Ah the self-inflicted drama
or the self-induced problems,
which you’ve sworn off a hundred times, and still,
you find yourself encountering the same things
for the same reasons and, of course,
someone always comes along
to remind you about the definition
of insanity which is doing the same thing
but expecting different results.
Or something like that . . .
Do you want to know this part?
Okay, fine.
There is a sound that never goes away
or noises that you never forget,
like say the sound of handcuffs
as they clasp around your wrist
or the sound of a cell door as it rolls shut.
Trust me.
And trust that as crazy as this sounds,
and it does sound crazy,
there are people
who are destined for this
and yet, they act surprised
when their hands are behind their backs
and the door to the squad car closes
and next, it’s mugshot time.
If you know, then you’ll know. And if you really know,
then none of this will come as a shock or a surprise to you.
But if you don’t know or if you won’t know
then maybe you can’t know.
Maybe this is impossible for you to grab the concept
of a life like this
But maybe I can help.
Allow yourself to go there, and follow along.
Try . . .
use this as an exercise and allow your mind
to slide into a vision with me.
Talk about chaos . . .
there is none like the ones you see
when swirling lights
flash around
or sirens come
or you see someone you love
as they’re lifted into an ambulance
and taken away.
Anger . . .
What better way to express chaos
or what better way to self-destruct
or to explode or implode
or to be more defined;
what better way is there to lose control
by trying to control
the uncontrollable?
I admit this might be a bit much,
but, to be clear
the title of this journal
is called The Book of Chaos
and so . .
in fairness to the topic, yes
I think that both love and lust
and the interchangeableness
of the two
can be enough to drive anyone crazy.
And, so . . .
Continue readingMore than anything else in this world,
I just want to be good.
I want to “be” someone, you know?
I want to mean something
to someone and more than this,
I want to be beautiful.
I want to be pure
like a child when they see something new
or when a child plays or laughs or smiles,
innocently,
as if to have never been burned
by the edges of real life; or better,
I want to be pure in the sense
that I am me and as raw as I am
to the sight or to the touch,
or as imperfect as I may be,
I want to be beautiful
as if to be forever unmarred
or never marked and unmolested,
or removed from the version of sin or stigma
or judgment and so on.
I was thinking about the lyrics from a song,
which say so much
when it comes to matters of the heart
or love, or about the way we mess up
or ruin love
or ruin the best things we have.
I stand here, guilty as changed
and convicted, equally and dually noted
and sentenced.
Sometimes . . . .
I suppose it should be enough
to just sit still, you know
As in to sit quietly and just
listen to the emptiness of nothing
or to be someplace, like,
say by the side of a lake somewhere
which is a real place to me
off Seven Lakes Drive,
which is up by Sloatsburg, New York.
As it is, the world is a crazy place.
Therefore, as it is,
we all need to find a place,
or a refuge of some sort,
or way, a means to an end,
or to find some kind of balance,
in an unbalanced world,
which is why I am here.
This is my art.
And this is my inspiration.
This is all that I have and
I can say that I have given far too much of myself
but at the same time,
what is art without pain
or a little blood from the heart,
or what is music
without blues for the soul?
The Written Addiction 