Missing Pieces

Sometimes I wonder what might have been had my tears not fallen untouched.  If you had said yes instead of I'm sorry, how would these last ten years have played out?  It isn't your fault but it hardened my heart, made me a bit cold.  I shared everything with you and on that dreadful day you took a piece of me, hopefully you keep it close.  At times I fear it was the best part of me, its almost like I've nothing left to give.  Attempting to get it back I've looked in all directions, searched my soul and come up with nothing.  I don't think there's anything that will ever fill that void, and perhaps there's a side of me that doesn't really want it to.  You've unknowingly given me a perspective I otherwise wouldn't have had.  And for that I thank you.

That's been festering in me for a while and I still can't make sense of it.  It is quite possible that some hurt will never go away.  Its been a long time since I've been willing, or at least able, to let people get to know me.  Even when I'm comfortable with someone I'm guarded.  I haven't since experienced a true closeness to another human being in a long time.  At times I feel like my metaphorical heart was doomed from the start.  I want to open up but I can't, I'm afraid.  I'll admit it.  Today I can do that, it wasn't always that way.  Fear would keep me stuck and not even writing would help.  I feel guilty and sorry that I can't love properly. It weighs me down daily. 

How does one go about learning to love all over again?

Where Our Poetry Lives

"A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing."-
George Bernard Shaw

How true is this?  It is so easy to get down on oneself in the face of mistakes but mistakes are an invaluable tool in the process of learning.  There was a time where I was afraid to do anything for fear of screwing up.  It had been so ingrained in my mind by my experiences growing up that I was unable to see that I was letting all that bullshit become my identity.  I identified with the paralysis that fear would instill in me, and it was always easier to do nothing than deal with the idea that I was a failure.  Obviously today I know this isn't true. 

It has taken me quite a long time to get to the place where I can separate myself from those ideas.  We become what we're surrounded with whether it's of our own making or not.  But there is another side to the human being, some call it a soul.  I believe it's where our true being lies.  It's what makes us different, and gives us our own ideas and thoughts.  It's where our "poetry" comes from, as I say.  I had to identify with that version of me, and get to know what it was all about.  There is no failure there or judgment, its the purest form of me.  And this isn't some new age mumbo jumbo, it's what I know to be true.  Perhaps this is why I try to give all people a chance, because I can see in them what they don't see in themselves.  I try to coax it out of anyone I'm around so we can all share the grand view.  And a grand view it is.

I realize I went off on a bit of a tangent there.  But all things are related when it comes down to it.  I don't just feel it today, I know it.  Mistakes made are lessons learned.

Discarding Snowflakes

Pouring a bowl of cereal I realize I got the last of the box.  The little bits and pieces at the bottom get no love, but it's my favorite part.  Like the chewy brownie edges that get cut off and discarded, those are the best to enjoy.  The back of my pants are wet and it drives me a little crazy, it's bad enough I have to walk around the house with my shoes removed. 

Don't take off your shoes, please, I want to know where you've been. 

It's snowing outside, finally, and apparently I have to remove the snow, too.  Who comes up with all of these rules?  Can one not live a spontaneous life anymore?  Spontaneity makes me feel alive.  My eyes light up and you might even get a smile out of me.  The snow is falling and I want to chase each flake like I'm chasing a dream.  My feet have begun to move and I don't think I should control it.  I think I'ma take a walk and just go with it.

My Life Fits In A Cardboard Box

Talking with a friend the other day about my recent post Mad Professor I realized how much writing I have laying around, pretty much available for anyone if they got curious.  As stated in that post I've always got some kind of scrap paper in my back pocket and a pen nearby, you never know when something inspiring will catch your eye.  A lot of this stuff I never do anything with, folded up pieces of ink covered paper litter my life, they are my life.  In my locker at work, above my visor in the car, under the arm rest.  I've got notebooks of all shapes and sizes stacked up in the garage, and filling book shelves.  I have to confess, I think it looks good seeing a book I've written in sitting up there between to Thoreau and Whitman.  Maybe one day. 

I often wonder what would happen to all of it if something happened to me.  Would anyone read it?  I've got a lot of thoughts written down that I'm not sure people want to see.  Would people like the version of me they see?  It wouldn't matter, I suppose, I wouldn't be here.  Apparently I'm not that concerned with it, they still lay, strewn about my world.  I tell you though, it'd be like a puzzle for someone to figure out.  There's no rhyme or reason to any of it.  I don't date anything, I'm just not that organized.  Having a blog helps me in that aspect.

Maybe one day I'll do something with all of it.  I'm not sure.  I can't imagine just throwing it away, although I haven't looked at most of it in years.  I intend to write a book some day and perhaps I can use some of it for that.  I suppose it's possible my kids might want to look through it at some point.  I remember pouring over some stuff that my mother had one written, it was like a gold mine in a cardboard box.  If only she had done something with it.  I may not have the quality of writing she had but I have the determination she never could muster. 

Behind Bars

Sometimes I tell people that it's amazing I've made it this far in life without ending up in prison.  I was bad, y'all.  I did all kinds of crazy shit when I was younger.  I dropped out of high school, twice nonetheless.  I was in and out, mostly in, of trouble with the law.  Even when I was really young I was constantly in trouble, fighting all the time, just off the damn chain.  By the time I got into about my sophomore year in high school it was on!  My parents, divorced, I was back and forth between the two of them throughout my whole life.  I lived with my mother most of my high school years because the tension between my father and I had finally boiled over.  We had an actual fist fight with both individuals involved.  There was no more him beating on me, I had finally had enough.  He ended up with a broken nose and two black eyes, and although I am not proud of it, it was the last time he ever hit me.  Talk about an angry individual, I was the epitome of THAT.  It was me against the world as far as I was concerned and through the lashing out somewhere deep down inside I knew it was whooping my ass.  I had known for a long time, but I guess even a kid can get to the point where they just kind of give up and let themselves be consumed by their emotions.

My relationship with my mother was a rather backward one.  Ever since I was a young child I felt like I had to take care of her.  Probably since the night, I may have been around 5 years old, that my childhood was officially ripped away from me.  My younger sister sat on the couch crying hysterically as my 5 year old fists whaled on the back of my fathers head as he whaled on the front of my mothers...my efforts were futile.  Alcohol was always involved.  So, while I didn't know how to get by in life I was trying to make sure my mother got by as well.  She would sometimes lock herself in the house for days, draw every curtain in the house and let the darkness take over her.  I think this is the reason that even today if I'm up and there is light outside, I've got every blind in the house open.  I don't like sitting in the dark, it disturbs memories in me that I don't want roused.  They're sleeping lightly and I'd rather it stay that way.

So, this isn't about my parents, it's about me.  While all of that stuff is still within me, I've gotten over it and let it all go.  That shit was tearing me up.  The time came where I had to face what my life was becoming or I was going to either end up in jail or dead.  As much as I hated life I didn't want to die.  And I had spent enough stints locked up that I knew that wasn't an option.  I would rather have died than end up locked down like that.  Human beings are not meant to be caged up.  A life sentence in prison is about the worst thing you can do to a person.  No matter what you might try your mind just can't get past the bars in front of your face.  My mind needs room to play, I think I knew that even back then.  

I knew I had to make a drastic change because I wasn't going to do it on my own.  I needed to get away from the neighborhood and my parents and start something new.  I joined the Army, and as hard as it was to adjust, and as much as I hated it, it was the best thing I could have done.  It straightened me out in a lot of ways.  I did my time and got out...I got out of it what I needed.  There was no more drinking by the railroad tracks, or selling weed out of the pizza joint I worked at.  Roaming the alleys at 3 in the morning was no longer what I wanted to do.  I wanted a clear head to learn about myself, and about life through my eyes.  The biggest thing I got out of the Army is that I realized I didn't know myself at all.  I didn't know who I was or what I was capable of doing.  Although it took a few years for me to see this, it all originated there.  And it wasn't until I saw and felt it all that I was able to let go of it and move forward.

I don't normally talk about this stuff much.  I haven't had a reason to.  I don't want people feeling sorry for me nor do I want a pat on the back for any of it.  The fact is, this is my life.  I overcame the odds and I think it would be selfish for me to keep it all to myself.  If there is someone out there reading this that wants to give up, don't.  I'm proof that people can change, all we need to do is let it happen.  I spent so much time fighting change until I finally had no choice if I wanted life.  And I do.  If you can find some sense of inspiration in what I'm telling you then it was well worth me letting it all out.  It's my story.  If I don't own it, it owns me.

Today I enjoy the birds and the trees,

the sunshine and the rain.

My kids give me a freedom I never had, 

and they've given me life.

I can gaze into space without looking

over my shoulder.

I've pulled the plug that had my mind

backed up.

And there are no bars keeping me

contained.

I'm free to roam.

Mad Professor

Somebody called me a mad professor today and it made me chuckle.  I have to admit, I kind of felt that it was fitting.  I sit here day in and day out at work, once my work is done of course, at my desk writing.  When I'm at work I go old school with the pen and paper.  I used to be really self-conscious about who would see me writing, hiding, tucked away in a corner so nobody can see what I do.  Now days, I could care less.  This dude sees me in here everyday, no matter what the shift, writing away.  I'll admit, I take a bit of pride in the fact that I can sit in this dirty, dingy place with judgments from all angles and spill my beautiful guts no matter what anyone says.

Sometimes I wonder what others would think if they actually come across one of my "mad scribblings" pages covered ink, an incoherent mess of words.  You see, when I write I just let it go.  I might start 10 different pieces before I have one I want to hold, and see through to the end.  Sometimes I'll piece it all together and somehow it just works.  My method is madness, it suits me well.   

Do you have a particular method to your writing?  I think that the process is just as fulfilling as the end result, and sometimes more so.  I don't show people my unfinished work like this so it's a treat for y'all.  It usually displays some insecurities which I cut out before the finished versions of my work.  Aren't we all a little insecure?  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't.  So this is what I was working on earlier, in all of it's unfinished glory.

Follow The Beat

Staring at a blank page is nothing new to me.  The words rumble and turn in my head, flirting with my tongue and thus my fingertips.  Burning holes in my heart from the hot, dripping ink expelling this shit out of me would help.  Stuck, choked up in my throat the verbs don't want to move.  Trying, and trying too hard to squeeze out just a little bit. 

Failure.
Worthless.
Fucked.
Scrap.

Wads of paper lay at my feet, frustration spattered on walls and floor. Closing my eyes i retreat.  Let go and it flows freely, easily releasing these God awful demons.  Manifesting upon the page before me, i tell a story.  Ignoring the reasons why i shouldn't write, i do so obeying my rebellious side and confiding in all of you.  A peace ensues from knowing that someone knows, even though they don't know me.  Sometimes its lonely, only i don't mind when my poetry gets real soulful.

All i needed was a beat.