25)
I can see him now
young and unsure
but bold
confused
but he has yet to be confronted
by the basic rites of passage
or crossed by the times
that come with the typical
confrontations of life.
I see him clearly too
and quite well, in fact
I see him in special captions
and pictures,
places and memories,
to which, of course,
these are the days that he
will carry with him
for all his life.
This will be him
for the rest of his days,
consecutively,
until his last day
counts down until one.
Or more specifically, his last one,
as in his one last day,
one last moment
or one last minute
which will lead him
up to one last earthly breath
and with hopes to either digress
or to dream or to revisit
the last dream,
or with the wherewithal
to look back at himself
as in, looking back at what was,
what took place,
what happened;
I see him now, still young,
as in childlike, and looking forward
but grown,
and in his final moment of hindsight;
I wonder
what will he say?
What will he think?
What thought will carry him
from this life
to the next?
I wonder . . .
26)
My thoughts and me?
We go back a long time.
Or as the saying goes
“we go back like car seats,”
We go back like two kids
from the town, to which
I have said this before,
and yes—
I will say this again:
you never forget
the kids from the neighborhood.
My memories go back with me too
for as long as I can remember;
however, my memories can lie
or change over time,
or evolve,
or my memories can fade,
like an old newspaper,
found in the wall of an old home
where the paper is all
yellow and faded,
and the date is marked and stamped
in the bottom right hand corner –
however,
the time is gone,
and the memory of those dates
are like a life that happened
another lifetime ago.
Where have all the good times gone,
asked the weeping willow
to a drunken sky?
Where are they now?
The moonlit has not changed
and the stars that burn
are just as bright
but age is the trick that even a magician
can never understand.
No one knows the hour
or the day, I am told.
Not The Son,
not the Angels of Heaven;
only The Father knows
Well?
Help me Father
for I have sinned,
for I have lost my way,
for I have forgotten the warmth
and the touch,
however, I have not forgotten the word,
nor the truth,
and at the same time,
I have grown enough to know
that no one can plea ignorance
to the same crime twice.
So, rather than succumb to the truth
or face the facts,
we run.
Ah, but man cannot run or hide forever.
Then again, I am not sure
if there is such a thing.
Is there a forever?
Is all of this only temporary?
Or is this like that game show,
like the one we used to watch
when we were kids
and somewhere, or at some point,
is someone going to come along
and show me what’s behind
door number two?
27)
It is a far braver thing
that I do now,
and far braver
than anything I have done before.
To leave this here,
like a note
like a light of hope
or a beacon of faith
or like a man
stranded,
I send this out to you
somehow,
across the universe,
like a man on an island
alone and hopeful
that somehow
this message will find you.
What is this word called manhood?
What does this mean
or what does it mean
to be a man?
Have I reached this level?
Is this me?
Is this who I am
or is this all that I am?
And if I am me,
or if I fit the description
and if I can uphold to the definition
of what it means to be a man,
then please tell me,
am I a good one?
Because . . .
I want to be.
28)
I am somewhat of a stray,
or perhaps I would prefer to be
an outlier,
or a person, or thing
or as the dictionary says –
I am a person differing,
separated, or detached
from the norm,
per se
and therefore,
I am similar in the sense
that I am equally alive;
yet, I want to differ,
and to be unlike the set
or the herd,
and by separating myself
from the herd mentality,
perhaps I can change
or if nothing else
I can alter my perception of reality
and be real
in the sense
that I am not unlike The Son
or in the name of The Father
or The Son, or The Holy Spirit,
I want to become
the consumption of paradise.
I want to be
unlike the life I see.
I want to sit and build.
I want to trace the outlines
of the heavens
and notate the sky
changing at evening
and see each color,
as if it were the first time,
like when I saw you
or your face.
I want to recreate my own creations
and understand
that all things are possible,
and perhaps, this way
I can see myself
the way I have always wanted to be seen,
unlike the sheep
or the herd,
and not to be confused
with The Great Shepherd,
behold the lessons of the flock,
for I have learned when to follow,
when to walk away,
when to stay,
and when to lay my head
and rest
and dream.
And yes,
I want to dream.
I want to mirror this
as in to find the exact match
and build this
like the temple in Jerusalem
to which The Son of Man said
tear this down,
and I shall rebuild this
within three days.
I have a dream,
similar
but different.
My dream is of
a different resurrection.
My dream is
even if I am torn down,
even if my heart is destroyed
and my spirit has fallen to peril
and even if my soul is taken
behold, I shall rebuild me
within three days,
and love you more
than you could possibly
imagine.
This is my dream.
By the way –
You still dream . . .
Don’t you?
The Written Addiction 