pull me closer

my lips caress your warm skin
hairs standing on their end
warmth coursing through your veins
whispers falling on your ears

moving from your neck to your lips
tension mounting as you gasp for breath
stealing the air that escapes your lungs
yearning for more under the setting sun

mouthing the words of love in my heart
all I've wanted is you, just you from the start

All I've Lost

All my thoughts wither away as soon as they are borne. A contagion of thought is killed by the antidote of wistful thinking patterns. As the wind blows and deteriorates the sand dune ever so slightly so does my mind brush away the advent of thoughts. Images blur and the sounds of old voices distort and go mute. I can't recall long enough to feel the passion in my chest or the pain in shame. A double edged sword. To lose the basis of all feeling only to still feel regret in losing it all. Each failed grasp into the dark to pull a thread back into the light and tie it lovingly in a bow to my soul is met with failure. 

To fail at recalling a memory, a fleeting memory, is the worst torture. You feel it on the tip of your tongue, standing somewhere in the grove of your mind swaying as the wind blows. You fall apart as the fringes start to fray and the kindled flame starts to fade. Who are we without it? A hollow shell. A husk. An empty vessel. 

What can rekindle the flame? If noticed early enough, any  jolt from the powerful sense that is love can ignite it. In the failing I yearn for someone to enter and stoke the fire. To sweep away the old ash, that coats every corner and start anew. It's all I wish for, as the wishes start to fade from me. 

The Flat

Light shone through the slit of the metal blinds, pale in color. Dust rode upon it from the source to his cheek. The angle changed slowly until it eclipsed his eye. He couldn’t lay there anymore, he had to get up or at least roll over if he wanted to stay on the bed without interruptions.

                A light flashed on the wall in the living room, accompanied by a small beeping 29. So many missed calls. So many attempts to create a connection; all failed. It was dark in the flat, all the blinds were closed and the florescent light in the kitchen was dim. He didn’t lose his way however, he’d memorized the pattern of garbage and dirty clothes on his floor. It made a path straight to the kitchen. A path in the forest of his apathy.

                The last three weeks culminated to this point in time. All the missed calls, all the knocks on his door, the flashing voicemail notifications, the darkness. He couldn’t let himself venture out of his one-bedroom flat. The crippling comfort of it stayed him. It was a comfort and a burden. The rooms were a mess, the kitchen was overflowing with dishes and a mold started in the bathroom. He wallowed in his filth, not daring to unseal the jar that had become his life, lest he risk spreading his sickness to others.

                He flicked the light switch to the bathroom, only one light buzzed to life. The panel to the circuit boards was broken open and half the circuits were missing. Three hung from their slots, broken, swinging as the breeze from his body passed. It didn’t matter though, the feeble light from the single row of diodes was enough to form deep shadows on his rugged mug. The circles under his eyes deepened and the patches of hair on his chin grew differently. He looked horrid, yet he didn’t care to shave.

                He stared in the mirror for a good while, scanning the creases in his face, the depth of the shadows now present around him. A long sigh escaped his lungs. The phones light flashed silently in the next room, the number changed to 38. How long had he been standing in the bathroom? How long? His eye dropped down the side of his arm and traced the growing red vine like mass slowly creeping up towards his chest. The sight of it didn’t bring shock anymore, it had become a part of him. A part of his world. Just like the garbage, the filth, the mold. Another little thing taking a hold of him. He touched it gingerly with his outstretched fingers and it pulsed with pain. He remembered the moment of contamination. In an effort to protect the others he had locked himself away but he wasn’t withering as fast as he hoped. He’d heard talk, so long ago, about it taking a few hours then there was a point of no return. The cleaning crews used fire to quell it but he didn’t have the nerve to set himself ablaze. He’d just let it slowly consume him.

                His feet brought him back to his room. The beam of light that leaked through the bent metal blind had shifted angles again. It hit a turned over picture frame, glass shattered around it. Parts of a bottle. Barren book shelves and stained white walls. No path lead over to that picture. The floor was overgrown with clothes and other random things, thrown over time to hide any way of getting there. The bed was the only somewhat empty thing in this place. Empty until his body slide back under the single cover. When will it take me? His mind drifted as the pain subsided into dreams. Dreaming of a time before contamination, a time when the fires weren’t so frequent and the fear of breathing the outside air was unthinkable. A time before…

               

A call had come through to the local cleaning crew about an eerie clawing at the walls in flat 309. They had loaded up their gear and made their march up the stairs and the lead man knocked at the door. He pressed his ear against it and heard the scratching first hand. It was infrequent and staggered. He called out the name of the tenant and the scratching stopped but there was no movement towards the door. The man stepped back to let the next man break down the door. He pried the door open with a great thrust of his crowbar and the air rushed past them. Dust danced in the air as they walked inside the dark flat. They flashed their lights around and could see the red tendrils of the parasite dancing its way up the walls. It would need to be burned, there was no doubt in that.

                As the lead man turned the corner he could see the scratches on the wall. It was near the phone terminal as if the person was trying to make a call but had forgotten the process. His light traced the wall until he saw it. A red mass of vines pulsing in time with a heart beating. Outstretched from the blob was an arm almost completely engulfed in red. As the light traced the figure the other men shuddered. He let the light flow up the creature’s frame towards what he could only assume was its face and it turned abruptly. Two of the men behind him fell as it began to screech and bellow its swan song. It reached forth to touch the others but was quickly engulfed in flame. It cried and squirmed but it did not move for long.

                What began in darkness, had ended in fire. Like it was supposed to. Like he had hoped it would.  

Trapped

"Jerry! Get your ass out here and move this load! We've got another truck coming at 3 and I don't want to see this heap of junk for another second. Damnit Jerry!" Mark Harrison, owner and operator of the Millstone, KS junkyard blew cigar smoke out of his nose as he wiped sweat from his brow. The summer of '58 had started out hot, now a month in he felt it couldn't get any hotter than this. But being surrounded by black metals soaking in all the heat turned the junkyard into a heat trap. The pile of scrap laying before him, the size of an impala, leered at him as it radiated heat in his direction. Jerry, his young assistant, was meant to cart the dumped pieces from the drop off zone to the back of the yard but he was slacking off again.

"Sorry boss."

"Don't be sorry, just do your job damnit." Mark blew smoke out again as the truck he was waiting for pulled up.

"Shit." Mark said under his breath. He jogged over to the driver who was blowing his horn. The junkyard was inaccessible until Jerry moved the junk and Mark's driver, Gary, had a tight schedule. At least three more pick ups for the day.

"What's the hold up Mark?"

"Why are you so damn early? The sheet says 3." Mark chewed on his cigar, sweat dripping off his brow. In the background Jerry hitched the load onto the back of a truck and started to drag it from it's spot. The screeching of metal pierced Gary's ears making him plug up his right ear, Mark didn't seem to mind.

"Smaller load than we thought. So I'm back early."

"Fine, fine. Just dump it. And go get the rest."

"Since I'm early, can I take a break?"

"A break?" Mark laughed and spat on the ground. Gary realized his request was a waste and dropped it. Mark hopped off the door and walked to the office building to mark off the new drop. In the office, only slightly cooler than the yard, a radio was playing and the small fan on his desk was being hogged by his dog Murphy.

"Murph!" Mark yelled and the border collie raised his head, panting, tongue flailing. He hopped up and went over to Mark looking for a head scratch or maybe for a reprieve from the heat. Mark provided neither and simply sat in front of the fan. Jerry came in a minute later wiping his hands and face with a rag.

"This heat, it's unbearable."

"Did you move Gary's drop?"

"What? No."

"Then why the hell are you in here?" Mark said his eyes fierce. Jerry sighed and walked back outside without a word. A few minutes later Mark heard the metal hit the ground in a loud thud and screech followed by the screech of it being drug back by Jerry. With a pencil he marked off the drop and leaned back in his chair. He scanned the room and his eyes felt blurry. He rubbed them, but that only made things worse. The sweat was so bad, it started to cloud his vision. He heard the door open and Jerry came back in. 

"Are you ready?" Jerry said.

"Ready for what?" Mark said still rubbing his eyes. He tried to look at Jerry standing before him but he was more blurry now. Mark cursed, he must have got something in his eye, a fly or oil or something. He rubbed more frenziedly.

"Are you ready?" Jerry asked again, now he seemed behind him.

"Why do you keep asking that?" Mark said still rubbing his eyes. He blinked but the image kept getting more and more faded. Was he going blind? He wanted to stand and scream but his legs failed him. He felt heavy in his chair. Was he having a heart attack? Did you go blind before a heart attack? Mark tried to reach for his eyes again but his arm grew heavy and fell into his lap. He blinked feverishly. 

"Are you ready Mr. Harrison?" a softer voice spoke this time, a woman's voice. Mark Harrison blinked and felt the air rush from his lungs. His eyes focused and he was in a white room, cold and clean, staring at the middle distance, not focusing on anything. He could feel a presence behind him and his eyes tracked slowly across the floor to his hands. They were old and worn, blue and marked with bruises. He tried to move his head to see the face that spoke to him. His neck was working against him or simply not wanting to move. He felt stuck, only his eyes obeying his commands of movement and he felt a tension grow in his chest.

"Aaaaa...." Mark tried to speak but his breath failed him. His attention was brought to his mouth, dry and unmoving but open, the air moving slowly from the room to his lungs with great pain. The presence behind him came closer and grabbed onto his chair. A wheelchair. She moved him out of the room and Mark felt afraid. He felt a tear start to grow in his eye, as if it had to gather all the liquid remaining in his frail body to create one single tear. The junkyard he was standing in was gone, the smell of metal and the sound of Murphy barking now fading in his head, one last thing to be burned out of his head. A memory he felt he'd never get back.

"How are we doing today Mr. Harrison?" the soft voice spoke again. Mark concentrated on moving his mouth to speak more fully and felt control start to return to him now that he wasn't fully consumed by the memory of his old job...or was it his old school? What had he been thinking of? Something in Brandon, MO? No....?

His jaw finally moved from its slack position and reconnected his lips to help him speak. "I...was at home." He forced out with a weak breath. He had been at home surely. Where was he now? His eyes moved from side to side trying to find some sort of familiarity with the hall he was being pushed through. He saw his hands again, old and withered.

"Where am I?" Mark asked weakly but with a tinge of fear.

"You're home Mr. Harrison, Pleasant Hills Nursing Home. We're going to give you a bath." the soft voice spoke. Mark felt a haze go across his eyes again. A nursing home? Time for his bath? He looked at his hands again. As he stared he felt his eyes grow dim. He felt tired and heavy. But his heart still beat, very slowly inside him. The world dropped away and he felt warmth. How many memories were left? How many days? How many....

Warm Me Up

The coffee holds no comfort once it's lost its warmth. Half the reason Henry drank the stuff was to feel warm inside. The caffeine was a reprieve from sleep or at least it gave the illusion of wakefulness but the warmth was a reprieve from the cold, not on the outside kissing his flesh and robbing his cracked hands of moisture, but the cold felt under the skin, by his heart. Once you feel the cold inside it's hard to push away. He had never been a coffee drinker before she left but the day she walked away the cold took root and he needed a way to keep warm.

With the loss of light in his life all around seemed grey and bleak. It was winter so the outside world was a mirrored backdrop of his heart and he hoped that the warmth from the liquid would suffice until he'd find that light again. If he ever would. In the weeks after such a loss it seems impossible to see light ever again. To feel the connection ever again. To ever love again. He knew deep down somewhere that it wasn't truly impossible. People moved on, in time, and found something new. But for now he wasn't sure if he would.

But it turns out, if you give yourself the time and let your grip on the past loosen just a little, the world around can start to shine some light back in.

Sitting now, in the coffee shop, having neglected his coffee for long enough to make it cold, he sat stunned realizing he didn't need it's warmth. Something new walked into his sight, something bright and iridescent despite the waning sunlight from the windows. He caught himself staring and decided to look away but he kept taking quick glances to drink up the warmth she emanated not ten feet away from him.

She had long wavy blonde hair with touches of brown coming through. Soft eyes that were inviting,  in a way that showed a sense of kindness and pain behind them. Her smile, though now fading since the moment of elation was passing, filled his heart with joy. She was bundled up from the cold but she didn't seem to mind the weather or seem tense. A woman fully comfortable in her own skin. A source of light in Henry's grey world.

Tense now, afraid she'd notice him staring, he kept his glances to a minimum and started to drink his coffee again, though now thoroughly cold, to mask his face. He felt a tug in his chest to go say something even simply to complement her but he didn't move. He was transfixed at the sight of her, simply basking in her light. Feeling a tension in his chest as she laughed, smiled, and carried on with her friend.

Then the moment was gone. Henry blinked and the woman was walking away. To him time had slowed down to help him appreciate her for as long as possible but when time was up it returned to its normal speed and she was gone. The tension turned to regret as he scanned the room looking for her one more time but she was already outside getting into a car and leaving, to bring her light somewhere else.

There was something different now though. Despite the cold coffee, the cold wind blowing outside and the greyness of winter he didn't feel the grey within him anymore. That burst of light, like a star exploding, ejecting its stellar guts into the darkness, had rejuvenated something in Henry. A feeling that he assumed was impossible. That he could feel warm again, without the help of coffee. The warmth of love.

He had begun his cup of coffee with a frown and dejected look in his eyes, but he finished it with a faint smile. Walking out into the cold he embraced it head on holing on tightly to that light and new warmth burning inside him, ever so slightly. Ready to be himself again.

Cryptic IX

Settle down and wait
Hold onto me tightly
Open your heart to me
Walking hand in hand

Make me feel again
Every motion of your body

Yearning for your touch
Over and over again
Understand my words
Reverberate in your soul

Longing for this connection
Old pain fades away
Violet streaks in your hair
Enduring every passing day

Tripp Lake 2017

My first summer at Tripp saw the death of an old version of myself and the birth of something new. A man that is more confident in his own skin, proud of the person he can be towards others, and happy with the life that lay before him. I saw a stark line in the sand between the old me and the new me because of that place and the people and experiences in it.

In last 2016, I went to England to visit my then girlfriend, and we both decided to return to Tripp in 2017 for a second summer. Initially to spend it together but after our break up my reasons changed. I wanted to return because I wanted to see the kids again and be a teacher again and hopefully get a second dose of growth.

From December to May of 2017 I worked with one thought in my mind, I'd go to camp one last time hopefully see a new level of growth and return to my home in the fall to see myself start to succeed in my life.

When I got to camp, a week earlier than everyone else, I was greeted by three friends from the first summer, my eventual bunk mates from Woods 7. Josh, Mason, and Esteban welcomed me home with open arms as we goofed off and did maintenance around the camp, feeling like (as the returners) we were the hotshots. Running around on golf carts, taking care of business and setting ourselves up for the best summer of our lives.

As time went by, I was greeted by more old friends and the reunion made my heart swell with excitement. A good amount of people from my first summer returned and I couldn't have been happier. There were moments to reminisce and moments to meet the new counselors and make them feel at home. The first two weeks were amazing and that was before the kids arrived.

I recall one instance when a new counselor asked me how many years I had been at camp. I said this was my second year and they said "It seems like you've been here a lot longer." And I took comfort in that. I was only a second year counselor but people came to me with questions and concerns and found solace in my company feeling I had been a camp goer for five years or more. I think that just goes to show how much I grew from my first summer. The confidence that was built and that continues to grow as time goes on.

After the first few weeks of pre-camp the girls arrived and it felt like seeing 300 daughters coming to visit. By the end of my first summer I had learned and remembered the names of every girl from the first three age groups (Juniors-Subs), and I planned to learn and remember every girls name by the end of this summer.

Spoiler alert - I did.

I picked up my role as Archery counselor as if I had never left and spent the previous 10 months not working with children. Frankly, the whole time I was in Maine, ever since crossing the border, I felt like I hadn't spent any time away. Everything came flooding back and I felt truly that I was coming home.

The first summer saw me attempt and fail many times at being a good teacher. It was my first real attempt at it and it was a struggle. But while my first year saw many failures, my second summer is marked with many many successes.

I saw girls grow as athletes in their perseverance to improve. Many positive bonds were made and I saw the pure excitement a child has at succeeding from her own willpower. It melted my heart to see the smiles on their faces and the excitement they showed for wanting to do Archery that year with me and Mackenzie, (my co-counselor).

I felt that we had made a real connection with them, all the girls and not just the young ones. A real desire to succeed and have fun at a sport some of them the year previous didn't really care for or try to be good in.

Aside from the girls, I also saw an increase in my responsibilities when it came to administration either directly or indirectly imposed on me by my superiors.

I was tasked with leading trips, something I didn't do the year before, and I became an ear and arm for my co-counselors in the sports department. We saw a cohesiveness we didn't have the year before and it felt great to be a part of a team and not just in our own little box on the outskirts of camp. (Archery is far removed from the rest of the camp)

Again I saw myself grow as a leader, a teacher, a friend, and a person anyone could come to to talk about their problems. I felt a level of confidence I had never felt before and a level of contentment I had never felt. I had found my place and felt like I had finally grown up.

So it was sad to leave this past summer and return home but I had a resolution to take what I had learned and apply it to my life at home. The life I had never truly been happy in.

The bad thing is when I'm "home" all the progress I make at camp seems to fade and I'm clawing to find my footing again.

Camp has shown me yet again the man I can be and the person I hope to spend the rest of my life as. I just hope I can find him in myself and keep him around.

Tripp Lake 2016

(I started this in 2016 but never finished it)

How can I best describe my summer? It started out shitty before I got the call from Tripp to be a counselor. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my time. I was still pining over a girl that would turn out to be a waste of my attention and I was wallowing in my rut.

When I got the call from Tripp I was in a supply closet and I jumped from excitement. The person I was with was confused but I told her and her first comment was "You better come back!"

Tripp Lake Camp, what I've been eluding to, is a girls summer camp in Poland, ME. Yes, Maine. 16 hours away from my house up in the woods, as my friend puts it, the Great White North. A year prior my friend Tony went to the camp and the following year he asked me to apply as he thought I'd be a good fit. That I'd get a lot out of it and appreciate it.

The phone call came in May but I applied back in March. Once the opportunity first arose I was super excited and ready to go do it that weekend. As time went on though my negativity rose and I wanted to withdraw my application and just fall down into my hole. Luckily, for my negative side, I didn't get a call like I thought I would and the feeling subsided. I made plans for that summer, shitty though they might be, and was set when that phone call came.

I told my bosses at the library and they agreed it was a good experience not to let slip by. They granted me time off to pursue it as now my mind was back to being excited. I had my interview and accepted the position as Archery counselor.

"Archery? Wait what? Do you even know how to shoot a bow?" - everyone I told.

Yes I do. Not very well and for not very long but yes. Plus I had the power of the internet to learn what I didn't know. I spent the next month until June 13th learning as much as I could about Archery (Thank you Nusensei) and felt prepared enough to go.

I left my house at 5am on June 13th and arrived at my Aunt's house in Connecticut that night. After skipping all the tolls and almost having a panic attack because of Maryland's roads, I made it to my first stop that summer.

I spent the next day visiting my cousin, her child and husband and shopping with my uncle. It was nice to be away from home and with other family. By this point my negativity was mostly gone, probably still stuck in my room at home.

After one more night I set out to Maine. The four and a half hour drive up through Mass, past Boston, NH, and then finally getting into Maine. I remembered cash this time and paid my tolls, slowly making my way north from Portland not knowing what to expect or what I'd see. After almost pulling onto Tripp Lake Rd (not the right road) I made my way to Tripp Lake CAMP Rd. (the right road) and made my first of what would be many trips up and down that road. (Author's Note: When I typed trips just then I put two p's.)

I pulled into the visitor parking and sat for a second. It was all quiet and I was worried that I'd be wandering around. There was no one to greet me, not that I called ahead. I got out of my car and started to walk down towards the front gate, stopped, realized I should probably bring my paperwork with me and went back to my car. Thankfully, either through age or my new found nihilism no dread or nervousness overcame me.

I retrieved my paperwork and walked onto campus for the first time.

I saw a group of three girls walking towards me and they came to my aid as they could see the level of confusion on my face at how lost I was. They pointed me in the right direction and went with me inside.

One of the girls, Emmy, said "You're Matt aren't you?" I said yes, and she responded, "Yes I knew it." And from that moment I felt at ease, that I wasn't in a foreign place anymore. Just that simple interaction set my mind from reeling at feeling like a fish out of water. They knew me, at least she did, someone whom I hadn't met yet. And she was nice.

The next few days progressed rather quickly (like the majority of the summer), I met a large swath of people from around the US and abroad, mostly British men and women, and started to feel more and more that I had entered into a new life. A new life so far removed from the bad thoughts and things I had back home.

Even before the girls arrived at the camp I started to feel myself changing, growing and seeing myself in a new light. Seeing myself through the other counselors eyes.

The summer wasn't devoid of stress however, I woke up many nights in a confused state thinking I had forgotten to do something for the kids and woke up my bunk mates many times. I also didn't escape completely from my darkness, still thinking negatively, and how this might be my last summer alive.

Thankfully, through new friends, I felt a great change in my heart that would eventually evolve to destroy that darkness inside me for good.

I woke up most days feeling refreshed and ready for a brand new day, without the old feeling of dread. I lost a lot of weight, felt my confidence grow and witnessed slowly but surely a new chapter in my life begin.

Tripp Lake Camp saved me from my darkness in 2016. I have a lot to live for now because of it. New friends, new family, new people that I love with my whole heart.

Drowning

"I'm drowning..." a half-hearted whisper crawled through the sheets and the pillows to be greeted and eaten by the sound of rain slamming the window in the room. A shuffle of weight and the mass, kept warm by the distance from the outside, revealed itself, if only partially, to the flash of  light from lightning in the night. The red light from the alarm clock across the room cut through the darkness that returned but her eyes wouldn't focus enough to reveal the time. It didn't really matter anyway what time it was, it was her off day and she planned on staying in bed for the majority of it. The sound of the storm was all the  more reason to keep bundled up, she thought as she turned over again, having lost her comfortable spot.

She realized that she spoke when she woke up. Her dream, fading fast as she grasped to pull it back to her mind to analyze it, like she often did, was something about her car driving off the bridge and falling slowly towards the water. She remembered too that she wasn't alone that he was in the passenger seat, unmoving, silent as they fell. There was no expression on her face in the rear view as the water came closer and closer to her bumper. Just a silent resolution that this was happening and there was nothing she could do about it. The whisper then was simply a declaration of what was happening in the final moments of her dream but she felt that it reflected where she was right now as well. Drowning in a sea of sheets, the sound of rain and negative emotions.

Melissa sat up slowly feeling the weight in her body grow as her muscles came to life. She had felt weightless laying there as if she were still falling but now that the dream was firmly whisked from her head and reality came back she felt heavy. It wasn't just a heaviness of body weight, she realized a few weeks ago she had put on a few pounds since the summer had ended, it was a weight inside of her. She pushed herself up to a seated position and in the darkness grasped around for her phone. The weight now more vivid and present in her chest like a bowling ball hanging from her rib-cage by a chain, swinging where her stomach should be. The shock of the bright light from her illuminated phone gave her eyes a sharp pain but it was quickly replaced by a lengthening of the chain in her chest, no new messages. He had messaged her the most, more than a boyfriend ever had. Now her phone was silent like he had been. 

The past week had been rough and while she was happy to have a day off finally the loneliness that came with being at home was almost as bad as the feeling of being at her job. There was an isolation here in her room, under the covers, and there was also an isolation sitting at her desk looking at account numbers and answering phone calls. She might have been surrounded on the outside but on the inside she felt like the next person was hundreds of miles away. Which to her was ultimately true. The only person she wanted to talk to was hundreds of miles away now, not physically but in a more profound way. He'd never be back now. Not from where he went to. 

It had rained that day too, funny how mother nature seems to know what weather to throw your way to make things that much more worse or poetic, depending on your outlook. They put him in the ground and she almost slipped in the mud as she walked over to the grave to throw a flower in. She didn't' speak much that day. Her face stoic and unmoved by the circumstances, like her face in the car as it tumbled over the bridge. This was happening, there was nothing that could be done, played in her head as she saw the flower fall and get covered by a shovelful of dirt. 

It had been six months since her father passed away. Right at the end of the summer. They had come back home from another family vacation but something was wrong with her father. He was sick or hurt, she can't fully remember which. She actively tried to preserve his memory from before and not let it get overshadowed by the image of him in the hospital, growing weak and small and grey. She couldn't get rid of that image though, how he noticeable lost the color in him and turned a morbid grey before her eyes. 

As Melissa sat in her room listening to the pounding rain stuck staring at her empty phone she let any and all memories come to her of her father. Good, bad, sad, happy, anything. She had felt numb ever since the funeral and it only got worse as time went on. She wanted to feel something, even if it was pain because pain told her that she cared, it showed her that she could still feel. She wanted anything, anything but him in the hospital, anything but that. 

Then suddenly she recalled an image of him with her when she was 9 years old. It was donuts with dad at school and her dad had driven her to school, she didn't' have to ride the bus that day. She was so excited because she had never been driven to school by her parents, she felt special and excited to show her dad to her friends, and to eat some donuts. She pulled him from the parking lot by the hand trying to run and carry him with her all the while they both smiled on the bright chilly morning. She wanted to bring him to the cafeteria first but Mrs. Bracken said they had to wait for the others so instead she brought him to her classroom to show him what she had been working on. Some drawings and a poem she wrote but hadn't brought home. After every affirmation from him she hugged him tightly breathing in his old spice deodorant and felt the cold still clinging to his jacket from the outside. He kissed her head and his beard tickled her skin. An announcement went out that the children with their fathers could finally go to the cafeteria to get some donuts and Melissa drug her dad once again through the halls. Laughing and constantly talking about her friends her dad would meet and her teacher and how excited she was to have been driven to school. He simply smiled and nodded letting her whisk him to and fro through the morning. 

Eventually they sat at a table with Melissa's best friend Emily and her father. There was a lot chatter, most of it coming from Melissa and they happily ate donuts. Her father however seemed distracted and  kept looking around surveying the room. He tapped Melissa on the shoulder and pointed to a little boy and girl sitting alone away from the others. Melissa frowned but said nothing. Her father stood up and walked over to them and Melissa mouth half full stood up to follow him, quickly saying see ya later to Emily. Her father sat down and waved to the kids by themselves. They looked up but quickly averted their eyes until Melissa came up behind him. He turned to her and moved his hands, she nodded and turned to the two kids. 

"My dad wants to know if it's okay if we sit with you." Melissa said, already taking her seat and grabbing another donut from the rather untouched box at the table. The boy nodded but gave her father a strange look. Melissa saw this and smiled. "Don't worry he doesn't bite." Eventually the boy and girl warmed up to them and they all sat talking, mostly Melissa, and enjoyed the box of donuts together. Her father smiling and laughing along with them as much as he could until time was up. Another announcement was made and the fathers had to leave. Melissa got up, sugar all around her lips and hugged her dad again leaving sugar on his shirt. He wiped her face and kissed her head again. 

As he walked away he turned at the door and motioned with his hands "I love you" and Melissa signed back. The boy came up behind her and asked, "Why doesn't he talk? Is your dad okay?" 

"He's great, he's just deaf. That's why I do most of the talking for him." Melissa said eyeing another donut not worrying too much about the question. 

"Thank you." the boy said, the girl nodding behind him sheepishly. 

"You're welcome." she said smiling, not realizing then why he had said it. She realized now. 

Back in her room Melissa felt rain hit her crossed legs. It was warm though and not cold like rain should be. Then she realized it was a tear and not rain. The rain had subsided somewhat while she was lost in thought. She could feel something after all, she thought as she sat quietly sobbing on her bed. She wiped her eyes and the image from the dream came back again. She was sitting in the drivers seat of a car toppling over a bridge in slow motion, her father seated next to her quiet like he always was but this time her mind was drawn to his hands and not his face. In the dream he was signing, "I love you". In that instant the weight she felt, the ball on the chain felt like it lost a few of its pounds as she exploded into tears. 

"I miss you so much," she whispered, "I feel like I'm drowning." 

Melissa spent the next few hours attempting to leave her room but to no avail wrapped up in reminiscing about her father and the other small things he had done over he lifetime. All the times he had been there silently watching her, smiling, and loving her in his own way. He had been her best friend, her confidant, and most of all the best father she could ever ask for. But now he was gone and all that remained were the memories and the pain. She wiped another tear from her face and saw a picture sitting on its side on her desk of him and her at her graduation. The memories and the pain, the two things that made it real. The two things that reminded her that she still felt something. All she had left of her father. 

The rain finally stopped at 4 a.m., Melissa had woken up from her dream at midnight and sat in her bed in the relative dark, between lightning flashes for those hours thinking and reminiscing. She started to feel tired again and wanted to fall back asleep so she wrapped herself tighter in her sheets and breathed deeply hoping she'd see her father again in her dreams but hoping this time she wouldn't be in the car, on that bridge, falling. 

The sunlight blinded her as she blinked and covered her face letting the shadow guard her from the light as she caught her surroundings. She was outside her childhood home, where she lived with her grandparents and her father when was still in elementary school. She saw the bus coming up the street and from the house a little girl in yellow and blue ran out to catch it waving back to the house and signing "I love you" to the man in the shade of the porch. The bus drove off leaving the man alone standing with a smile that slowly faded. Melissa ran up to him but felt like her feet were made of lead and her legs were springy like rubber. The image shifted as she felt a weight in her chest. Now she was in the living room, a few years before, the man carrying a smaller girl to her room and kissing her good night. Melissa stood in the hallway and watched as he shut the door and turned to face her. It was a younger version of her father. The beard had no grey and his skin wasn't as worn but the smile was still the same. 

He turned to face her and brought up his hands. "I love you, I'm sorry I'm gone now. I'll never stop loving you. I'll always be with you in your heart." She ran to him and buried her face in his chest turning into the same child he had just put to sleep and began to weep. 

"I miss you so much, daddy. I love you." Melissa wept and she felt him squeeze her and lift her up like he used to when she was little. She saw a tear form in his eye and his mouth opened to speak. 

"I love you Melissa." 

Melissa woke up again, the sun shining in her room. The weight she had felt the night and many days before seemed to slowly dissipate as she pushed herself up from the sheets. She sat at the foot of her bed her head in her hands holding on tightly to the dream, her father's voice, rarely heard, speaking her name still at the forefront. She took in a deep breath and looked quickly from side to side. She was sure she smelled his old spice just then. She jumped up but stopped before reaching her door. It was just a dream, she thought, letting her hand fall, but in the realization the pain didn't return. She put her hand to her chest to feel her heart beat and knew her father was in there. He was still with her and now, in the light of a new day, streaming through the mist of the morning, she felt like she could go on. 

She didn't feel like she was drowning. 

Cryptic VIII

Long days
End slowly
Thoroughly engulfing

Taking sides
Holding onto lies
Inventing new rhymes
Selling old times

Nostalgia wains
Inviting dark stains
Growing bolder in the light
Halting motion in my mind
Taking root deep inside

Enter reprieve
Never leave
Drag me under

Saved by wonder
Open new doors
Offering up my soul
Nights last forever

winter day

a portrait of myself

all painted in grey

shows me the contours

of my soul all frayed

ends keep splitting

like skin in the cold

dry and coarse

brittle broken and old

reflections fade

as i wade through the night

come and stay

please hold me tight

enigma

i see your face in sleep
caressing the pillow
calm and quiet,
lost in a dream

am i there with you
chasing clouds in the open sky
holding you with loving arms
whispering i love you

i am here with you

Book Club - 2018 Reading List

Last year I started a Youtube series called Book Club and recorded two videos before abandoning it.

This year however, I plan on making more videos in that series though because I love books and reading. This year I started with my 2018 reading list.

Here's the video - Book Club - 2018

Next video will be a review of my 2017 reading list and subsequent videos will be about books I've read, books I want to read, and general discussions about books/reading/writing. :)

early mornings

lost in a haze like a
maze for my brain

thoughts are caught and bound
in spider silk of absent sound

all at once i am awake
yet in a slow and tired state

fading away at once
back to dreams of lust

warmth engulfs my form
you're all i yearn for

Thanks, Dad II

I made another rant about metal music to go along with my latest post.

You can find it here.

Metal and Me by No Menthol 

Metal and Me - A Tirade on Heavy Music

I wrote a post a few years ago about metal music and the kind of backlash it can get from the greater world of music listeners and it got a pretty good reception but I want to revisit that topic today.

I've been listening to metal since I was 17. Most people don't count Linkin Park (Nu Metal) or similar bands as "metal" and frankly neither did I as a kid. And when I was young metal music scared me. Namely Slipknot and its fans.

But that's not the point of this. I've been listening to Metal for ten years now and I've been in a Death Metal band for the past five. And I've learned a lot and seen a lot that can happen in the "scene" and the community. And I want to shed some light on those things for people who might not understand the appeal of the type of music we get dressed up in black and bump into eachother for.

To give more context to who I was musically when I was 16, my favorite bands were Taproot, Deftones, and Trapt. Not soft music by any means (for the most part) but not as heavy as some of the stuff I listen to now. I was very much raised on WEBN, a local Cincinnati radio station that plays classic and modern radio rock. Now if you don't know what radio rock is I'll give you an example, Disturbed is radio rock. They are "heavy" in that they play some heavy riffs and their vocals sometimes have screaming. But for the most part they are clean vocals (singing).

When I was in highschool there was a huge boom in the Emo/Screamo genres. Bands like Hawthorne Heights, Silverstein, Senses Fail, My Chemical Romance, and the like were highly popular in the school and online (myspace). Those bands feature a lot of singing but more explicit screaming vocals. High or low pitched, more often than not high pitch, since a big negative remark is that those bands are "whiny".

Anyway, this change of music landscape and wanting to fit in with an ever grown crowd of kids I dabbled in some of that scene. And I liked a lot of it. Silverstein is still one of my favorite bands after ten years.

This is used to illustrate a bit of a shift. In 2006 I also started to listen to some "Metalcore" music like Bullet for My Valentine. Now this was a big shift. Up to this point I wasn't a big fan of screaming vocals. I felt it was grating and I didn't see the appeal.

"How can you understand what they are saying?" comes to mind as a usual retort.

And I also didn't appreciate the "metal" kids at school. They were weird, wore weird clothes and were just weird. A group of people I wouldn't want to be associated with. So much so that when I realized I liked a Slipknot song not realizing it was Slipknot I was upset with myself, afraid I was going to become a weirdo. (Yeah I know, I was a stupid kid. But aren't we all at 14?)

Skip ahead and it's 2007 and I'm watching Fuse, a network like what MTV used to be in the 80's, watching their Top 10 Metal countdown. The song that caught me was My Curse by Killswitch Engage. A band that is very heavy, compared to my old tastes and which features an equal melding of singing and screaming vocals. I remember initially being put off by the screaming but it grew on me quickly and I bought their album.

I call this my turning point because before then most of the music I bought was very radio friendly (Killswitch and bands like them are very very very rarely played on the radio). This one album opened the flood gates on ever increasing interest in metal. It started with them, turned into Metalcore from the late 2000's - early 2010's, and eventually grew to accept more heavier and ultimately darker music.

I was listening to music with no singing at all and I wasn't put off at all. In fact I found myself singing screaming along.

Bands like Whitechapel helped me break into the genre even further so that when 2012 rolled around and my best friend Tony came back from California I approached him about starting a band. And a few months later Kingdoms Burn was born.

Now that I've laid out my personal history with metal, at least the relevant cliff notes, I can talk about WHY.

"WHY OH WHY DO YOU LISTEN TO THAT DEVIL MUSIC!?"

Let me start off by saying that most metal bands now and in the past used Satan worship as a way to piss off Christians. Most if not all metal musicians are normal, none Satan worshiping people. The imagery is used to incite fear in those we don't care for and to entice people we want to entertain. It's all a show.

Now, for the music itself, most people starting out don't understand how we can listen to that "noise" or say "do you even know what they are saying?"

Which is understandable. Do you know what this guy is saying? Senseless Massacre by Rings of Saturn

To tell you the truth I didn't know what he was saying for the most part but it sounds cool. And that's the big thing. Music of any sort, whether it be pop or show tunes or rap appeals to our senses in some form. It makes us feel happy or sad or inspired. The same goes for metal music.

Metal for a lot of people is used as a way to let out aggression in a healthy way.

"But mosh pits are just big fights!" says the uneducated.

Well you're wrong. If you watch a pit, there are sometimes crazy crowd killers also known as asshats but the pit is most often filled with people all wanting to let off some steam but don't want to hurt others. In any instance if you see someone fall, no matter whats going on, the crowd stops to help him/her up and brush them off so they can once again partake in the fun.

"Okay, but I still don't understand the words."

To this I would say, how many pop songs choruses have you messed up over the years? Sang the wrong things because you couldn't necessarily hear what they were saying? That all comes down to how far into learning their words you want. But even beyond that sometimes it doesn't really matter what they are saying.

For me and many others it's about the emotions that are incited in you as you listen. I feel elation from a massive breakdown, a surge of energy during a speed riff or solo, and wonderment during expansive melodic compositions. Metal has incited every emotion in me. Sadness when it's a song about lamentation, joy from a funny song or part in a song, anger or the catharsis of releasing pent up anger during a chuggy breakdown and calm when a song breaks into an expansive mindscape of sound.

Like I said before, Metal, like any music, incites emotion and though Metal, for the most part, appeals to the aggressive nature of men there are women who enjoy it and get the same emotions/catharsis that men.

Biologically men are more aggressive and the music is fueled by that aspect.

Why else would you have a song that sounds like this? Or this? Or even this?

Even still it can be and is enjoyed by anyone and everyone without any exclusion.

While I don't expect anyone to give metal a try after this tirade I hope that maybe some people can see metal musicians/fans as people just like you. People that want emotional outlets but instead of finding it in a Taylor Swift song or a Kendrik Lamar song, they find it in Ingested or The Black Dahlia Murder.

We are people too. <3 nbsp="" p="">

Lost At Sea

When I was 19 my friends and I wanted to start a band called Skies of Lies. I was to be the singer and we were going to be metalcore (think Alesana at the time) band with my buddy Cody as the screamer/guitarist and Kyle as the other guitar. We attempted to record a cover song but I was never confident in my vocal ability so that eventually fell through.

In 2011, I was the "manager" of my childhood friends band, For The Fairest. I was more of a glorified roadie than anything but I grew close with them and learned their songs. I eventually ended up directing a music video for them. You can check that out here.

One night at The Underground, a music venue in Ohio, I got on stage with them and sang the breakdown of their last song. I had never A. been on stage like that before and B. screamed metal/hardcore vocals before really, specifically in front of an audience. When I got off the stage an old friend of mine said "You're really good at that, you should be in a band." The thought hadn't really crossed my mind. To me, musically, I always wanted to sing, actually sing, not scream. But with that bit of confidence boosting feedback I decided to entertain the idea, if only in my mind.

I spoke with For The Fairest about being their second vocalist, taking the screaming over for their singer, but they declined. They eventually ended the project soon after. And I was without a musical outlet. I still had the idea in my head though.

At the end of 2012, having moved out of my first apartment and having my friend Tony back from California, and knowing full well of his musical background, we recorded a fun song back in college together, I approached him about my band idea. I'd be the vocalist and he'd be guitarist.

In the next months Kingdoms Burn was created.

Over the next few years KB would write and release an EP, recruit new members, write a full length album and play a smattering of shows in the Northern Kentucky/ Ohio area. Which was fun and fulfilling but my original wishes, of being a singer and not a screamer, still pulled at my heart.

In 2013-14, I wrote more and more songs about life and love and woe. Stuff I couldn't use with KB because it didn't fit the metal aesthetic. So I wrote them and shelved them. I created a moniker for myself or for the band, if it ever became that called Lost At Sea.

I had been dealing with depression and anxiety a lot back then and felt Lost At Sea was a good fit for what I was trying to portray.

I posted the lyrics to one of my first songs under that moniker, Dreams of Machines, which in turn is also the working title for my novel.

The only thing that's been stopping me from actually recording one of these few songs I've written is my own singing ability. I've always hated my singing voice but felt that with practice and hard work I could do something. Now, in 2018, I feel it might be possible to do it. I'm more confident in my singing ability than I've ever been and have the means.

I hope I can release a song as Lost At Sea, and finally fulfill my dream, of singing. Who knows.

Dreams of Machines by Lost At Sea

Falling back into these old rhythms

Playing dead with your face on my mind

Gears turn in time, humming sweet rhymes

Getting taken on the ride of my life

I’m lost in these dreams of machines

Frantically clinging to these fleeting ideas

I hope these wings can carry the wind

(blowing smoke) isn’t my means to an end

We take these days all in stride

You are my pride

Waking up with these clouds on my eyes

Covered closely by the birds in the sky

We float along sailing on the breeze

Never knowing what worlds we’ll see

I’m lost in these dreams of machines

Frantically clinging to these fleeting ideas

I hope these songs can carry the wind

Blowing smoke isn’t my means to an end

High above the pain and confusion

We sail away far away.

Lost among the wires and illusions

We stray away far away

I’m lost among these dreams of machines

Frantically clinging to these fleeting ideas

We sailed away hoping for a fresh start

We succeeded, this is my means to the end

Hear I am, holding the world in my hands. 

Whisper In My Ear

My old muses have died and been buried in the dark. Heaped under clothes piled high on the corner of the bed. Lost in the cold and silence of that cage.

Her name, my dark muse, is Ash. She caked my skin and filled my lungs. Weighing me down and keeping me low. I felt the dust irritate my skin and my eyes. I needed to cast her aside but she clung to me tightly.

She had a sister, who was cold and bit equally deep into my skin. They locked me into solitude, deep in my hole, but they gave me fuel. Fuel for the pen which I'd pour onto the page.

Those muses are gone from me, cast away and buried deep. Now replaced by a new muse. One of warmth and light, that lifts and embraces with love not contempt. I hope she stays with me.

Pilot Light

We're entering into a wasteland of ghosts and lost hope. There is only one way Marshall knows how to stay sane in this lonely world and its with the help of a radio.

A new project on the horizon follows Marshall Pope as he attempts to stay sane in a world of isolation with on the help of an old radio station and his love for music and books.

Keep an eye and ear out for stories/broadcasts from Marshall as he keeps the Pilot Light on.

...thanks Dad.

I started recording rants with my new microphone. The first one I did is an unhinged and rambling tirade about streaming, vlogging, and our lives on the internet.

There's no structure, hopefully in the future that will change but I doubt it. Planning never really bears fruit for me I've found.

I won't say there will be a schedule to these or that i'll make many, but here is the first one.

Streaming by No Menthol

Driving Force

There have been very few times in my life where I've felt an extreme urge to complete something. A driving force and an unalienable motivation to complete a task. Most recently this was manifest in my first trip to England.

I needed more than anything to go and do whatever it took to get there. I quit a job, took on two more, worked constantly, slept terribly, didn't eat, sold my stuff, and saved up my money to make sure I could make the trip. I had a singular drive to do this, more than I've ever felt to accomplish something.

Even then there were a lot of mental obstacles to overcome but despite those they didn't hold me back from doing what I needed to. I felt it deep in my soul that I needed to do this. And I did it.

Now again I'm at the point where I wished I had unadulterated motivation and drive. Sadly it is mostly absent. I'm at a place where I need to make a choice, a life altering choice but I'm floundering. I wish I had that spark I once had to push me forward.

Maybe it's there but the winter is keeping it away. Or maybe it isn't because the driving forces aren't strong enough to make a blind fury in my soul.

For now I'm making plans, setting up goals, and attempting to save my money. We'll see what the future brings.

Suffering

                Three cups of coffee and he still didn’t feel awake. Perhaps it wasn’t the coffee that was meant to make him feel that way. Perhaps it was something else. For the life of him he couldn’t pinpoint the things that made the people around him seem more alive. His eyes slowly traced the place mat in front of him depicting the various food stuffs offered by the little diner he currently sat in, not wishing for the waitress to come up to him to ask what he wanted. He only wanted coffee. He only ever wanted coffee. This was the beginning of his daily routine. The same routine he held in place for the past four years. It started out innocently enough, one morning rushing in for a quick cup of coffee since his coffee maker at home was broken. He vaguely remembered the early days and how the atmosphere made him feel. Looking around at the patrons then made him cringe, they all seemed to have a downtrodden look, a defeated look. He silently hoped to himself that he wouldn’t one day share that same expression.

                Now four cups into his stupor, he realized he did. To his dismay however he seemed to be the only one that way now. He lazily brought his attention from the place mat to the group of people sitting at the booth next to him. They were laughing, grinning and carrying on about the night before, or perhaps the Saturday night or who knows. Their glee bounced off his melancholic exterior and fell to the floor by his unpolished shoes. What had happened to him? Why was he looking for comfort, looking for life at the bottom of a coffee cup at a corner street diner?

The tip he left was meager, only some change from his pocket. He knew it wasn’t polite to leave pocket change, but he thought it ruder to leave nothing. He wasn’t sure how the waitress felt, frankly he didn’t care. Just another piece of the routine. The slow and steady pace he took to work only helped to strengthen this mood. His heart seemed to only beat at half time, barely pushing the blood through to his brain and his muscles. More of a slow churning of sludge then a pumping of blood. It was cold too, not warm like it used to be. Not even the piping hot coffee swirling around in his stomach could heat up the sludge enough to make it move a little faster.

                A sharp pain cut through his side. He clenched his fist as his feet fell out of their shambling rhythm and he winced. That same pain he had been feeling for a few months, it came and went. This time it bit hard. What organ was over there? He tried to think. He could never remember. No matter how many times he’d look it up or try to remember his old high school anatomy books. Was it the kidney? No those were in the back. The liver? What side was it on? The pain pulsed again for a second longer this time. Long enough to make him pause his crawl across the sidewalk and take a breath against a bench. He decided to sit and compose himself. He still had another mile to trek. After a few long seconds, the pain in his side was replaced by the pain in his feet. Old shoes tend to do that. The soles were worn out and he could feel the ground more easily. To some, feeling the ground might make you feel more connected to the world. He read once that natives didn’t wear foot coverings to feel the vibrations of the earth. To feel it “breathing” as the article had put it. All he felt was a sense of shame. A level of shame only brought on by abject poverty. The sad thing was he wasn’t impoverished. He only looked that way. He also felt that way.

                It turned out the bench he sat at was a bus stop. The bus hissed as it came to a rolling stop before him and it pulled him out of his mental self-bombardment long enough for him to notice the door was open, seemingly waiting for him. The driver gave him a few quick glances and motioned for him to board. Instead of shooing it away, since it wasn’t going the right direction anyway, and he wanted to be left alone, he slowly rose from his seat, reached into his pocket, found enough dollar bills, not used for the waitress’ tip, and entered the bus. The door slapped shut behind him and he took the first available seat. Dumping the weight of his body harshly down as if he were a bag of trash being tossed into the street. The world around him buzzed past as he stared blankly out the window. He’d be late for work for sure this time. The realization didn’t harm him in that moment, he was happy to be moving without having to use his sore feet.

                Where to get off? Back at his little apartment? Greeted by his roommate who wasn’t gone yet for the day? What would he say to him? Would he scold him like a parent scolding a child for missing school? Would he give him no attention? Which would hurt worse? These and other thoughts swam around his skull as the bus started and stopped ten times from his little bench towards the outskirts of the city. Maybe he’d get off the bus and walk home, giving his roommate more time to leave so they wouldn’t cross paths. At that thought his feet pulsed with pain. Better not.

                The bus came to another stop, his stop, and he pulled himself up. The pain in his side pulsed again and it made him jerk violently. The bus driver paid no mind, simply waiting for him to exit the bus so their routine could be kept intact. Outside the “comfort” of the bus the wind wiped past him and his not thick enough coat. Autumn was giving way to winter faster than he had hoped. Soon he’d have to buy a thicker coat. He let out a little chuckle at the thought. He wouldn’t buy the coat. He’d endure. Or suffer. That’s it, he’d suffer in the cold. A self-inflicted punishment for something. Something he didn’t control but he knew he deserved. The thought of suffering painted a weak smile on his face. How morbid. He smiled wider. Comfort in suffering. Comfort in knowing one’s place. Comfort in that kind of routine.  The pain cut again but this time he smiled as he winced. Another form of suffering that he’d rather embrace then try to fix. Pain in his feet, pain in his side, pain in his mind. A part of him he didn’t want to get rid of. He knew what it felt like to truly feel nothing. At least the pain reminded him he was still alive, whatever that meant.

                His roommate was still home. He hadn’t waited long enough. They passed each other in the hall. No words exchanged in person. Only from down the hall, as if over the phone. Disconnected, without feeling.

                “Sick?” he called from the kitchen.

                “Yea.” A lazy reply before the bedroom door shut. The only interaction he’d have today, hopefully. Sadly. The warmth he left in his bed this morning still lingered. But so did the pain. The pain that accompanied waking from a dream and realizing it was only a dream. His pillow still damn with sweat. A year or two ago it used to be damp with tears. Tears didn’t fall anymore. The darkness of his room was bearing down on him. He felt its weight pushing him down into the old bed. The bed that had formed a hole for him to sink into every night. A casket, form fitting. Made just for him.

                A faint buzz came from his pocket. His phone was attempting to connect him to someone. “Work” flashed across the screen. His heart sank, he didn’t want to be connected. He let the light die away then he opened up his email, sent a note entailing the severity of his “sickness” and fell back into the bed. That should tide them over until tomorrow at least. Tomorrow when he’d have to start this routine again. Over and over again. His eyes danced around the room looking from object to object. The little things he bought to surround himself with all staring at him blankly not willing to help him out. His old records, his book shelf of half read books, his posters, his collectible action figures, his random bobbles, covered in dust. His eyes finally rested on his side table. The alarm clock that roused him from dreams to this hell every morning, a cup and a plate from three nights ago he neglected to clean up, his phone, and a bottle of pills. He reached for them now. Sleeping pills. Prescription. Not for him, but for his brother. Stolen. He took one at night, two if he was feeling more insomniatic than normal. Now he dumped half the bottle into his hand, he counted six. Would six be enough? To sleep…to not wake up?

                This is the moment he would usually be bombarded by images of friends, family, the “good times”, fantasies of the future, and a willingness to suffer just a little bit longer should things ultimately change. Today, that didn’t happen. All he had now was the black room, the hole in his bed, and the handful of pills. A tear formed in his eye because nothing mustered to save him at that moment. A tear unaccompanied by a whimper. Just a single solitary tear. Was this the moment? Could he really let his self-inflicted suffering end this way? The suffering he almost relished for its existence. The world he occupied would be different would it not? For him, he could occupy a dream. For the rest? Who knows? Who cares…who cares?

                He reached for the table once more, the cup would still have some liquid in it for sure. His hand stretched forth and grasped what his mind sought to grasp. His fingers didn’t work right, he was afraid he’d drop it. Their strength almost seemed to fail him when he needed them most. But he pressed them firmly as he could. A second passed, then another, then ten more.

                “Hello?” a connection was made. Her voice was tired, he must have woken her up from sleep.

                “Mom?” his voice broke.

                “Honey? What is it?” Her voice more roused having heard his break.

                “I need help.” His voice cracked as the tears finally came. The pills fell silently to the floor, masked by the sounds of his sobs. The pillow was once again wet from tears. Tears of pain, of sadness, of fear. Tears of hope.  

drifts

The cold of winters
takes all I have from me
Snows can't hide
the footsteps on the ground

Things will never change
though they change all the time
Nothing has changed;
everything is different

Little Update - Jan.

I bought a microphone and I hope to start making podcasts again. I'm thinking of ideas aside from must blindly talking into the microphone. Who knows, maybe I'll hit another roadblock like I did in 2016 that killed my old idea.

I'm hoping as well that this winter isolation I feel will hold back its intensity. Finding the motivation in dark rooms and cold days is tough. Yearning for those that aren't an arms length away but farther. I long for their warmth and their voice in my ears.

I'm attempting something that I don't know very well and I'm sure I'll fail again and again as I proceed, but as long as I can keep trying I guess it'll be okay.

Only time will tell.

The Cycle

I've published 200 posts and have been writing in this blog, more of an online journal at times, for over 7 years. I started this blog in my college apartment and was lamenting about girls and a failed relationship and now, most recently, I've been delving deeper and deeper into poetry and more contextual writing endeavors.

This blog has been cathartic for me, a cry for help in many ways, a way to dump my destructive and creative thoughts. I've cried while writing in it, laughed while writing in it, lost myself in some posts and felt embarrassed by others.

If anyone went back and started from the beginning, I don't recommend this, they'd hopefully see an evolution. A change of ideas, feelings, and a growth from then to now.

They'd see the destructive side of depression but also the creative that lies within the darkness. I've written some of the best words while in dark places but I hope now that I can write more while in the light.

Here's to another 7 years of ups and downs, more growth and hopefully a publication.

dreamless

I'm thinking in a more poetic mind. Short and stilted. Emotional and incoherent. Raw and unclear. 

I hope the long form isn't dead in me. For now it's quiet, sleeping dreamless. 

Cryptic VII

All along
Making motions

Intervals integrate

Temptations thrive
Healing hands
Envious entities

Outright oneness
Never needed
Escape existence

inside

In a world without you
the sun still shines
but does it shine as bright?
Will I still hold its light?

Do I even care that it isn't night
when it feels dark on the inside?

escape

of the times i've spent
wishing for this to end
i never expected my
days to reach a head
stuck between one place
and another instead 

I hope for the passage of
all that i can't escape

a rupture of reality
structures always fail me
i'm always stuck inside you see
i can't help feel insanity
escape is all that's left for me
i hope one day you'll finally see
all of this pain i've left in me
isn't all there is kept in me

俳句

the woods call me out
from hiding spots in the dark
bring me home to you

~~~

winds whip past us all
carry change and pain and fear
let go of the past

~~~

i see with blank eyes
staring listful to the north
bring me there with you

~~~

captured in still time
pictures fill me with self doubt
memories don't fade

~~~

voice in my ear speak
tell me of lost lonely dreams
cold tickles my toes