…and as she leans back,
sinking into the chair, believing that this last hit will bring all of her dreams back.
The hopes she once held,
the beliefs that her old innocence believed in.
That innocence short lived, and it wasn’t like pain decided to ease in. Misery struck her
more like thunder.
As all the men of her past did,
however long those quote unquote relationships lasted.
And no matter how much she tried to look past it,
the memories never left.
How could they?
Forget the scars on her back and breasts.
The scars in her mind would never allow her to rest.
she was sleeping less and less…
seemed to be yet another test,
and all she kept doing was fail.
For others, her bad decisions were obvious as hell…
yet, somehow, she never could tell.
The blueprints she received
from even before she was conceived
was that of turmoil and struggle.
Never once in life experiencing kisses and cuddles,
not the way a child should.
Some expect smiles and laughs during childhood,
if it was all the same,
she would’ve taken pain that was subtle.
None of that love stuff for this little girl blue.
For her, life was trouble.
That is all she knew,
and all it seemed she would ever know.
That same blueprint lead her to the men she would choose,
if you could call her a chooser.
More like a beggar.
So she would begin to procreate with those losers,
no way she could know any better.
She would say they amused her,
those sexual users,
Daily they mentally and emotionally bruised her…
but the cycle was no different for them.
Yes, they were labeled men,
but behaved like adolescence, or even worse.
Men whose only example of manhood
was watching as dad stood
belittling and berading her.
Best way to teach is to model…
and the loudest influence in their lives would be a bottle.
And not only do they drive down that same road,
they hit the gas full throttle.
Fuck a glass, they hit full bottle.
Hitting their women the same,
leaving these gorgeous women maimed.
Leaving their gorgeous soul’s lame.
And while many argue they only have themselves to blame,
I’d like to see how many of you could go unburned in that flame.
Even worse, these lost beings
who were meant to be kings
ending up nothing more than a jester.
SO lost in direction,
they begin taking advantage of the young,
nothing more than a molester.
And so it becomes the same song…
young, innocent eyed girl who was preyed on
with no one to protect her.
Supposed human beings
who she herself considered kings…
until they exposed their scepter.
A young girl lost,
only to become a mother
of her own misery…
yet somehow worse off.
her children asleep for about an hour,
a few days since they have taken a shower,
and damn near nothing in the fridge.
She sits slouched
half-naked on the couch,
with rubber hose tied off,
armed with a syringe.
Having just kissed each of them on the head,
most leave a note,
while a bag of heroine is what she leaves instead…
…and as she leans back,
she imagines that this last hit will bring all of her dreams back.
And with that,
having shot the poison all in,
she said a prayer, and finished with her last words ever being,
I got this heaviness inside.
This yearning…really its a fire.
Though cliche is recognized, its the word that best describes
And though it is buried in my chest, it engulfs my entire.
Unsure if it is burning me down or beginning to inspire.
But it is burning…
like a young man’s first love.
Like a scorned woman’s vengeful heart.
Like a preacher’s passion or a slave’s conviction,
a leader’s actions and a prayer’s prediction.
An addict’s addiction
Burning so fiercely, I had to sit down and write shit.
Fore it started burning me down.
Once told my young cuz
to turn her forest fire into a flame thrower…
now I’m lookin to take my own advil.
Can’t lay down cause
every time I do my chest is pressed
with the heaviness of an anvil.
Using blank screen as canvas to paint the flames…
bright reds and oranges, vibrant yellows,
twisting, turning, dancing about.
Choreographing this heat into a blow torch
so I can choose what and where gets scorched.
Funny enough, I know what it burns for…
Somewhat mysterious that there is something that fire can yearn for.
But it does…and I do.
First time I met her I knew.
And the flame began…
A candle size fire that has since grown.
No other light I have since known.
and now I am writin,
hoping the inferno gets focused,
and that the flame finds a hearth.
hoping these words get noticed,
and that the message finds that heart.
Digging through the crate of thoughts, ideas, memories,
looking for that record of that moment to place under the needle,
scratch the surface,
finding the words
that reflect the thought of another time and place.
that not only resonates with me, the processor…
but also to stander’s by.
Knowing that surface scratch needle placement
potentially push past, pierce, penetrate
through to the heart, pounding, pumping,
placing peace and passion at its core.
I’m not a producer cause its not the product I search for,
but the process.
I hunger to move you, push you, have your soul search,
digging through its crates,
looking to move the next…
looking to move me.
Filled with constant breakdowns and crashes
burned out, in the bottoms, covered in ashes.
But from this I reset my sight on total oneness
in hand; map, food and compass.
My heart, a vehicle for all terrains.
Memories of past mistakes seem all that remains.
And, sadly, the human mind rarely focuses on all that we’ve gained.
And even during my restoration, my recent years of love found through pain
have all been retained.
What has changed is my appreciation for amore.
See, in my past I focused on my hurts, but no more.
And in the past no pain was as possible as L.A. with no shore,
Bishop Don with no whore,
a house with no floor,
the Earth with no core.
But experience has taught me what the pain was for.
A baby eagle learns the technique of not falling
he learns how to soar.
With me, I’ve done nothing but building since my System Restore.
Wishing I could be your everything…
no more though. it don’t work that way…it shouldn’t be. not even focusing on the shouldn’t we’s. momentarily in the moment, and in this momentous life of ours each and every moment shifts, changes, fluctuates…stays the same. that IS the name of the game. a perfect imbalance. kinda like us.
You and I
imperfectly reflecting off of one another. At times feeling like we’ve got it all under control, but always having that tingling feeling like at any moment it will all blow away. How do you go from brick wall to the feather that sits on it? That’s what happen to us…isn’t it? And yet we still have to walk through it all confident, proud, unfucked with…emotional. Somehow we have to maintain this imperfect balance of surety and vulnerability. Somehow we have to create goals: plan, prepare, practice, pursue, push, pound, pray, plead, pretend, push, pound and pray again; and in the end be ok with not reaching that same goal that you went through all of that shit to get to in the first place. Didn’t we do that? Didn’t we try?
You in I
And the nasty irony to it all is, ‘doing it right’ means being ok with not doing it right! Getting it ‘under control’ means allowing it to go out of control. Finding ‘balance’ in it all means accepting its imbalance. Its imperfection. Its ugly truth. Isn’t that what we were? An ugly truth. And is that why we hurt so much…because we couldn’t accept our ugliness…our truth. And what really leaves me fucked backwards in a time machine, is that I am somehow getting better at accepting all of this…and it still hurts! And it is you that helped me get here…it is you that reminded me of the truth that I already knew, that we all knew. You held my hand while I walked through the darkness, the muck, the grime and soot, ashes and residue. Somehow I get what I don’t get…I see what I can’t see…and I am thankful for that. I am thankful for you…
You in Eye