Small
I let myself shrink
as small as can be.
Because there is no chance
I could ever grow
as big as my dreams
so why should I try.
I let myself collapse
inward upon myself.
Because if i were to get too big
i would feel even smaller,
buried inside my mind.
I let myself fall
tumble deeper down
into my own pain.
Because if I get knocked down
every time I stand,
why rise at all
when I could instead
let myself fall.
Watering Dead Plants
A vigorous fire burning the clouds,
an elaborate masquerade of delight.
I sit, calm, envious,
distantly observing natural pieces of a cosmic puzzle
pondering everything I wish I was but never had the guts to be.
Each moment rolled out, a vintage film in our minds;
playing for us on late nights, alone,
feeding on sadness and regret.
9, a mischievous school playground,
new grin forming with each kid toppled.
17, an ignorant last drive,
intoxication taking the wheel and pushing me out the door.
25, flying high above the clouds,
watching my still body with animosity and disappointment.
My life is an empty shell
that I convince myself is full of promise.
Years spent feeding an ephemeral dream
unaware that the truth was a dull slap
or simply refusing to acknowledge reality;
how long must the misery persist
until I stop watering dead plants.
Many have tried to plant new plants.
But as the films in our minds play
on and on, those too have died.
A withering disease traveling without remorse.
85, a final film, filled with remorse,
that I never stopped watering dead plants.
#Poetry
The Essence of Aspiration
A young man sits alone at a bar on a Friday night. Perhaps he is drinking alcohol, aiming to forget his sorrows; or maybe just water, passing the time and awaiting a new beginning. He drinks steadily, as he has done for the past year. Walks slowly, meticulously, with a small limp in his left leg. Quite possibly from birth or maybe a childhood accident.
Nobody knew much of anything of the man. Only that he was in his mid-twenties and he wasn’t from around the area; nobody had heard of him until he started coming to the bar. Every Friday for a year, the man came in and ordered the same enigmatic drink, sat alone at the end of the bar, and conversed with nobody. There was an unspoken agreement, since nobody ever seemed keen enough to want to talk with him either.
The others in the town were just as dejected, only they created a lifestyle around drinking together. They would gather to forget their displeasure and make room for more. Most importantly, the people from the town had always been. They grew up there. Their parents grew up there. Their kids would grow up there. The town was as it is, and will be as it lies.
The peculiar man was known around town simply as the man at the bar and he was not talked about any more than that. Until, one Friday, the man didn’t walk into the bar. He didn’t limp through the door, didn’t order his same undetectable drink, and didn’t sit at the far end talking with nobody. He was simply gone.
“Where did he go?” people began to ask. “What happened to the man at the bar?” For weeks people speculated about what could have happened.
“I heard he jumped off a building,” was a common rumor, “Well I heard he was hit by a car,” the popular response. Each person in the town formed an elaborate story of the man’s death. For a couple of weeks, that is. And then, just as quickly as it began, people stopped talking about the man altogether. He became the ugly truth in the corner of your eye that nobody wants to look at, washed away by the tides of alcohol.
Another year went by and still the man had not returned. Nobody ever expected he would. But then, to the shock and awe of every person who knew of him in the past, he resurfaced. This time not at the end of the bar alone, but on the TV, resting in the corner of the room. What people saw on the TV was a man who was purposeful, confident, and willing.
“That’s him, I know that’s him,” the others in the bar began saying, “turn that up.” So, the bar was silenced but for the voice of the man who used to drink alone in the bar.
“Tell us, how did you go from being nobody to being somebody?” Asked the interviewer. And with his answer, the town knew, the man would never come back. The man had broken the cycle and he had flown free. The man said only this:
It is only when we realize what we are not, that we realize what we want to become.
For you.
A young soul sat around an empty table, happy with a moment preserved in memorable bliss.
Lost in thoughts of a future without promise yet holding potential for beauty and joy.
No restraint of imagination but something still held back, a fear of chance,
afraid to let go of what is and always has been.
Careful, this may pass as what always will be.
Head up, walk valiantly towards the raging current.
Stand strong, emerge as desire has laid out.
Thinking of a dream, an aspiration that was so beautiful yet just out of reach.
No excuse too great, no task too hard;
For a dream is resilient and overpowering, there to help when others may not.
As for you, there will always be a dream and there will always be hope.
Hesitation
How nice it must be
To live without regret
Awake with confidence
And conquer the world.
How nice it must be,
Endless opportunity awaiting
A decision of a lifetime.
All it takes is yes.
Could you ever know?
The struggle with those three letters
The weight on your chest
Holding you back. But for what,
Something better? Something easier?
Perhaps guiding you towards fate
Or leading you into oblivion,
From which there is no escape.
The Soul Within
Upon arriving at the musty entrance, Jack noticed a subtle essence ebbing from the seams of the door. It appeared to be an invitation, or a warning. Which one exactly he was not yet sure. He had arrived at the final secret held by author H.W. Bloomfield, who was tragically murdered only months before. Now here he was standing at the end of the long journey which brought him through criminal evasion and life-threatening situations. He was not about to fall short this time.
Jack approached with nervous caution and tried the knob. Locked. It wouldn’t so much as rattle, let alone embrace his presence. With a cunning suspicion, he continued to search the door and the area surrounding the room, each tick of his watch reminding him what he needed to find. It was right under his nose, he could feel disappointment building in his failed efforts. The carpets were as dusty as you might expect for such an old building, the walls cracking with time’s relentless embrace. Lights barely existing, although he wouldn’t have it any other way. On the verge of frustration, Jack nearly gave up, when he noticed it. A perfect imperfection resting in the one place he had yet to look, out of the corner of his eye. There, at the base of the door, was a splinter in the old warped blockade. Peeling it slowly revealed a small, old key which slid freely out of the cache.
Time had frozen, Jack’s heart beating faster than a rocket. The key was at the will of the gentle grace of gravity, leaving a heavy thud echoing through the ears of any who may be listening. There have always been others listening. Perhaps wasting too much time, he picked up the key and hesitantly slid it into the lock. The single bead of sweat emanating from his brow suggested he was not ready for what was to come. He chose to ignore his hesitation for the others searching for this very room would soon be upon it; they were undoubtedly only minutes behind. Regardless, Jack turned the key. Turned the handle. Placed a hand on the center of the door. And pushed.
Dust immediately filled his lungs, the final guardian of a tomb of script. Blindly feeling for the single light switch on the wall that had to be there, Jack kicked what felt to be a lead weight on the ground. Hobbling towards the much-required scintillate ceiling he was quick to discover a statue staring him in the face. Jack nearly jumped out of his shoes. A moments rest revealed this to be the same statue present at Bloomfield’s murder. This was it. Jack had found the final secret.
The room was full of emptiness; shelves with no reserve, tables bearing no burden. Simply one object meant to catch the attention of whichever eyes met its acquaintance. A chest, small and aged. No lock, no resistance to the inevitable breach it awaited. Jack stepped slowly, meticulously, towards this prize of dangerous intention, this final life of the dead, this world bending dominion.
“No going back now. The only way forward is through.” Jack murmured as he felt out the grain in the dark wood which had accentuated over time. This made him wonder of the age of the piece, and the age of the contents it held. He noticed the same odd breath of eminence coming from the chest as had the door, and placed a hand on either side of the lid. Few thoughts ran through his mind, most importantly the consequences if he did not vacate the room quickly and the inevitable greeting of death that would await his loose restraint.
“Please be good.” Final words of a man committed to himself and to the uncertainties of the moment. Jack lifted the lid, but all he found was a single bound codex of obscurity. He picked up the odd transcript, studied its heft and its hold. A beautiful creation, each page filled with enduring freshness and leather-bound mustiness. It was strange that the object both looked so young and felt so old. With nothing left to explore, Jack opened the first page. In ink, centered on the page, a single line.
All that open must close
but those that close may forevermore remain.
Strange. The first five words were scribbled in anxious ink, while it appears the remaining were labored in a blood red tome of urgency. The room remained calm around the scene, the only sound a beating heart. Turning the page revealed to Jack the importance of what he was holding. There, still dripping with wet red ink, sealed, and signed, was the preservation of the removed.
Here I give my soul as
payment for sins not atoned.
Before you are characters of
myself and reflections of who
I wished to become.
Be wary of losing yourself
In the passion of this story.
-H.W. Bloomfield
Look
Moving swiftly yet not fast enough,
watching time melt away.
Staring out the window wondering
what will come next.
Passing all that could have been
But never was.
Guessing what will be next
And what will never become.
All the while the single thought,
that you have but to pass
what is yet to become
and that is wonderfully exciting.
Shadows of Delusion
Her eyes fluttered open, a sudden feeling of panic flooding her chest. Bolting up, she scanned her surroundings. Nothing. Darkness as far as the eye could see. Only the occasional indistinguishable shape was visible in the distance.
“Hello?” She whimpered, her mind trying to recall anything at all,
“Hello, is anyone there?”
At first a few minutes passed, then a few more, and then she had been alone in the darkness for hours. Shivering, alone, the girl began to break down, not being able to remember where she was or how she got there.
“Please! Anybody!” As the tears rolled down her face, one thing finally came to her mind. One word, that left her shocked and scared all at the same time.
“Run,” Her mind yelled it at her, louder and louder, until it roared in her ears, “run, Run, RUN!”
Jumping up, unsure of where to go or what would be waiting, she sprang forward into the infinite darkness.
Faster, faster her legs moved beneath her. There were no interferences, no obstacles. Only what appeared to be an infinite oblivion of darkness, streaking by inch by inch, foot by foot. She began to slow, her body and mind breaking down. Enough time had passed, with nothing to be found, that the running became a jog, and the jog became a walk. Slowly, eventually, she stopped. Dark shapes lurked in the darkness, the sound of her own breath and beating heart rang through the air.
Giving up hope, she slumped to the floor, wanting to lay down and let it end. Hoping she would wake up from this terrible nightmare. It wasn’t until her breathing had steadied and her heart had calmed that she heard it. One simple sentence, that made her skin crawl and every hair stand on end, a ghostly paleness rushing over her.
“I knew you would find me.”
========================================================
She whipped around, looking for any sign of where the omnipresent voice had originated. Darkness still surrounded her, however, and all that her senses could detect were whispers coming from every direction and a gut wrenching feeling that things were very, very wrong.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Mind racing, the shapes in the shadows seemed to become slightly clearer. A shape that could be a tree on her left, and possibly a house on her right. Not sure what else to do, she chose a shadow straight ahead and began to run towards it. Whispers getting louder, her mind telling her not to go any further.
She ran for what seemed like hours, yet the shape didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Finally, after exhaustion completely overtook her body, she collapsed.
“Get up,” The voice said, making its presence known once more, “Just get up.”
Slowly, dreadfully, with her body fighting against her will, she got up. There in front of her she saw a door. She had finally made it. She reached for the handle, finally hopeful that something would—
“—NO! You will regret that. Leave this place. Or else the darkness will be all you know.” Panicking for only a moment, she quickly realized what had to be done. She was no longer afraid of the voice, or of the danger of the darkness. Knowing if she didn’t take a chance, then there would most definitely never be another chance for her escape again. With confidence, the girl opened the door and stepped inside.
“Big mistake,” whispered the voice once again. Just then, the ground began to rumble, the door disappeared, and what was left was only total darkness. The rumble became fiercer, stronger, until the girl could no longer stand. She collapsed to the ground, only this time from something completely different.
The ground was shaking so vigorously it was as if the fabric of reality were tearing itself apart. Her body was being thrown around like a ragdoll, a feeling of weightlessness washing over her, making her stomach churn. All the while, the voice continued to grow louder and louder.
“Wake up,” Merely a whisper at first, escalating until it was like a train in her mind, “WAKE UP!”
The last thing she remembered was screaming.
========================================================
“-Just a nightmare, wake up sweetie. Hey, you’re okay, it was only a bad dream. That’s it.” As her boyfriend slowly shook her awake, back to reality, the realization set in. That what had happened was not real. It only happened in her mind, and that it was over. Relief flooded over her body as her heart beat slower, her breath steadied.
“Are you alright? What happened?” He asked with a gentle and concerned voice.
“It was only the worst dream of my life,” she quipped, “It really was quite awful.”
With nothing left to lay around for, the couple got up and began their days, getting themselves ready for a day in the real world. He showered, put on his suit and got ready for work. She put on her exercise clothes and got ready to go to the gym. As they were about to leave, saying goodbye with smiles, that’s when she noticed it. Subtle at first, yet it still struck fear in her eyes. It was as if the world were getting darker. The sun disappeared behind dark clouds, the lights went out, and it was as if the very soul of everything around her was disappearing, leaving only darkness. Her heart began to beat rapidly once more. The hairs on her neck stood up, and a dreadfully familiar sensation seized her body. With one final look at her boyfriend, she realized:
it wasn’t just a dream.