Sometimes, music is the only thing that helps.
You know?
Chaos comes in like both,
an expected unwanted guest,
and just like old times,
the heartbeat picks up
like pig meat before the slaughter
and the mind moves too fast
for me to find peace.
But the music helps.
There are times when I wish
I knew how to play the drums.
I could grab some drumsticks
and pound them across the tops
of a big drum set,
and like thunder,
I could let myself roar
or if nothing else,
I could let my energy go
or relieve the rage
or the tension,
at least
until the emotional storms
let up
or let me go.
I wish I could play the drums.
I could let the sweat run down
from the bridge of my nose
and from my brow,
and as the beat moves on,
and as the rhythm starts to rise
and the mood grows, exponentially,
and as the intensity rages,
I could let the drum beats run
and transfer my energy
into a machine-like explosion
of fury and rage.
It’s a transfer . . .
My rage
for a sense of peace
or a moment of something freeing
so that I can let out my aggression
and ah, then comes the release.
I have no gifts to bring,
like the little drummer boy.
I have no flashy jewels
or anything superficially rich.
I have this.
And nothing else.
I tried to give this away
But now –
I need to take this back
for my own sanity
If there is such a thing.
In all fairness,
I can’t play the drums.
I just love the music
and the rage that forms.
Instead –
all I have are the words in my head
the emotions from my heart,
and the sound of my fingers
punching the keys on my trusty little computer.
I don’t have much else, but as the time moves
I realize . . .
I don’t need anything else.
I have a series of wild aggression
and my friend, Mr. Chaos himself,
lurking in the background
and somewhat laughing because, again,
he and the beast and the demons within
are often the ones
who know me better
than I know myself.
Hence –
I have to reclaim what is mine
and what is lost
or repair what it salvageable
because all else is lost
and all else is the irretrievable past,
which is gone,
like last winter,
or the spring,
which followed.
I need to turn this around.
My Life, that is
and my relationship
with Mr. Chaos.
I need to restart my day,
like, as in right now
and even though nothing has started yet,
the sun is barely awake,
and the day has yet to begin,
I still have to manage my share of mutual chaos
and as my fingers punch the keys a little faster,
I realize that this is my drum.
This is my heartbeat.
This is my rage and these are my thoughts
and fears
and my battles with the concepts of rejection,
interactions, and of course—this is my art,
or in other words,
this is my only means of protection in a battle to which
I am otherwise unarmed and incapable of defending myself.
This is my humble and modest response
to an all-too proud world
This is all I have
I am no one else but me
which means when chaos arrives
I am incapable of seeing clearly
or changing myself, or being anyone better
or different, which is not to say
that I cannot
or that I have not improved.
I have . . .
I am . . .
and I did improve.
But this is me.
This is my drum and yes,
this is all I have
(Sometimes)
It might not be enough for anyone else
And it might be too little too late
in too many regards
and while there are times when I start to think
that I showed up to the party too late,
at least I’m here.
I can list so many others
who never dared as much as I have
yet, they sit pretty high
on their own shoulders
and believe they are fit
to cast their judgments at me
But wait . . .
There’s no need.
No one can or has ever judged me worse
than I have.
Do you know what that’s called??
It called honesty –
I wonder what the world would be like
if others practiced it . . .
At least I’m trying. At least I’m putting myself out there
instead of remaining stuck in a bad or wrong life
or living as a prisoner of the mind or—if I can,
and if the music is enough to set me free,
then please see this as my song
and please here this as my plea and to you, over there,
Mr. Chaos himself—I notice that your smile disappears
as I type this and replace my thoughts with actions.
So, please . . .
let me go.
We both know
you don’t need me anymore.
Now, back to this drum of mine
I have been coming here for years now,
to this very same place, which I have built in my head.
I have been coming here for different reasons
and once more, my reasons have changed
because my intentions have changed
and rather than rage about the same problems
or fight about the same things,
I have chosen to let go of the ghosts,
which come with recent and distant pasts.
They no longer serve me
nor have they ever served me,
but somehow,
they have been kept alive
or preserved.
I see you now, Mr. Chaos.
I know where you live.
I know you’ll be around
but for now,
I know I didn’t win,
but neither did you.
Or,
as it says on my old friend’s tattoo
Not today, Satan. . .
Not today
I love that idea.
The Written Addiction 