Sometimes the darkness is all I know.
A man sits in a chair in a black room,
television casting shadows and
violent fantasies onto the walls.
He stands
and moves slowly
as if he were submerged in the muddy water
of all the wrongs accrued.
He makes his way into the kitchen,
eventually,
and the pain shoots through his neck
— fool —
he stalls
and leans against the doorway.
The dishes remain undone
while parts of the broken dishwasher
are strewn across the counter.
Dirt from the unswept floor
sticks to his bare feet
as he shuffles to the fridge
again.

Storms rage,
and I cannot look away;
I am not scared.
Let the trees fall around me
and the air crackle with static.
The wind can wist me away
while I stare into the sky’s oblivion
searching for the elusive bolt.
The world can flash around my eyes,
leave me half-second blind,
and I will not hesitate
to step out into the open.
Take me while you can
dastardly weather
I am yours
for now.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,”
a third or fourth grade teacher told this
to our entire class.
For some reason it’s never left me.

Because of those words, I never aim to flatter
and am immediately wary of those
who engage in and succumb to it.
It’s not genuine - I believe that was her point.

So I would rather touch your mind,
notice the small things before they slip
through dusty cracks,
be entranced by the way your hair falls,
and be spellbound by the rhythm
of your words.
I’ll avoid flowery gestures or bodacious words,
instead let me speak truthfully of what I see.
There is no room for pedestals here,
it is your humanity that touches me so.
It’s the trusting way you reveal yourself
despite the teeth of us both.
It’s the way you’re bashful for no reason,
but the reason is there somewhere
unknown to me
I know.

I could compare you to the sun and sky
and all the universe in between,
and perhaps I have and still will,
but in the end
it is your imperfect and unique existence
upon this planet
that I adore so much.

I will push and pull
for reasons undisclosed.
Could you still love me?
I am fragmented
and torn across time.
Can you see it yet?
I know it doesn't show
in the beginning,
and I always think
this time
I will overcome it.

Obsessive.
Obsessive.
Passive.
Obsessive.
Obsessed.

I obliterate these thoughts,
leaving them like torn leaves
flailing in the wind,
and some source,
undoubtedly of the past,
always replants these seeds of doubt,
their roots not yet destroyed.

It's in my pathology.
These neural pathways have
grown stronger and stronger
despite my effots
to dig them up with words,
poison them with reflection,
and hack them with an ax of will.

Still

it's not enough.

Let me take the pieces of you
and put them into one place
for you to ponder.
I cannot put them together for you.
As you know,
only you can do that.
But I can show you
that you haven’t lost as much love
as you perhaps believe,
and that the pieces
I would give to you,
if you would have them,
would eclipse
the dark moons of the past
and reveal to you
the bright suns
of a future.

The waves crash and
the ship rides on
into the dock
between the velveteen piers
as the wind sighs and moans
and the old wood creaks.
The sun beads the moisture
in the air
of the swaying harbor
as the rough sand
tries desperately to grab
the hips of the shore
and the boats all move
to and fro
in endless motion
against the bay side.

I have tried to
chart and compass
exactly where I have strewn
the pieces of my love.
I find them trapped
in the constellations
and collages of
long past photographs.
A wandering mind
is never at home,
and I'm afraid
I have forgotten mine.
I still find myself lost
somewhere between
Orion and Pleiades -
on the chase for
a simple kind of love.
But here I am,
stretched over millions of miles
in a direction I cannot grasp.

Take my hand,
and let me show you
what peace you may find
among the rolling ocean.
You have charted your way
from galaxy to more,
now use your compass
to rediscover the pieces you have
let fall from the skies above.
I have used your guiding light
to steer my vessel
into yet untamed waters
for years.
I have dropped anchor
and loved many for long and still,
but I travel on
always leaving parts of myself
trapped in the soggy pages
of the past.
Let us not lose ourselves in
the moments we have left behind.
Instead let us forge ahead
in fiery rapture
across the ever-changing sea
and the ever-burning stars
to chase Poseidon
into the depths
together.

These dream states
slate me for the things
which are to come.
There is only one truth
far away from my current view;
I see all through crystalline goggles.
Please, don't let me fall
into this waking nightmare
and be captured into
the one place I know
again.
I have lifted my words and being
by rooting them in truth,
but I'm still missing something
somewhere.
Somewhere
I am still dreaming.

The writing challenge is to pick up the book nearest you, turn to page 68, and use sentence 11 in a poem.

Stephen King, The Drawing of the Three

You're not hearing voices that aren't there, the voice inside his head returned.



You're not hearing voices
that aren't there.
The voice in his head returned.
As it always did.
Tell me,
tell me what it is
you want to know.
He wrested with it
but submitted
as he always had.
I'll tell you everything,
how I surround you,
how I'm inside of you...
ARE YOU LISTENING?
He was, he was,
please let me go, please
let me
go
he pleaded
please
as he always did.
Don't you want to know?
These pieces inside you,
you know to what I'm referring,
don't you?
I see it all.
He did. He knew.
He always had.

Shouldn't we see the world for what it is? Whether the land as barren as an oceanless sea or a forest thick with shrubs and trees of green and wildlife prouncing about. Can we not take what we want if we both want the same? What are miles as the crow flies and leopards roam? Are we not creatures of the flesh? We should ravish these bodies in the blistering sun of our own making; it would be so easy.
      It's like the world has stopped turning, and yet the birds still sing. We are silent. The nights and days grow longer; we know it's only a matter of time. It slips. The time slips, and we are complicit in its passing over us. We are frozen and complacently lost in the reveries of the words caught in our lungs.
      I am asking every question I can. Why now? Why should I long for something which I do not yet know? Yet I do. We kick up dust in our rhetorical dance, and it is only the steady rain of the passing days that can settle it again.
      We both have roots in places not near. What does it mean to uproot the life? A transplant to other lands, and if anything should go wrong, we might rot into the soil if only to be reborn again — we are resilient and as sure as a passing day. Let me water your roots where ever they choose to grow, and let me shine down to encourage where ever you choose to bloom.

Haunt me.
Let us not wander too far
but again be feral in our love.
There is much hesitation.
We are both haunted by love past.
Let us chance it.
Let us dare to be rabid in our devotion.
Let us be at each other's throats
and swallow the bitter pride
so that we may hold close one another
again.

You cannot have anything without chaos.

I want to discover the deepest parts of you.
Let me affix myself to your front door
so that I may greet and bid you farewell
always
as you move through this life.
Let us stand strong and forthright
so we can lean on each other
when the storms of tragedy befall us.

You cannot have anything without love.

I peeled some eggs today.
No metaphors or tricky language today, no.
I boiled them, drained them,
and let them cool.
I cracked the first one on the ***
and then held it over the trashcan.
As soon as I dug my thumb into it,
I knew they were perfect.
I had put enough salt in the water
to make them easy to peel,
just how Momma taught me.
I used the edge of the shell
against my thumb and applied force
perpendicular while using my other
thumb to hold the shell and egg opposite my target
in place.
I dug my thumb into that thin film
just far enough not to grab the egg,
but far enough to get the shell.
I had it off in a couple of motions,
only one minor flaw that was my
own carelessness.
I lost myself for a while.
Rosco came sniffing around,
my dog looking for a snack as always.
My phone lit up beside me -
it was her.
We're taking it as slow as southern molasses.
It's nice.
I cracked one egg and pulled the shell off
perfectly in half.
I was awestruck.
I mangled one badly
so I decided to eat it.
Yum! Still warm.
I made too many anyway.
Yeah, that's all.
I peeled some eggs today.

A giving soul,
I see you
as you give away the pieces
of yourself to those
that need you.
I could take a lesson from that.
My only warning
is to be careful about giving yourself
to those that do not recognize
that pain never comes from the outside,
that they are responsible solely
for their own darkness.
Those people will **** you in,
swallow you whole,
digest your kindness
and turn it to dust.
Trust me,
I used to be one of them.
Sometimes I still am.

I will stumble over my words
while I stumble
into you.
Show me where you are wicked,
and I will show you
mine.
Let me taste the pitch black
ink as it drips from
your lips,
and you can read to me
the thoughts you hold
close.
Take me to the place within
where you are not pulled
into a thousand directions,
that one place where
you are still,
that one place where
you are home.

I've learned not to fight it
when people show themselves the door.
I've always been alone,
why would that change now?
You can call me what you want,
know that I know it well.
I'll keep returning keys
to the places I'm not welcome anymore
like I'm giving back the
pieces I've taken,
like I haven't given any keys myself.
Why would anyone think differently
when I act like I haven't?
I don't blame you.
Many times I know there's things I need to say,
ways to show I care,
and I can't.
Or I won't?
I don't know, but I'm trying.
Forgive me, please.
I'm sorry.

I have tasted chaos in the wind,
do you feel it?
As it passes through the trees
and scatters
to the ground,
we order these words
as carefully
as we can.
They are washed up,
broken and
like waves,
given back in pieces.

Can you hear me?

Somehow we are
lost in translation,
and I am afraid
we are too far gone.
Driven into the Earth and sand,
taken apart
into scattered remains
as you have been too.
We ask questions with no answers,
wandering into this barren place,
eyes, minds, mouths
seeking reprieve
and harmony.

How could I?

Your lips kind
with warm and soft words
call for parley,
but all I hear are
drowning words
through muddled water
as we choke on the
unbegotten truths
that anchor themselves
so deeply.

I can't quite pull myself away
from the chaotic.
Always one foot into insanity
and one foot into order,
seeking what?
Clarity?
Maybe a thrill
like a ******
riding the wrongs until
they become right,
but they never do.
They never do.
But I am at my best
when my mind is in ten
places I cannot be,
and my body struggles to
catch up,
and it never does.
It never does.

The closest I ever feel
to anything
is to the words I write.
When I am a million leagues
into the depths,
and there is nothing,
nothing to do
but carve these letters
into the floor.
No,
nothing.
Nothing more.
Words ring hollow,
and melodies fall flat,
prayers (un)heard,
another test.
This too will pass,
but while it stays,
while it tarries,
black is bequeathed behind
my eyes
my mind is marred
in manic peril
and I carve these words
into the floor
one more time
one more time
once more.

Like a home without a family,
plans mean nothing
unaccompanied.

If only there was someone
with which to share this.

Watch carefully as the rain gathers
in the crux between a broken shoulder
and tender neck.
How the footsteps fall as if from the sky
in tandem with the falling rain.
But it’s not something one must be told to see,
for it is easy to crucify the self
amid the muddy steps
where faith must be found.

God hears you.

In the drops on the hair on
the head as in your head
in the clouds
as He is.
So must you be.

It’s time to kneel
in a way which has never been attempted.
It’s time to recognize the conception is whatever
you conceive of Him to be,
and that it matters not the form.

Eliminate your suffering as the Buddha has.

The water exists,
it soaks you through and
comes from within without.
But there is always warmth,
it only must be found.
As such the four noble truths
set to a path known for years.

The time of ingesting poison must
come to pass
or death must come sooner.

You can’t do this alone.

"I'd tell you everything if you'd pick up that telephone."

I've spoken many words to you
into the empty air.
I know I've said that before,
but my one track mind has our
song on repeat,
and I cannot forget
the connections we made.

I would show up at your doorstep
with wildflowers of purple and orange
if I knew you stayed there.

Some days I still expect to hear from you,
forgive me,
and love me like we never stopped -
we didn't.

That's not something you forget.

I would write letters to you,
confess my sins of then,
now, and more,
poor taste or not.

I've lied to lovers recently and since,
some of those lies
lies to myself,
but lies nonetheless,
that I had moved past you,
but how can I?

How?

I consistently underestimate the importance of relationships in my life.
Perhaps it is not that I've always been alone,
perhaps it is that I drive everyone I love away.
I find it difficult to give my attention to people,
especially when I feel there is much to do.
I always seem to feel that way.
I am too critical of others.
I will never forget (forgive?) a trespass against my person,
and will excuse any trespass I render afterward
as a direct result of the original wrong toward me.
I am vengeful,
and I am good at it.

My family loves me and has never left.
I can't understand why
when I'm not able to give them all I should.

I'm not at the top -- not yet,
but I'm higher than I have ever been,
and many people I love have fallen away.

It is lonely here.

I do not pass in this world idly
for there is much to do.

I do not hold on to ideas or others or myself too steadfastly
for many things do change.

I do not take today for granted
for tragedy strikes without regard.

I do not choose my words lightly
for they shape the world.

As such, I do not take action without careful thought
for that is the mark of destruction.

Finally, I do not aim to judge another soul
for mine is the only I control.

Sometimes I still long
for the places I used to be,
for the spaces I used to fill,
for the hands I used to hold,
and for the people which used to surround.
But then I look around,
see the places I get to go,
where I am today,
and the world I occupy daily.
I look within to see a healing and serene mind,
free from the whims of self-destructive thoughts,
yours or mine.
I see people that take my shortcomings
as I take theirs,
with love and steady comfort,
and I long
no longer.

You are present as a passing breeze,
carrying the scent of lavender,
caressing my waiting hands
with a gentle brush.
But like the wind,
you are felt by
all
you surround,
and you wistfully drift away
before I can breathe you in.

When you get something for nothing,
expect to pay later.

If only
I was able
to follow
my own advice,

There is a darkness in me.
I think most people see it in my eyes,
a wolf with no disguise
on the hunt
always.
Don't you dare move too suddenly.
My teeth are sharp and my wits are quick.
I'd sooner tear out your throat for speaking
than to listen to what you have to say.
I'm ruthless.
I hide in shadows of the natural dark
only coming into the light to claim my prey.

There is a darkness in me.
I have a reptile brain
driven by id with hardly a superego.
I can barely control myself sometimes.
It takes all of me not to take all of everything.
There is a conscious somewhere.

There is a darkness in me.
A cold, calculating void
that plans and plans and plans
and executes
you and me both
without a word and without a sound.
My actions speak for themselves:
I am a dagger in the night.

I may have been born this way,
a combination of my father and mother's genes,
or I may have been molded,
driven to conquer out of necessity and hardship.
I don't know,
but this is who I am.

I have fallen
as the rain on a windswept path
covered in pine needles,
a home to the trodden
underfoot.
I have wept
as the rain in a silent Winter forest,
coating the leaves
and then sliding
slowly.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip.
I have frozen
as the rain above a jutting terrace,
forming cloudy icy trails
to the ground
below.

I wouldn't even recognize you,
nor you I.
How we have changed and grown,
how the years and loves
have formed us.
How the trials have toughened
or beaten us.

I hope you are well.

I hope that the world has not
stricken the love from you,
and that the lives which
surround you and which you surround
still smile upon your kind soul.

I hope you have not been beaten too much.

I hope you have faced down more trials
than have faced down you,
and that the things which you have conquered
have been strengthening instead of
diminishing to your spirit.

Of all hopes, I hope that you still
find a reason to smile
every day.

They always seem legitimate
to the person that makes them.

It’s been a long journey, yes,
but I am still moving.
I don’t understand how to accept kindness,
and I’m sure I’m insensitive —
I’m getting there.
I’m moving past years of resentment,
piles of bitter, stinking trash and ****,
to being able to give
as well.

I’ve always been bashful about those
being kind to me,
and doubly so when I am kind
to others.
I am kind without an audience.
Certainly it stems from feeling unworthy
if kindness received,
and feeling my kindness is an unworthy
reciprocation.
Sometimes it’s self-fulfilling.

Up until recently in my life,
I’ve never been able to give anything physical.
I’m still trying to understand if I’m
emotionally bankrupt,
so that’s uncertain.

My birthday is soon, and Christmas is coming.
December always forces these feelings into light,
but I’m still making progress on them
year by year.

Writing is a narcissistic practice.

What do we aim to accomplish
when we touch ink to paper?
Mark something down in eternity,
plaster our thoughts upon and into
being so that they may be recognized,
acknowledged.
Sort through them as we would
a scattered mess of notes.

There is nothing inherently wrong with narcissism,
no matter what people may have you believe.
I've once thought so,
cycled around to the present,
and, perhaps, will go full circle multiple times.
It is in our nature.
We think so much about ourselves.

The only constant is our thoughts
is their inconsistency
so we seek to immortalize them while we can.

We are not our thoughts;
we are the sum of everything within us
when our thoughts have settled and left and
we are empty.

Think your thoughts,
write them if you must,
then set them on fire.

We often wrestle with the darkest parts of ourselves in broad
    daylight.

We try to reconcile our good —
what we try to show others —
and our bad — what we try to hide.
Always we find ourselves trapped in this struggle,
caught between the primal reptile urges of the past
and the self-realization that has recently been evolved.

It is in this struggle that all manner of disorders arise.
Disorders - implying that there is a natural order,
an order in which we drive toward,
a perfection that we as a species must achieve,
a final, realized human form.
So it is not that we believe that there is currently perfection,
but that we recognize that if we can define perfection
(a course that first requires defining imperfection)
then we can achieve it as such.

It is in this struggle that we hurt others on all scales,
from lovers to friends to cities and countries.
We rule ourselves, but we need order so we rule over each other as
    well.
We step into the light to offer up the best in ourselves,
an attempt to bring out the best in others,
and on many fronts we succeed,
but on many fronts we also fail.
We destroy lovers, friends, cities, countries, and ourselves.

It is in our nature.
It is the nature of all things,
to evolve and to learn and to get better and to grow.
But as with everything,
we too must struggle,
we too must be destroyed
before we can be realized.

Looking back,
I think our main issue stemmed
from the fact
that we completely skipped being friends,
and instead jumped headlong into,
what was supposed to be,
a lifetime commitment.
We never learned each other
as friends,
as separate people that,
sometimes,
require space to be themselves
by themselves.
As people that catch up when,
and only when,
the rest of life will allow.
We are both too independent
to be dependent
or contingent on
anyone
or anyone's schedule.
For a long while
I thought (consciously) I was not guilty,
but I know that I,
too,
tend to lose myself into relationships.
I think we did it backwards —
from relationship to friendship —
but at least
we are
friends.

Something shifted.
The gun was in my hand,
and I was to my feet
immediately.
I heard the safety click off
somewhere in the distance.
The gun lead me around
the apartment,
clearing rooms one by one
logically
with my back covered
at all times.

Last night I heard something
deep in the wells of
my dream-state.
I forced myself awake,
pulled myself from the
darkness of sleep,
barely,
to listen.

Remnants of my childhood.
Like my Mother,
I am a protector
and ruler
of my domain.

I think of you
when the water begins
its fall
from the sky.
Of how you flooded
my eyes,
made sure my willing heart
swelled with your words.
I let you take what you wanted,
maybe what you needed
even
and gave you more,
but not enough for you
who wanted less than nothing.

You'll have to forgive me;
I've begun to move slower
in my older age.
No longer am I filled with fire
and the willingness to set aflame
all that is around me.
Now I am of rumbling, slow-burning
coals,
the type of which men cast
swords passed down through the ages.
Love to me is no longer a
keen sting --
nor do I want it to be --
but instead it is a soft dedication
expressed through an intermittent presence,
not through flowery acts or syllables.
I do not move so fast now.

From twenty to twenty-four,
only four short and long years,
but much have they taught,
and much have I listened
and much have I not.
But I am more careful now
in the affairs of life and love.
Not so quick to destroy,
but much quicker to understand.
Most times,
but I'm still learning
slowly
that when you know anyone enough
you will reveal your humanity
and they, too, will reveal theirs.
And I would rather have mine understood
than judged
as would we all
so I take my time,
I do my best to understand
and not to judge.

Sometimes things take awhile,
so I move slowly these days.
Forgive me.

I find myself
in the same places
again and again.
Right in between the cracks
of where memories form
and people are built.
Between the ties
of an old railroad track
and in the sound
of a rushing creek.

I visit this place when I can.

The vines have grown up,
as there are no longer feet
to stomp them down.

I suppose I have too.

I still find myself
waiting for the train
to come down the line
so it can rattle the air around me,
so it can rattle the teeth in my head
and remind me
that though many things have changed,
there are many things
that have not.

I feel so far behind.
It eats at me,
fills me with envy,
fills my throat with bile.

My friends, family,
are just given things.
I mean, that's what family does, right?
They create a support system,
and help each other.

I barely had hand-me-downs.
Even now, if I want something,
I have to buy it.
There's no one I can mention it to
that might get it for me
as a gift.
I've earned nearly everything I have.

I know it sounds silly.
I'm not even materialistic,
but I feel so far behind.
I see people doing things at my age,
**** I want to do,
but can't
because I'm still trying to earn my way
to where they were
in high school.

I am the support in the family.
I always have been.
I know it's selfish,
but where's mine?

I feel so far behind
with no one around
to lend a hand.

My friends and I laugh a lot
when we're together.
We talk about a lot of things.
Stupid ****, women, philosophy,
politics, games, books,
anything.
We've seen the women come and go,
been there for each other
through all the heart breaks,
seen each other drunk and crying,
drunk and suicidal.
You can't break those bonds.
We chose each other,
they chose me.
We're a very tight-knit group,
and it's hard for outsiders to understand us.
We've been on a lot of adventures.
We work well together --
we're always a team.
Not a bad looking group of fellas either,
so when we get on the move,
on the hunt,
women never stand a chance,
and God forbid anyone ever
cross us when we're together.
As a team we're invincible,
we can't be touched.
They would lay down their lives for me,
and I would do the same.
It's unspoken, but we know it well.
We will ride together,
and we will die together
as brothers.

There is a dark place you will go,
a place where we've all been
at one time
or another.
A place where clichés come true,
where nightmares turn to reality,
a place where your worst fears,
your deepest insecurities,
will tower above you.
It is a place you will visit
when you have been drained
emotionally, physically, spiritually, mentally,
but must keep moving forward.
A place that does not discriminate
for anyone,
a place that is the great equalizer.
You will not be able to breathe.
Your lungs will be filled with soot,
your eyes will be branded in fire,
your mind will be captive,
you will want to quit.
You may even want to die.

But this place holds a secret.

You will fall to your knees
on tough soil and gravel,
blind,
and you will cry, you will scream.
The air will be as fire,
and your skin will be as ice.
But you will dig.

You will blindly ****** your fingers into the cold Earth,
you will search for a way out,
you will rip and bleed and tear,
and you will convince yourself
it is futile.
But you will not stop.

You will keep fighting.

This place holds a secret.
This place holds an opportunity -
an opportunity for growth.

And, yes, you will grow.

The smell is in the air,
how everyday odors have become
suddenly
more pungent than they were before.
I recognize this.

Time is warped,
it slows to a crawl in front of me.
The birds stop in mid-flight
their songs hung in the sky
from little strings
in the heavens.
Things move so slowly
but all too fast
at the same time.

I am simultaneously inspired
and uninspired
in the same breath,
energetic and lethargic
in the same motion,
thoughtful and dull
in the same sentence.

The routine kills, it's time to
shake things up a bit,
time to change the layout,
change the scenery,
change the mind,
change the self.
It's time to learn as much
as possible
and forget everything I've
ever known.
It's time for a change.

I. Root — Survival — Fear
My deepest fear is that
I am not good enough,
and never will be.
I fear that I am unable to
love
and that's what makes me
unlovable.

II. Sacral — Pleasure — Guilt
I blame myself still
for your passing.
Maybe if I had thought,
if I had been less self-involved,
to tell you about the car.
Maybe you would be here.

I cheated on you,
the only time I've ever cheated.
You shouldn't have had
to bare such pain
because of my foolishness.

I thought being with you
would finally let me be over
a heart-break.
Now I see that I hadn't
moved on
far enough,
and I'm sorry for its effects.
At least I made a friend.

I wish I could help my family
more.
They deserve so much better,
and I promised to help,
but the further I come
the more I realize
I must help myself.

III. Solar Plexus — Will-power — Shame
I am ashamed
that I am not stronger,
that I don't have the courage
to take the path less traveled.
I have been safe,
strategic,
in my life-choices.
Maybe I've had to be,
but maybe that's an excuse.

IV. Heart — Love — Grief
I've lost some people
along the way
as all of us have.
I know I hold on to parts
of my pain,
I know I keep it chambered.

I should have told
all of you
I love you.

V. Throat — Truth — Lies
I have my ego in check,
that is perhaps my greatest lie.
I like to think I do,
I fight against it,
but sometimes it swells.

A part of me is ready
to settle down,
become a Father,
but I don't know if that
is a truth.
A definite truth is that
I must be free.
How can I have both?

VI. Third Eye — Insight — Illusion
This world is an illusion.
We are all the same,
and all of the stars in the sky
are the same
as us.
Everything is connected,
everything is one.

VII. Crown — Cosmic Energy — Earthly Attachment**
I must let it all go,
those I love,
those I've lost,
fear I've felt,
shame I've harbored,
lies I've told,
grief I've formed,
and let the
illusions shatter.

It wasn't until a friend of mine pointed it out
that I realized it.
He said
think about it,
you like the woods,
you like mud riding,
and drinking beer,
and shooting guns.
You like the open air
in any season.
You like fixing cars,
and cutting grass,
and laying under the midnight stars.
You like sweet tea,
and cornbread and beans,
and, even more,
you like cornbread and milk.
You like dirt roads,
and you like the open water.
You like being *****, greasy,
cussin and spittin.
You like going into the wilderness
with just what's on your back,
just to see if you can make it out again.
You like sitting on the porch
for hours on end
doing nothing.
You like all these things,
and you're going to tell me
you're not country?

I looked at him, and I said
fine,
I'm country.

I. Sincerely
To the girl that decided
my time
wasn't worth hers.

II. Declarations
I love you.
I miss you.
I care about you.

III. Present
All I wanted was your
presence,
but you consistently
faded.

IV. Attachment
You wanted me unattached,
but being unattached
I walk away.

V. Conditionally Unconditional
My conditions are
presence
loyalty.
Sorry I lied about unconditional.

VI. Someone
You've got time for someone.
Not me,
but for someone.

VII. Simply Enough
I cannot give my time
for those who do not.

VIII. Giving
You can't ever
get
what you're not willing
to give.

IX. Complete
I love wholly.
I don't switch.
It's all
or nothing.

X. Home
I tasted home upon your lips
where you tasted distance.

XI. Lost
I lost a home.
Another place
I called my own.

XII. Closed Doors
I knocked.
I jiggled the ****.
No one ever answered.

XIII. Small Chapters
I was a page to you.
You were a chapter.

XIV. Discarded
A book forgotten upon a floor.
Pages torn, Chapter 1.

XV. Poetry
I turned you into poetry.
That's what you wanted,
right?

XVI. Past
I will write about you
long after you've been gone.

XVII. Self-Worth*
I may have lost you,
but you lost me too.

How quickly the calluses return,
reminders of the work past.

I'm not over anyone I've ever begun to love.
People always say they loved someone,
but I always stay present tense.
I always love.
If once, then always.

I remember racing down the streets,
intoxicated, drunk, hammered,
and out of my mind,
chasing party after party
and skirt after skirt trying
to drown the hole you left
in me.

I remember, not so long ago,
chasing down scheme after scheme,
saying mean things,
having no consideration for
anyone's feelings,
and completely denying the
existence of my own,
trying to justify
the holes we left in
each other.

It's hard to understand —
how I'm acting,
the damage I'm causing
in these situations —
until I've come out the other
side.

And even when I do, I still hear
the dark calling me.
It lies at the bottom of this bottle,
and at the top of my
mind,
waiting its turn.