Fate fell on its face
and plunged through
to the other place
where old overcame the new.
A moment in time stretched
and staggered into infinity
condensed reality from farfetched
until only a small part of me.
I can cherish or deny,
but it doesn’t change what’s real,
love gained and lost changed inside
even if his wasn’t the same to feel.
Backwards reeling, plunged forward,
steps taken, and lessons learned
toll mistaken, running away and toward.
Is it enough to have yearned?
If you do what you’re told
You’ll end up growing old
while the masochistic masses
lay on laurels of half asses.
I’ve done as I’m told
waiting for my story to unfold
while my freak flag flies high
and I’m told all I have to do is try.
Failure is success as black is white
and I only ever tried to do what was right
which was wrong on the road paved
with the bodies of those unmade.
I stick up for myself only when I know
that the person on the other side isn’t foe
for fear of the vultures descend
their claws rake and rend.
The itch evolves into a scream.
The following silence strikes
to the rhythm of your fast beating heart.
The echoes reverberate through your dream,
hopes laying in neat little rows,
exhausted dreams dismembered.
I wake and choke on the residue
of the half emptied, half remembered
remains fading into the dawn.
The price of freedom
isn’t even loneliness.
Companionship can cause isolation,
and connection isn’t binary.
I admitted I don’t even like people
with reluctant attachment.
I know I’m better, and yet,
here I am again.
And I could be anyone
even if you are only you.
I step back and keep falling,
and he repeated,
“I told you about stairs,”
while trying to rewind time.
Quadrants are alien and confuse
and yet I chose to be one of four.
Adapting has only made things less clear.
Being truthful in inner conflict
is staring at several reflected, fractured shards.
I’m one of one, regardless of who I see.
I’m one of one, on my own and making it through.
I’m one of one, no matter who stares at me.
I’m one of one, with or without you.
You are just not that special, attractive
but part of ninety percent of people,
and you’re the one who responds.
All of them are flaky, so I see you out of the four
friends that are only friends.
Even if they say they love me to the moon and back
I’m a backup- It’s only hyperbole,
because I too am not that special.
In a mythical future things would be better. Isn’t this what we all think about? One day, some day, maybe next time it will turn out right, turn out better, or turn out differently.
We wish we were satisfied while we realize there would be no progress without that struggle.
We feel guilty for our dissatisfaction since so many have it worse, and it could always be worse.
We strive for something better while we grasp and fumble on the details of how one actually accomplishes such a thing. How can I make things better? Can I? If it could be done, if it were so easy, wouldn’t life already be that way?
I can make ripples as an individual, but won’t the water just return to it’s still surface? Even if we all make splashing waves, the water stays the same.
Still, I have to believe we were put here to do more than just tread water.
When I learn to swim, will the water change?
If I start to drown, will someone save me?