115)
I think of the words I once wrote
to someone who shared their words
with me.
I think about the bravery
it takes
to show someone
your truth
and to hold yourself
out there
above the fires
and say, yeah
this is me.
I used to get messages
from people who lived hard lives
or from those who survived
hard times
or from people who endured
impossible places and from those
who tried to avoid the impossible
people, places and things
but to no avail.
I would read what they’d send me
and I would think about the things
that made their life
what it was
or what it is.
I used to get notes from people
and poems
that no one else would ever see
from so-called criminals
or from monsters
or so-called people who had depths
that no one else would ever know about.
I viewed myself through my mental mirror
and thought about my times
and my struggles
and I looked at my hardships
and thought about how
“one man’s poison,
is another man’s pleasure”
or on the other hand,
I thought about how “one man’s garbage
is another man’s treasure.”
I thought about the value
and depth of our voice
and how brave
or important it is
to have one — a voice,
I mean.
Imagine living a life that goes on
unsaid . . .
Some people talk in actions
and some people
will take to their craft
and they will speak in volumes
and some will scream to deaf ears,
or,
there are some people
who will choose to endure
or to “Put it all out there!”
or perform to empty seats in theaters
yet, still,
they speak on
regardless of who is there
or who is listening.
All I say is this:
Write on, poet.
116)
Once I stopped, or
decided to remove myself
from the equation,
and once I made the choice
to stop considering the masses
or the approvals,
or once I decided to move away
from the accolades,
or the need for applause,
and once I chose to “write on”
regardless of who cares, who loves me,
who listens, or who likes me,
and once I declared my own freedom;
I became free enough
that I no longer needed
anyone to sign my report card.
Or to be like a kid, home from grade school
with my passing grade,
held to the refrigerator
by a magnet
and I thus,
I stopped the need
to be pat on the back
or have a gold star next to my name
somewhere.
Write on, Poet.
Once I decided to bleed out loud
or to bleed in color, instead of being fake
or black and white
and once I decided to be me,
as in to be myself, instead
of trying so hard to be someone else,
or trying to recreate myself
by changing my voice
to suit the need for popularity, and lastly,
once I decided to allow myself
to Write On, as it were,
I found that my words and voice
have way more power
than I ever dreamed possible.
117)
I have been told that there are people,
otherwise known as “has-beens,”
and there are those who never were,
or who never tried,
or never dared.
But either way,
everyone has their opinions.
Don’t they?
Shit . . .
I sat at one of my very first “book signings,”
and I listened to a man
go off on tangents of his own
and he stood before me,
telling me about my prose,
and he wasted no time
berating me, telling me
how someone like me
would never make it in a world
like this.
I asked him about how many books
he had under his belt –
because obviously
a man with such an opinion
must be accomplished
or successful.
How many books have you written?
He told me “none,”
to which
I told him to step away from my table
and then,
I told him to come back
after he anted up some blood
and found out what it means to bleed
or live or to know what it means to share
and be put down
(by some asshole, like him).
I thought about this man for years
and all of this came down
to the only secret I should have
so that I can endure
Write on, Poet.
118)
Wake up.
If you already knew
then stop acting surprised
when someone shows you
who they really are.
Just know
that there will always be
a disappointment on the way
and there will always be
something coming,
as if bad news was already
in the mail—
But if you knew,
then you always knew
and so . . .
Don’t act so surprised
when you find out that people lie
or that wolves come to you,
alive and well,
beautiful as ever
fat and fed;
and yes,
these are the wolves
in sheep’s clothing.
Just know
there will always be someone out there
looking to put you down.
There will always be someone
who will look to use you
as firewood
to keep themselves
from being cold.
There will always be someone
looking for some bread
to soak up the blood
from an accident.
Lies can come in beautiful shapes
and sizes.
There is no rule that says lies
will always be ugly
and, in fact,
some of the worst lies
and some of the blackest hearts
came to me in beautiful packages
and in all,
all I can think to do is this:
Write on!
119)
There will always be someone
out there
looking to shoot down your dreams
with their arrows
or warheads of mass destruction
and imposed disappointments;
and there will always be someone out there
looking to tell you
about the odds against you
or how you are wrong
because you being right
exposes a dark truth
they themselves
cannot face or deal with.
There will always be someone
who comes
dressed in good people’s clothing
and they dress themselves
as concerned, “loved-ones”
when meanwhile,
their attempts to support you
are simply ways to cut you down
just to kill you alive
or to keep you still,
or stuck
and for them,
this will keep you from realizing
your worth
or your own beauty,
and in this case,
no matter how “Pretty”
they pretend to be,
they are far more ugly
than the devil himself.
And, so,
they try to keep you ugly
to keep you from seeing their lies
or taking away their goodness
which they need
like fuel
to keep their lies afire
and bright
to shine on you
and so . . .
Do not be shocked
or blown away
when you find out
the truth
that people
are only human,
and that even the so-called
good people
have skeletons in the closet
and lies in the sink.
No one is perfect
and neither am I — but I am alive enough
to bleed out loud
and in color.
I am human
I am imperfect
I have lies and secrets
and skeletons who
have their own skeletons
otherwise knowns as secrets
hiding in the closet.
I have cheated.
I have lied
I have sinned
I have hurt the best people I know
and with regret
I lost more than I have ever gained.
but,
at least I stood up and said,
this is me,
a sinner.
I am no one to celebrate,
at least I am no one more
or less
than anybody else.
At the same time, no matter what is said
or thrown at me,
at least I “ballsed-up”
and I stood at the counter and said yeah
that’s me
I did that . . .
and I’m sorry.
But more,
and even at my worst
or most humiliating fallouts,
no matter what,
no one can say that I quit
or gave up.
No
I chose to come back
no matter what happened
and more that
each day, I took my own advice
to write on, Poet
No matter what the world throws at me,
write on, Poet
and never
no matter what
or how it hurts —
never go down
or give in
Just . . .
grab your boots
and watch the shit we step in
because it gets pretty thick
especially
when the lies come from loved ones
or people who you believed in.
Write on, Poet
because this is you
and being you
is your best defense
even if the offense
is alone
or in your own head
Write on
and never let anyone
stop you
because that is what it means
to die alive
No one can ever kill you forever,
Remember that . . . .
The Written Addiction 