5/1/17

i wish i could post here like i used to.
i was a much better writer when i was younger.

or perhaps i'm more familiar with brevity now.

"brevity is the soul of wit" is actually a low key jab at polonius
just before he actually does get jabbed

i wish a lot of things i guess
that there was someone who could take out my insides
and put them back not just the way before, but better, more complete
the give give give but no takers, eh, why would you

there are places deep inside me that i hate,
wishing you could excavate me to make it all hollow inside
and i'm mean, and i'm bitter, and i feel the scowl eating my stomach
the coffee i drink so i don't eat stains my teeth, my comeuppance

i daydream so much that i'm surprised i'm not asleep on my feet
an aspiring alcoholic with no desire to follow through on that folly
and in those dreams, my special wisp of smoke someone holds my face
and kisses me, or doesn't, breathes my air until i'm happy again

you're not real.  you'll be the death of me, my longing thrown to nothing
and the bar is low - please, just please don't hate me, and brush your teeth
am i miserable because i'm lonely, or am i lonely because i'm miserable
i don't know, but i'm not sure i care to find out either

3/14/17

there's a nor'easter raging outside.  it's just past 5am, and i have been awake for several hours.  after a streak of not drinking and not consuming caffeine, i'm back on the grind.  i'm going to stop starting today, i think.  it doesn't make me feel good.  i feel bloated, though i'm not sure if that's from guilt or from not taking care of myself.  my belly, the last frontier of my insecurities, still protrudes.  no one else notices but me, but i am paranoid that people are noticing.

i'm not supposed to use this space to write in any sort of coherent sense.  i've always written weird poems here.  but i guess this isn't a time like that.  i guess i'm not able to think so poetically anymore.  don't hide behind words, huh?  yeah, it's something like that.

i've always been a person who has been anxious about every little thing.  i remember even as a child i would pick one thing to knead and poke and prod and pour endless amounts of time into one single subject that wasn't really worth getting upset about.  it was some weird sort of release for me.  i could channel every ounce of negative energy i had into something that i thought was at least a little worthwhile.  then again, i've always found that punishing myself was a worthwhile activity.  i don't know why.  i need to stop that.

[i wrote this 2/23/16.  i think i'm gonna start writing in this stupid thing again.  it's been too long since i had some kind of anonymous outlet.]

missing the point

my heart is broken i guess and i don't think i can relate to other people

it's amazing, i've been writing in this blog for nearly ten years and i haven't changed all that much

my writing has probably gotten worse in that time

i miss feeling like i'm part of something, but i'm just nothing, i'm just nothing aren't i

i wish someone still loved me like i was once a lovable person

i love so many people and yet i love no one

i love no one

i am no one

and that's okay i guess

"i want to buy a pack of cigarettes.
i want to kiss you on the mouth.
i want to slam my head against a wall."

and with that i begin a not haiku,
clacking computer keys at the speed of light,
miles ahead of my now pitiful longhand.
oh how i was quick with a bic ballpoint once upon a time.

and i was stupid to think i could sleep here without you

listening to love songs on the drive home
turn signal, right, stop light, left, keep going,
a tinny plea through my phone speaker
(i don't know how to hook it up to my radio)

i don't think i miss you.  i think i miss the idea of you.
but i'm not sure if i want that back either.

seventeenth.

when people ask why i stayed with him for so long, it was because i could.
the reason i fucked him on the first date, the reason i said i loved him, and ultimately the reason i broke it off with a five minute phone call just shy of a three year anniversary.

there is something to be said about monogamy.
...i certainly don't know what it is right now, but i'll get back to you when i figure it out.

and i'm not angry at him in the way that i'm not angry at the catholic church or people who cut me off in rush hour traffic -- there are certain disgusting inevitabilities in navigating your twenties on the postage stamp i call home, the collection plate preying on the poor or people who must have gotten their license on a technicality because JESUS CHRIST IT'S CALLED A BLINKER USE IT.

he was home.  i was gonna have his kids, picked out their names, was gonna inherit his house -- now he stands to do that alone.  and i'm happy about that.

so here's to pregnancy tests taken in mcdonald's bathrooms, here's to under the cover blowjobs in a DIY house surrounded by sleeping crustypunks, here's to canada and lying on the hood of a collective car watching meteor showers, here's to a night i cried because i thought he'd be angry i dyed my hair, and here's to the first notch on my bedpost.  long after i sell this bed frame, i will not forget him.

i must confess

i was thinking the other day

(or some form of thought, it's difficult to form sentences four PBRs in)

about love poetry.

about my own regurgitated passion,

and i thought about picking at my scabs as some sort of distant metaphor

reopening wounds.  

by trying to speed the process of healing, 

you are prolonging scarring.  

i thought about why i've gone back to hanging out with 

a person who once broke my heart.

it wasn't her fault, 

not really.

even though my mother tells me to not get burned again,

i've always been a masochist.

by trying to speed the process of healing

you are 

prolonging scarring

and i couldn't help but wonder why i want 

to have my cake and eat it too,

these disappearances and reappearances of need

craving a sign from anyone, anything 

that i am important. 

i picked at my lips, a game of removal with as little pain as possible

success (moderate).  bleeding (imminent).  ugliness (a permanence).

healing, speeding of, attempt

scarring, prolonging, only 

masochism

i think