or where the circle is open
to new admissions, welcoming me,
as if this world had been waiting
for me.
I am this person
who is looking for my spot
or my place
or to be where I belong
or to be away from the bullshit
and to be someplace irreplicable
and to find my home
where life is not cluttered
by fabricated lies
or infected by social viruses which we own as truths
or better,
I want to be somewhere
that is not plagued by the symptoms
of commercialized beauty which is beauty-less,
not beautiful.
I want this.
No, wait.
I am this:
Loving
afraid
a child
a series of stories
weak and wishing
hopeful and hunting.
I am a series of past events,
and a compilation of items
that stems from the wreckage of my past
and, at the same time, I am none of this (anymore).
However, I am writing this to you
from a small place,
or in my dare to be great circumstance
even among hardships
or hard times,
I am still bleeding out loud, and without regret
quite publicly, I am sending this to you
to rid myself of the fears of imperfection
and to be free from the burdens of doubt,
and more, to free myself from the mistaken concepts
of unlovable things, which are inaccurate,
which is why I bleed out loud
to keep from being as sick as my secrets
or believing that my lies are true.
I am me, which means that I know exactly who I am,
which means that I know me, perfectly, faults and all,
and since all that I am is more than who I was
and who I was is not half of who I will be
because one day,
I will be this person, still hoping, still dreaming,
and still driving towards the sun
as a means to find my path towards redemption.
Redemption.
You know that I love this word
This is my new shield my protection,
or self-preservation.
Redemption
This is more than a word to me, no,
this is my way to ensure myself
of one most important thing:
and I say this again,
which is that despite the weight on my shoulders
or the sins which I’ve kept hidden in my jacket;
I find it crucial to repeat that yes,
my redemption
has nothing to do with your response.
Nothing . . .
Yet, my redemption has more to do with you
(and me)
than say, the amends of a man
who is looking to amend his past
to secure a brighter future.
I am this man, who has grown,
who still keeps in touch with that child,
or that little boy, or that item of abuse
that stained me
or robbed me from my purity
tainting me, like unkillable virus
that refuses to leave
or die.
As I said, I am the forewarned problems
which took place and while forewarned, still,
I stepped towards the light
like a moth to a flame, and mindlessly,
or acting as the voluntary victim,
I have (in the past) allowed myself
the sad submission
of unwanted surrender.
I could have done and been so much more,
but then again,
I never had an inspiration
like you
to stand beside me.
This is why the Book of Chaos
needs to take place;
to be rid of the demons
to shed the unwanted skin
to absolve myself from the sins
of a scared little man
and to heartfully appeal to the sun
and to the moon or the stars and the clouds above,
and with hopes that allows this to be known;
I am aware of my chaos
and my sins and still, I am here
hoping. . .
I know who I was and who I am
and yes, I know what I have done;
and before the courts and the universe,
I bow my head humbly as ever,
in gentle surrender
and yes—that was me (then)
But this is me too
(now).
I offered you my slice of love,
which took place, just yesterday
which was to be more like a sliver,
or only a taste
or like an invitation
with interest,
or like the moon when it is only a quarter,
or crescent,
I am opening up to express the presence of my shadows
which is not to say that my shadows
are overwhelming to me
(anymore)
nor do they cover me totally
and now will I allow them to
(ever again).
However,
if I am to be me
to the best of my ability,
then I will have to live free
to the best of my ability.
Otherwise, the entrapping ideas
that settle with inaccurate versions of who I was
will forever limit me, or further
my unfortunate predictions will become true,
and who I become
will only be half of who I could’ve been;
that is, if I fail to dare at all,
and be honest,
or out of the box, which confines me
or prevents me from stepping forward
to say I love you.
Wholeheartedly
This is me . . .
and hopefully,
this appeals to you
as in always
or eternally
This is me
for you
My love.
The Written Addiction 