I Should Have Known Better

I was stone before I met her
Built strong from the tried ravages of an maniacal, angry ex-love
I did not let the world get to me
I was strong, I was angry, I was empty to the world
One after another there would be others who asked where we stood
My reply would be sent with no clue and empty promises
I would lose sleep while always trying
Telling myself I was grown up. I was grown up. I was awake.
Then I met her, a curve ball on the open field throwing off my balance
Someone I felt that I had a connection with, someone that didn't make me feel
That emptiness that has been eating away at my core, at my soul, at who I was
She made me feel like it was okay to feel so broken, like the toys of my childhood
That instead of focusing on the noose I knotted, I was focusing on being
Who I am again, that same dorky, child at heart, wishing and dreaming of better

I was stone before I met her
But I trusted and opened and bled and tried and keep on trying
I never anticipated this
This was not in the plan, this was not the course that I set up
She's on my mind and I can't stop obsessing
I know that she's scared of me like I'm scared of me and that's scary
My past has made my present and my future seems fucked
That I am ashamed and I am angry and I am frustrated and I am loathing
Myself. All with myself.
I trusted and maybe if I take my head out of my dark place I will see clearly
and know that I shouldn't trust, never trust

I was stone before I met her
Made of cold concrete with cracks that aren't structurally damaging
Depression is a real thing.
It's like swimming in tar, you either stay calm and slowly sink or struggle and go down faster
But I talk and I try and I try and I keep trying to win her heart
I'm told to be patient and see where it goes
But what if I'm afraid of time and of patience?
It always goes south on my part it always turns out bad I always make things worse

I was stone before I met her
She soon stopped talking to me as much
Blank texts met with silence or short responses
That things fall through and I haven't seen her in months
I was always scared of trusting anyone and I never wanted to trust anything
I miss her now and I wish I wasn't who I was
I'm scared shitless when I am with her and when I talk to her
I am scared of opening up and trying to win her heart
But I work with the fear and find excitement with her, excitement and fear

I was stone before I met her
I should have known better

A Letter to Myself: Poetry or A Promise?

Dear you,

I have found myself, dear readers, staring intently at my blank word documents hoping for something to be born on the page. I have dedicated countless hours to my random work I wish is poetry, countless hours to improve what I have written in past. Then, then I post it here, for all of you to see, for hopefully anyone out there to see. I write for some sense of therapy, for some sort of solace that maybe my life is not pointless and maybe, just maybe, I won't find myself at the end of a noose. One that i crafted for myself with every sour thought at my expense or hurt that I feel.

Why do I bring this up? Because it has to be. How am I to grow as a writer, as a person, if I can't throw my life on a page for the world to see? To perform and craft the words that are swirling in my mind? I'l fucking try. I will fucking try.

I have made some serious changes in my life over the past couple years. And now I am stuck. I am finding myself stuck back in my head, in my thoughts, lost. My only peace has been in writing these words that you have read. In the words that I am writing now.

Getting to my point of this; I am tired of waiting. I am bursting at the seams with all the stories I wish to tell, to share with you. In the last month I have committed a lot of time to revamping the stories I cherished after I wrote them. In another couple weeks, that will come to a close. In a couple weeks I will start then on what I want to be my breakout. I will sweat, I will cry and I will bleed for this. To take a hold of my dream and mean something to myself.

This project has been on my mind for some time now. Something that I think will be something that anyone could read and find some sort of comfort in. A place to hide for few minutes, a world to cherish for a time, a story to keep you wanting it to grow. It will be broken into two parts (books?) and when it is done, I will put more than anything into getting it out to the world.

I'm excited and nervous. Scared to death, more like. When it leaves my mind, it's no longer mine. It's yours and I only want you to cherish and enjoy what YOU find in it. Whether your an avid book lover, a casual reader, a passerby in a busy bookshop/coffee shop, or a quiet child reading a book in his home, finding the beauty in words.

The most I wish to share about it is probably just the title. So, to end this letter, this promise to myself: Prepare for "Generation: Lost".

-reader, creator, person

Fake Smiles in a Crowded Room

I feel the weight in all of your words

The constant edge in the sharpness of your tongue

I trivial expectation of what it means to be content

Found in the pace you set when the going gets rough

Let it be repetitive when I sing for you in my rage

My hands are shaking as they form their own fists

Objectified for the last time when I strive for respect

I am part of the dying generation of creative works

When the world has left us behind for something more cold

It's so much worse when it feels like I don't belong here

In a crowded space filled with the fake smiles around me

We gave up our souls for a financial comfort blanket

Is it so bad if I don't want to be a part of it after all?

In the end it means so much deeper that I care for you

I know you hate it when you fill those spaces with falseness

To be fake for the betterment of your stance in society

I just want to mean so much deeper that you won't have to

Fake it here, when the world is full of that enough

Song for Pretty Eyes

There's no point to sing aloud to this song
When the chorus never made any sense
Maybe it's wrong to write so many words
Hoping that at least one has some sense of beauty

With your voice I attempted to capture it
Put it to use so that I could write you a love letter
Where I talk about how your blue eyes have me stuck
As your fingertips caress my arm

There's no point to sing aloud to this song
While the bridge is so far away
Maybe it's wrong to think I deserve your gaze
Hoping that maybe I'd be worth your time

Guess I'm just bad luck
My words are just that
Better to have luck than none at all

What If I Had to Say Goodbye?

I troubled my heart on this face for so long
Then I grew up thinking I've always been wrong
I ended up tripping over my own pace
Just to want to disappear without a trace

Clean up my mess so that I had a better chance
I'm sure that I never deserved a second glance
Cut your losses and fade deeper into black
Never sure if I'll ever come back

My father said don't go too far where even I can't save you
Judge yourself and make your pain tag along when you do
Pop your pills and try not to care anymore
It never mattered really anymore

The voice in your head, your conscience never quiet
There's no point if you just let it
I'm sure it's never enough
We all knew I was never enough

Double Daily Dose of Poetry

A lot of Nerve:

Sharp feel the heavy weight that you bear up on your shoulders
Are you half the man that you felt you'd be when you grew up?
Most time these days I feel the frustration of not living a life filled

I guess I'm angry for most of the decisions I've made
Most days I am shaking my hands and hanging my head
This isn't what I wish I was doing with my life after school

I'm used up goods and know that I'm jaded for my remaining years
Afraid to pursue what I want and make those bigger leaps
Takes a lot of nerves to want to speak my mind in written words

I blame you who never will be named again for these halts
I can't make a move forward without choking on fresh air
When I stop to think of how I feel split in two

To be self aware that it's all in my head
There's nothing I can do to break free of my noose
Losing sleep because I feel like I'm not worth the time

What I want is not important when the world is so far gone
That I'm just another stone in someone's life
Trip over me and keep moving on, I feel so blue

Changing over every moment for sadness or anger
I try my best to not drag any of you down with me
Filled with angst like I fall back into my youth

You have a lot of nerve to write these words for everyone to see
You have a lot of nerve to hope that things will change
You have a lot of nerve to want anything from life



Her poem:

When you smile my heart my beat out of my chest
She says I must be patient to see what happens to the rest
I'm feeling it disappear slowly, don't you?

Is it so bad if I feel this way and don't want it to end?
I'm scared that I'm easily replaced right around the bend
You have to know I have more stock in this

I never anticipated you to happen at this point in life
There's a war going on in my mind filled with strife
I'm not so sure what I could do to change things

There's no cure for when I feel your finger tips on my arm
Swear all time slows when those sensations tend to disarm
My nerves will never cease to be strung out

Catching a smile after each kiss, thinking that I'm important
That now my mind is running endlessly rampant
When you're up close I don't want you to fall away

And I wish you'd just stay for even one night
We could talk it out and I could use my might
To stop biting my tongue and share what I want to say

You're someone I don't want to regret and fade away
Moving on and saying the time we spent was astray
But I always tend to make things worse, I still do

I just hope you'd just call and I could say what's on my mind
To break free of this day to day mental barrier grind
Just say that I am worth your time

The Open Seat beside You

The Open Seat beside You

              He holds her hand now. As she rests in the bed provided for her, he is thinking of letting go for only a moment to use the bathroom. Seems harder than it should to just let go of a simple thing like a hand. Here they are, together as usual, she and he. If only it were under different circumstances. As he moves from her bedside he takes notice of all the electronics surrounding her, all the tubes and lines going to and from her being.

              The bathroom is tiny and typical enough for a hospital. He thought it only smart to get her into a private room. All the time he would spend here justified it plenty. Going to the sink je turns on the cold water, he hopes that the brisk sensation will wake him up; it is going to be a long night. Looking up from the stream of water from the faucet he meets his eyes in the mirror. The water leaves its after effect on the aged face. The water reflects the light where the skin has thinned and aged, where the wrinkles have set in, and brings more focus to the bags under his old eyes.

              Anthony Graves met her for the first time by circumstance, dumb luck, chance or what some may call fate. Sitting on the rustling subway train on his journey back to his apartment. Nothing running through his mind other than the music that played from his phone. The ear buds resting in his ears, he closed his eyes and drifted into the melodies.

              His daze was interrupted by a sudden poking on his cheek. Surprised he jumped, and opened his eyes in response.

              “Sorry to scare you, I was just curious if anyone was sitting in this seat.” She laughed as she said this and then pointed to the seat beside him. He couldn’t say anything at first being awe struck by the long red hair and the green eyes before him. She raised her eyebrow and gave him a look of confusion.

              “Y-Yeah it’s open,” he said, moving his bag from the seat beside him.

              “Thanks!”

              “Yeah, no problem.”

              The entire time that they both sat there, Anthony couldn’t help but catch as many glances of her as possible. Her hair was long and vibrant in color, with highlights of a lighter shade streaked throughout it. The random flicker of lights did not disrupt her milky skin. He started to feel sort of creepy, he was paying way too much attention to her, but could not help it. When the next stop came by and other got off, the gust blew across them both. He caught wind of her perfume, it was ever so light. It smelled of sweet tones and flowers. She wasn’t too much shorter than he, he stood six feet tall, and she maybe was a few inches smaller. You couldn’t tell most of the time due to his slouched posture. He sat there in wonder of who she was. Despite this he couldn’t muster up the gall to ask her. The train then came to a stop and he saw her rise up and get ready to go out to her stop.

              “Thanks again for the seat,” she said as she waved and left. Before he could say anything in return she was gone and the doors to the train closed shut. He stood and went to the door and saw her image disappear into the crowds of people that began to shift from the movement.

              The next few days he would take his usual route to and from work and home. These times, though, he kept an eye out for her. Each day nothing and he sulked slightly in his seat, he wished he could see her again and this time find out her name. The more he thought on it the more he wondered what he would say to her after knowing her name. His thoughts were then interrupted by a soft voice and a tapping on his head.

              The view from the mirror left its impression on him. The hair that was once a soft brown was now grayed and silvered throughout. He laughs at the sight of the old man looking back, strange what the years can do, eh? Wiping his face with the towel beside the sink he reaches for the door and sees her sleeping. The heart rate monitor still beeping at a usual pace.

              He decides that now is a good time to get some air, while she sleeps. He walks out of the room and back into the fluorescent lighted halls of the hospital. People moving up and down the hall; doctors, patients, nurses and orderlies alike.

              He goes on to the front doors and stands outside, snow on the ground and the light from the stars trying to break through the glow of the hospital building. The smell of rubbing alcohol and cleansers of the building exhales outward every time someone leaves or enters.  With every moment that passes in this cold he feels more and more heavy, knowing what is to come.

              Anthony’s brother passed away some years after meeting her. A long fight with cancer had finally ended and with it nothing good came along. Nights in bars and drinking more and more heavily lead to either a fight in the streets or a fight in the home. Curses and slurs slung every which way. Tears and hoarse voices prevailing till the midnight hours. She wanted nothing more than for his hurt to cease. He told her he wanted nothing more than for it all to end. She and Anthony wanted to see things differently.

              The night after the funeral, Anthony sat by himself on the couch she had bought for their first home together. He looked straight at the blank screen of the turned off TV. He wasn’t sure what to think. His eyes fell down to stare at the couch he sat on. There he felt his rage build. He hated the couch; the color, the felt, the collected hair from his and her, it was too much. It was with a large sigh that he stood up and flipped the couch over, cursing more than he ever thought he could.

              “God damn it! I hate this fucking couch! I hate it!” He yelled. It was with those curses that she came back into the room. Still dressed in the black gown she had bought, she begged for an explanation.

              “I am tired of this couch! I don’t know why we even bought it. I hated it and you knew it. Even when my brother came over all he could talk…” He stopped there, that night, mid-sentence, never saying another word. Instead he dropped down to his knees and rested his back against the wall beside the TV. He stretched his legs out and hung his head. She didn’t say a word, as mysterious as ever to him, that she never said a thing after that. Instead she sat beside him, put her hand on his nick and rubbed the tense area where the skull and spine met. She never left his side, she never let him fall too low.

              The cold is finally enough for him to handle. He wraps his arms under his pits and walks back through the automated doors. The light is like refreshment, a sudden shock to the sense that the luminous inflicted. The hallway isn’t as busy as he works his way back to her. Only stopping to by a drink from the vending machine.

              He returns to the room and sees her slumbering comfortably. He sits back in the chair beside her bed. He lies back and stares at her body lightly lifting with each breath. Her hair has now too become the same silver and grayed strands he carries. Even now he loves her more and more with each moment since he first saw her. A swelling in his chest makes him feel light again. Something only she seems to afflict in him. His trance intensifies when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He sees the caller ID read: “Tyler”.

              The afternoon had been a long one for both Anthony and her. Many hours surrounded by doctors and now they were finally alone. Now with their son, after so much time he thought. Lying on the bed she held their child in her arms and he could do nothing but stare at the scene before him. The sun setting in the distance shone its last lights through the cracks in the blinds. Reflecting orange warmth in her eyes. He lost himself in them then, like he always had. Drowned in a sea of colors afloat by her arms.

              “Have any name ideas yet?” She laughed.

              “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

              “Well we should give him a strong name. He’ll benefit from it.”

              “How do you figure?”

              “That way he won’t have a silly nickname in school.”

              “A SILLY nickname? You can make any name sound silly!” He smiled at her. Poking fun at her even then. She just looked at him with a look that said it all: ‘Oh don’t you start!’

              “Well what do YOU have in mind?”

              “How about after my grandfather?”

              “Joseph? C’mon now, how many Josephs are out their anyway?”

              “I like it.”

              “Well you like week old pizza, so I pick the name.”

              “Fair enough… “They both laughed loud enough to hush at the sound of a stirring babe.

              “I say… Tyler.”

              “Where did you get that one?”

              “From my favorite movie: Fight Club.” Anthony couldn’t believe how serious she was. “This way you get your boring name and I get a kick ass movie reference.”

              “Tyler Joseph then?” He proposed.

              “I like it.”

              “Hello?” He answers to his son’s call. They have arrived at the hotel and are fully checked in. His sister has also gotten a room so that they are in close contact. Carpooling is an option for tomorrow. It isn’t too far from the hospital and the grandkids can enjoy an indoor pool to tide them during the trip.

              “That’s good. Well she’s asleep still but if she wakes tonight, I’ll let her know you all got settled.” The grandkids haven’t seen her yet. There is always tomorrow.

              “I love you too, son. Give the kids some hugs.” He assures them they will all enjoy some of the subpar hospital food in the morning and wishes them a goodnight.

              After hanging up he returns to his warmed seat beside her. She is still breathing steadily. He hopes it is a good dream she is venturing through. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He thinks of the song they dance to some time ago. The melody is slowly rocking him to sleep. He feels his heart move along to the beat and his soul flies alongside it. He is alongside her in body and spirit, dancing to Sinatra and Coldplay. She is smiling he is in his own form of heaven. His dream is interrupted by a familiar voice and a poking on his cheek.

              “Sleeping on the job again?” He opens his eyes to see her awake, looking out to him with warm eyes.

              “Only for a minute. Gotta get my beauty sleep, looking this good takes work even in the dreamscape.”

              “For shame!” She laughs at him, poking fun at him like she always does.

              “How are you feeling?”

              “Like that night in Jersey.”

              “That bad, eh? He smiles, feeling each wrinkle scrunching.

              “At least I won’t have any bruises all over my legs from tripping on the dance floor, like that night.”

              “Or me passing out on the couch.”

              “Well, see that is more of you sleeping on the job!”

              “You got me.” He smiles at her. She returns it in full.

              The next day comes and with it, nothing good. She is gone now. In the middle of the night she went off in a dream. Only this time it was without him. No longer the light movement of her being as she breathed. He sits there and stares at the empty bed where she lay, no more than a night ago. The nurse comes in and asks if he would like to see any of the family. Just the son and daughter will do.

              They enter, a man standing tall with dark brown hair, and a woman tall and thin like her mother, with the same red hair but his blue eyes. They come to him with tears in their eyes and sit beside their father, hand in hand to mourn together.

              The funeral is short and sweet, like how she would have wanted. Living life was an important matter to her. “Don’t become hung up on the trials that life would throw at you,” she would say. They all sit there beside the small, engraved plaque on the ground as she is buried in her urn. The sun is out. To him it is as though he knew that she is better off now. No anger this time, no resorting to crumbling, and no more wanting it all to end.

              When he returns to their home, it is not the same space. Something is lacking. He walks into the middle of the living room. He turns about and looks at every single corner. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s enough of a lack to make him tear.

              This night he is lying on the left side of the bed. The sheets are still tucked in on the right. This leaves him with little blankets to cover with, but he does not make a move to un-tuck them.

              The next day he goes over all the things in his home, more and more he counts what belonged to her. It seems as though everything here has some sort of tie back to her, in every little way. He stands there again; amongst the home they had built together, observing every little bit of a mural to her. ‘Where do I go now?’ he wonders. ‘What do I do?’ he then sits on the velvet of the couch he always hated.

              One year is passed and he is facing a new dilemma. Where did he put the oatmeal? The grandkids are here and breakfast cannot wait any longer. Hungry mouths need to be fed! They only get to visit every now and then.

             

              When they leave to return home, he closes the door behind him and faces again the house that has changed so much to him, but little in its actual appearance. The couch that he always hated is now gone and replaced with a new one. It is the only thing he could think of to rid of after her passing. Despite it being hers, he makes one sole attempt to move on. All her little cookie jars in every shape or character you can think of still in line up along the walls on the shelves he built. The creepy stuffed monkey doll she bought at the store when Tyler was born still sits in the rocking chair that belonged to his great grandmother. Their bedroom still remains the same color of lily purple, the windows still draped in large curtains. Their wedding photos still along the mantle. All of these things have stayed the same, but the couch is gone. He doesn’t know entirely why only it has left along with her, but he knows it may be best that one thing changes only.

              That night he goes to bed and still sleeps only on the left side, a pillow to fill the empty space beside him. It is no substitute he still thinks. He tears up only a little, but smiles to still be able to catch her scent in the sheets. Light it may be but the strongest sense that is tied to memory is scent, and this is a memory worth every ounce. He holds the pillow close to him and drifts to sleep.

              There he thinks of the life they shared and can feel it make him restless. His mind drifts to the good she left behind, the son and daughter that went on to start their families. A family that will still go on after they have. He feels the weight lift and mumbles in his sleep her name. How silly he thinks: A boy sitting on a stinking subway train looking for the girl who stole his sight. His dream continues on, even after a voice calls out to him.

              “Is this seat taken?”