And Then What

I will say this in two parts
which means that yes,
I have a lot to say
and yes,
this was inspired by different people
and for different reasons.

1)

In the beginning
the darkness was more confusing
than the sunlight
after my first night after I slept
in a room where sick people live.

I was told to be mindful
of the night watchman
because, of course,
“who watches the watchman?”
was a question
I had always wondered.

I remember the calls
that called for a moment of silence
for the still sick
and suffering.

And yes, that was me
and maybe this is still me now–sick
and suffering
or maybe I am living far better
than the old predictions had implied.

I recall an idea
or a so-called lifestyle
which was the only life
that I had ever known.
I was told that I should say goodbye
and that no matter what
and no matter how hard this may seem,
I would never return to who I was,
by any means necessary.

The ideas of this
was more intimidating
than hopeful
because who would I be now
if I wasn’t who I was before?

Though I was young at the time,
I wondered if I was too old
to learn new tricks.
Was it possible to understand
the depths of euphoria
and would it be possible to know
how it feels to achieve something so
emotionally and physically orgasmic
or lofty, and then go back to feeling
as if I was down, beneath the ground –
fiending.
Was I too lost or poisoned
or too misled to break a habit
that limited the way I’d think.
I was limited and resentful
and angry that I could not, would not
and did not fit in.
I was angry about my life
and about my future –
or if there was to be a future,
I wondered if the future
would ever allow me to be more
than who I was —unsober and lost
desperate as ever and scarred and marred
like the edges of an imperfect puzzle
whose pieces were pushed
and forced into the wrong places – yet
their edges were unfitting
of their surroundings—and I?
I tried to fit anyway
just because I hated feeling misshaped
or left out.

I suppose I was angry about this,
and unfitting, just the same.

I was hateful too
and I was turned around about this
alone, and lying to myself,
about the odds against me.

I lied to everyone, including myself,
and I did this so much so
that I nearly died by my own hand,
more than once.
I failed and died several times,
in a sense, because I wore a crown of thorns
and bore the weight of my crimes
taking on the sins of my soul,
preparing for my own crucifixion,
slayed by my own flesh
with no spear from the guards
to have mercy on my body
and take me down.

I was empty and outrages
leaving me otherwise soulless
and alive or dead, either way,
I was not the one who I was supposed to be.

This was not supposed to be my life.
I was not supposed to die alive
every day, as in consecutively
and continuously diving
into an eventual abyss; also known as
purgatory, or the way stations
between heaven and hell.

Not me, said I.
I’m not supposed to be this way.
Not I, I swore
but I was far from alone.

Not my baby,
said nearly every Mother I knew
who wept in courtrooms or emergency rooms
or worse, who screamed “please,
don’t let this be my baby!”
said the weeping Mother
in morgues and mortuaries and crying
out loud.

I have seen and heard them all
when telling their stories of how
“I swear he was a good boy.”

And we were all good boys. . .
. . . once.

How, if, when or why
did I choose to go left
when someone else went right?
If this were true
and if turning right was the right way to go
then why did I go left?
Where did I go wrong?
Why?

Out of any choice or mistake
that I could have made,
why did I never choose to follow my heart
when, instead, I chose to follow
the crooked leaders,
or the supposed “snake charmers”
and if at all, why did I listen to the demon’s lies
and rather than turn away?

I did this.
I followed the demons
and accompanied them down a road
that led me down the wrong path
and nearly killed me . . .
in more ways than one.

I recall when the floor fell from under me
and when the bottom seemed to drop
or showed me the trap door.

We all have these.
A trap door
and given the opportunity
without faith
without direction
and without worth
we can all fall through the floors of hell
and create a hell that’s worse
than the one before it.

I remember falling through the bottom
which allowed me to fall lower,
as in, or as if to say
that I fell lower and consistently,
gaining speed
until I crashed, once again,
before finding the next trap door
and falling deeper.

I was sobered by the sobering idea
that I found myself
in the worst of places and sitting
with the worst of men
locked in a cage,
waiting for an answer —
and whether I would be freed on bail
or no bail, held
or released on my own recognizance,
I saw the interiors
of my synthetic hell.

I saw the evil inside
the devil’s den
and realize that
the smell of puke and bum piss
can linger in your nostrils
far longer
than it takes for the judge to decide
whether I stay
or go free.

Or wait, come to think of it,
I have listened to the so-called
high and mighty
and I have heard the highbrow talking down
about those around them.

I have heard from the richer and the poor
and I have listened to the privileged
and heard them talk
as if the laws of goodness or decency
are different or as if these laws apply
differently to them
because to them
their supposed wealth
was enough to keep their clean and fortunate souls
bathed and free without the weight of supervision
of parole.

I’ll tell you this
the jailhouse holds all kinds
of people, all souls, all demons
and welcomes all comers from all backgrounds
of all ages, all types, all religions
sexual orientations,
and to add color,
the slam from a jailhouse door
when they roll shut
is the same kind of exclamation point
to me, to you
or to anybody else.

It’s amazing though
how people talk about addiction
and they never seem to notice
the revolving doors
in our correctional facilities.

Jail is a strange addiction too.

But that’s a thought for someone else.

I don’t think this way
anymore
nor do I belong there.

I know who I was though
and there are people
who love to remind me
or say that I deserve to find that trap door
again
and fall further and land closer
to the hour of my death
(Amen)

2)

I wash my hands of this
and the substance of my past.
I wash my face
and wipe my eyes
to rid myself
of what I saw
or what took place.

I am far from good
or perfect
but I am not evil
or as evil as it has been predicted.

I cannot say
whether I will ever be absolved
or if I will be forgiven
or if at all,
I am not sure
if I will ever be welcomed
or wanted
or if I will always be seen
as weak
or meaningless.

Or worse,
I might be the worst of all demons
and deserving
of my worst predictions.

But no.
Despite outside opinions
I refuse to follow this
and humbly
I agree to disagree.

I understand the scars and the ugly stains
that come with stigma.
I know, full and well,
that I chose to look the way I look
tattoos and all and that my voice
does not sound clear
or polished.

I know that while I see myself
as weak
or that when I look at the reflection
that I see in the mirror, I know
that I see both an inaccurate
and an imperfect version of me
or my life.

I know the ugly shadows
leave distortions
and that my version of truth
are distorted by ideas
which are not true to life, per se,
however, I understand that the version
I see when I look in the mirror
is only true to me.

But as I work to improve
or to leave my old yesterdays behind me,
I see me much differently now.
I see my emotional reflection
as the view of a small boy—
pajamas, teddy bear
in hand
thumb being sucked
afraid of the dark
or afraid the pain from an unwanted touch
will stain me for the rest of my life.
Or worse, maybe this will stain me even longer.

I never thought
that anyone would ever see me
as beautiful.
I never thought
that I would be anything
other than ugly
and, so
therefore, if I was destined to be the beast
then I decided that I would be worse
than the beast. I would be worse
than the worse prediction that everyone seemed
to predict that I would be.

But . . .
I am not him.
He is not me
and no, I never have been “that” person
nor could I have been.

No matter how hard I tried
to convince myself that
“This is me,” and that I am that one, uncaring
unworried, brutal and agnostic, either way,
I knew that this wasn’t me.

I tried though,
I pretended to be unattached
to whether I live or die
because nothing matters.

I am not that person nor
was I the person I tried to be.
I could never be “him”
nor could I have been that person,
so cold to the touch, unmoved
unbothered by the deaths around me
and unaffected by anything
either way.

I swore
this is what I believed it was like
to be free.

I used to train myself
to take pain,
so that I would be used to it
whenever the pain came.

I used to believe
that no one could hurt me
if I couldn’t even hurt myself.

But I was wrong.
I used to run and hide
and I tried with all I had
And I tried as hard as I could to outrun
or evade the consequences
and escape the wreckage
from my past.
But like the saying goes:
No matter where you go
there you are!

I have learned and seen
that no matter how we feel inside
or if we have true sorrow for our sins
and regardless of whether we feel regret
or contempt for ourselves and our actions
—either way, no matter how hard
we work to amend the wrongs
or settle the debts,
there will always be someone around
to say sorry, but not sorry.

There will always be someone
who looks to stop you
or wants to keep you
from being straight with the house
(again).
There will always be someone there,
looking to remind us
or looking to derail us
and looking to point out
the flaws in our soul.
There will always be someone who points
or tells the world about
the cracks in our façade—and rest assured
no matter how we look to atone
or repair, heal, or move forward, — just know
there will always be crabs in the barrel
looking to pull you back down
so that they will not have to face the pot
or die alone.

Never be the demon
that someone else claims you to be.
And, even if you are worse
than the beast you’re accused of being,
be better, be true
and be ready to prove them all wrong.

I was told that I was a loser. . .
that I would die alone
and that I would live the rest of my life
miserable
and be loveless.

I was told to
“do the world a favor”
and to swallow
the end of a pistol
or die slow
but quick enough to go away.

I was told that everyone hates me,
and I’d be lucky to survive myself
alone.
And so
all of that might have been true
if it weren’t for a special angel on earth
who I call “YOU”

I do not deny my sins
or my wrongs
and dare I say this,
but I know that one day
I will have to answer
for what I have done.

Either way,
bottom line,
I can never be the beast that someone
claims me to be.

I like that.
But more,
I like the idea
that I was told about.
I was told the best revenge is good living.

I used to agree with that until
later on in life,
I grew to realize that
the best revenge
is to realize that I don’t
need revenge at all.

Revenge and ideas like this
belong to the demons
and me?
I have decided
to cut my ties with them
and be better
one day
at a time
regardless of what they say
about me.