106)
I am asked
Why?
Why do I do this?
Or, why do I come here
every morning,
or why do I keep coming back
when sometimes, coming back
can be lonely
or unforgiving, unfruitful,
and why do I keep coming back to
an unyielding series
of thoughts, feelings
and a blend of relentless
insecurities that find holes in my system
and keep me guessing –
Why?
I am often asked
what is the point, or is there a point?
Or why do I continue with this
or why do I care, or more often,
I am asked does anyone care?
Does any of this even matter?
There is a shirt that I wear,
and more often, I wear this in the gym.
The shirt says –
Nobody cares
Work harder.
I cannot say I agree entirely
however, I do agree with the sentiment
behind this because
no one is coming to save my life.
No, this is up to me, and
since this is up to me,
then I say this all the time;
it’s up to me
and thus
I have to save my own life
each morning
each night
and every day.
Does any of this matter?
Well?
Let me ask,
Does it matter
when you tell someone you love them?
Does it matter when you tell someone
that your whole wide world
is for them yet,
they never even took the time
to read the words you wrote
them and, in the course of time,
you realize that you volunteered
to be a hostage
to which, the next question becomes,
does anything matter?
The answer is always the same
which is more often yes,
because everything matters
but there is another side to this answer
which is a hard, and resounding no,
because sometimes, details, additions, we
contributions, blood and sweat,
love, pain, tears,
and all we have does not make the list
go on mean nothing
when offered to the wrong
or inaccurate person.
But that is not us
or, at least,
that is not who we intend to be,
to each other . . .
Who do you tell,l
when your heart is broken?
Who do you share your secrets with
when you’re afraid of the dark
or more than the dark,
who do you trust
when your fear becomes clear,
and you understand that it’s not the dark,
so much,
it’s the fear of not knowing
what’s in there, who is lurking,
what dangers do we not see
and who can we cling to
and still be judgment free?
And when thinking about the hysterics
of our hysterical blindness, or when we hurt,
or when we realize
that we have been betrayed
or simply rejected, and when we look back
at what we did
or how we shared ourselves,
or when we think about
the purest depth of intimacy
and how we offered ourselves
both honestly, truly,
but most of all,
when we give ourselves
selflessly, what happens next
when you find out
life is not what you thought
and the people you invested in
were not who they seemed to be –
and so,
what now?
What then?
No one talks about this, actually,
and no one opens up about
when
they find themselves in a roomful
of wrong people,
and awakening to the idea
that yes, they invested poorly,
and no . . .
no one talks about the foolish
realization
which takes place
when your eyes open wide enough
to realize that, “Holy Shit!”
I was played
and worse than being the last to get the joke
or waking up to the thought –
Goddammit
the joke was me!
107)
I am not for everyone
nor am I for the masses
nor am I for most people
but then again,
I am not here for anyone else.
No, I am here for me.
I am here to give myself a voice
and to let the timid natures
within me take a stand
and speak freely.
I am here to redeem myself
or to redeem my old memories
of abuse, of being bullied
and I am here to reinforce
the weakness
to which I thought, no matter what
“This is just me.”
I do this to emphasize two words;
I come here to humanize and normalize
the fact that no,
life is not always okay,
and neither are you
or me, and so,
I come here to scream in silence
and to let my words flow
from a place of darkness
I am here to allow this to escape
to a brighter light
and to reach upwards from
some dungeon within
and hence, that piece of me
can find freedom
without restriction,
or conditions,
and even more,
I come here because I can
and because no one
can take away my pen,
nor can anyone take away
the brush I use to stroke the canvas,
and create the picture
I wish the world could see.
108)
I am here
because of a young girl
who was abused
and who told me
what they did to her.
How she hid in closets
or beneath beds,
or anywhere she could
just to keep from Mommy’s
drunken beating
or the unwanted touch
from Daddy’s hands
and yet, this woman
is far more than I will ever be
because despite her life,
she smiles
she jokes
she loves, and she cares.
I am here because of a woman
who sent me a note from
Greenland
who told me about her brother
and all the crazy things they used to do
together.
I am here because
after reading a story about my brother
and the crazy things
we used to do
she felt a connection
and the warmth of a memory
from her brother
who died by his own
hand and who’s suicide
left her empty.
I am here for a young woman
who was raped
and impregnated
and who raised that child
with love and with no regrets . . .
I am not half the man that she is..
I am here because of Jake
and his Uncle
and mostly, and more often,
I am here because this is where
I believe that you and I can speak
the most,
even if neither of us
are saying anything.
109)
I have been told
“you know, no one wants
to read about that shit, right?”
I am not here to see, reach,
or to interact with
anyone, or to learn about
how “no one” wants to read about this.
No,
I am here to free myself
and if, for some reason,
somehow, you and I
see each other more clearly
or there is someone out there
who thinks this way too
or
if someone feels the need to find a home
where somehow
they are not so judged
or persecuted,
then yes,
I am here for them, you,
and me
from now until the hour of my death
(Amen)
I am asked –
Will anything come from this?
Will I ever be the writer
I’ve always wanted to be?
I stopped punching that clock
a long time ago.
All I have with me now
is a cup of coffee beside me,
a train schedule
to get me to work on time,
and a day in the life
of a tattooed poet
and hopeful minister
who one day
hopes to find himself
exactly where “we”
are supposed to be
Together
warm
happy
and most of all
uninterrupted.
You dig?
The Written Addiction 