I’ve thought about this often

wondered hard and long

what is my life’s purpose;

why should I go on?

And as I’ve speculated

and deeply wondered why

I’ve come to a conclusion

that helps me to get by:

I live for those around me

to help them find their light

to encourage their best version

to witness as they take flight

to applaud all their successes

to lessen all their pain

to help them to rise up

and try and try again;

to bring a simple smile

to a stranger’s face

to wipe away the tears

to offer an embrace.

My thoughts have helped me see

I’m not here for me

But rather for you

Whoever you might be.

She swings her hips in a sway,

foriegn to sour sounds,

showered her hair in soliloquy of shades,

shimmering the sparks of stray power in the rain away,

flipped to a side of saying hey,

voiced her name a dancer of no shame,

clapping to her claim, presented flowers,

handing hands away to music sang,

tunes and beats their feet shuffled the night away,

foreign of both two.

Thin cylinder of paper,

Click of a lighter,

Hesitation,

Will I be a fighter?

“Are you a chicken?!”

“Come on!”

“She’s too scared”

“You’re such a moron!”

Deep breath,

Puff of smoke,

Life changes,

It’s not a joke.

“She did it!”

“You’re one of us!”

“ Come on Taylor!”

“You’re a boss!”

It’s fruitless,

One use,

You’re condemned,

Yet you have no clue.

Slow death,

I want to go back,

To tell that bullied girl,

That you can’t go back.

Deep breath,

Puff of smoke,

Life changes,

It’s not a joke.

I don't like this teacher.

I want the old teacher back,

The one she replaced,

So I will refute her when I can.

None of them understand me,

How hard it is for me.

I'm almost completely blind,

Yet one of them talks about how she has retinal damage.

I don't belong here,

Nor do I want to be here.

I see no wrong in my actions,

So I will continue to argue.

I want everyone to like me,

So I'll try to be as witty as I can.

I'll make puns,

And mock what others often mock.

When another even mentions Fort Nite,

When others talk of anime,

I should make a comment,

As if they've mentioned the worst thing in the world.

They'll like me then, right?

They understand it's a joke.

There's no problem with my actions,

So I will continue to act this way.

He felt a sudden burst of glee when he opened the door and saw that he was the first to arrive. This was seldom the case; the office was a network, a hub, a carefully controlled hive of activity that seldom let up. He allowed the door to fall shut behind him and made his way through the morning silence of the office to his desk at the pinnacle of the room. He dropped his briefcase to the floor and happily gazed around, enjoying the serene sight of a busy day before it began.

It was exciting to be in this room on his own. He knew the office like the back of his hand but it almost made him feel like an intruder to be alone in here. Much like an errant schoolboy who’d crept into the classroom while the other students played in the schoolyard and the teacher took the thankful weight off her feet in the staffroom. A sense of mischievousness that he hadn’t felt in years sneaked up and tapped him on the shoulder, the delicious shiver of devilment taking him by surprise. He snatched the small globe off his desk, unhooked the tiny blue and green world from its golden pedestal, and marched quickly back to the door. His wastepaper bin was barely in sight from here, the rimmed edge just peeking out from the side of his desk, and if his aim was strong and true he should be able to do this. He was an avid golfer and aiming for impossible goals was a major component of his daily repertoire.

His tongue poked out the side of his mouth as he concentrated, measuring the distance and the technique with a practiced eye. A long, high lob was required, a throw that had enough of an arch to avoid the corner of the desk but enough heft to carry it all the way to its target. He lifted his arm, wincing at the small pinch of rheumatism in his shoulder, and cast his shot. The globe landed in the trashcan with an audible thunk. He threw his arms in the air and performed his own victory dance, imagining the adoring masses shouting his name, clapping their hands, and stamping their feet to see him prove to them once again that he was worthy of their trust.

Trust. It was a big word and he knew he’d dallied around the edges of both the word and its meaning far too often for people to automatically link it to his name. He knew that many people equated trust with a person’s moral characteristics and likeability, which was a darn shame in his opinion, but he had to remember that universal likeability had never been one of his goals. Respect, yes. Loyalty and devotion, yes. He’d learned long ago that his natural abrasiveness and competiveness weren’t conducive to garnering love and affection but he was also smart enough to know that he couldn’t have everything in life. Money could buy a man most things but it couldn’t buy him unconditional love. Oh, there were those who loved him – in fact, there were those who loved him with a fervour and they weren’t shy in vocalizing their feelings – but he’d known since he was a small boy that unconditional love was never his to own.

He left his spot by the door and with his hands tucked behind his back in a pose that he’d not yet noticed was one of his most recognizable gestures, he began a slow circumnavigation of the room. The office was old, probably well overdue for an update and modernization, but there was something to be said for working in a space where other successful people had played out their dreams. He stopped in front of a large framed painting, gazing solemnly at the scene for a long, pensive moment before noticing a speckling of dust on the trim. He snorted in amusement as his brain, always his wittiest of companions, commented that the dust speckles were a metaphor of sorts for the modern world. The planet in its entirety was in need of a robust spring clean, a shakeup, and a jolly good tidy up.

He wandered back to his desk, idly listening to the sound of his footsteps echoing on the polished floorboard. Pacing himself. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that he needed to pace himself. It was all very well to ride the stress-filled, exhilarating rollercoaster of global business but it wasn’t an activity any mere human could keep up forever. It just wasn’t possible. He’d once thought anything was possible but sadly, he’d had to revise his opinion of late. He sighed as he sunk down into his comfortable, high-backed leather chair. He’d accepted this role gladly, stepped up into a promotion he’d dreamed of for years, but no one had warned him of the toll it would take on his psyche, on his outlook on life, and even on his outlook on himself as a man.

Some rosehip tea would go down well now, a soothing drink that he’d recently adopted as his go-to beverage. As soon as the other workers arrived, he’d send one of the lesser clerks out to get some. Perhaps a bagel too, although his doctor would frown and tut-tut if he knew. He absentmindedly patted his belly, aware that there was more flesh there above the cut and restriction of his belt than there used to be. He told himself he had to remember that he was older now, less physically active, and extra pounds were an indisputable fact of age. Heck, many of his friends were already grandparents! Time waited for no man – who was it that had first uttered that indisputable truth?

Someone flung the door open, startling him out of his reverie, although experience had taught him to keep his face impassive and never show fear. To allow emotion to creep into business dealings was unacceptable poppycock and anyone who did so deserved his disdain and contempt. He moved the waste paper bin back under his desk with the tip of one highly polished shoe and levelled his cold stare at the new arrival.

Johnson visibly quavered under the weight of his leader’s glare. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President. We have Russia waiting on Line 2.”

The End

(Explicit language)

The truth is this, we are survivalist. We endure countless acts of struggle on a daily basis. Some are dealing with pain, loss, grief, fitting in, desires we cannot reach, life in general. We build these walls, safe houses within ourselves trying to protect what little pieces of fragility that still exist. We close doors, afraid to open up to what if’s because we can’t bare to fail again. Some of swing those doors wide open & jump face first into whatever is that is waiting, falling flat on our asses & skinning our knees, but we learn to get back up again, wiser & stronger or within these lies we tell ourselves. We live safely, within our own comfort zones, never to allow ourselves to fully breathe. Yet we wake up every damn day & live that same day over & over, calling it life!

What the hell are we so afraid of? Falling? Well fuck we weren’t born with wings but damn do we rely on the sky when we need something or someone to listen. So what if we screw it up, if we fall flat on our face & skin our hearts on the way down, at least we can say we fucking lived. I rather make a million mistakes along the way, I love my battle scars & the journey .These accidental moments of living with my walls down, well damn they define me. I want to be remembered for all the crazy shit I did & all the people I touched while discovering myself. I want people to say, she never just lived among the everyday, she lived like it was her last day, every god damn day of her life. For it’s the only way I know how to be me, raw & uncensored.

Live every damn day like no one is watching, love with every breath in your lungs & my god, hold onto the things that make you happy, you only get one chance to live outside the walls of your comfort zone.

#truths #life #thoughts

We were all lied to. That those in need are needy because there’s not enough to go around. We say this half-wittedly while we throw away out leftover food and donate clothing to the needy. Seedy politicians sew trees of lies, blocking the sun to feed themselves, no light in sight. Billionaire blowhards evade their civic duties and instead sketch dreams of a life in space. Using the money that might restore an already habitable planet to inhabit a new one. We watch with enthusiasm and curiosity in our eyes as megalomaniacs confidently say that soon “we” will make it to Mars. We. As though they’re bringing me there. A near-thirty year old college dropout who hasn’t amounted to anything. What will happen to me and the other Mes when they go? Will be become slaves? Will we be left for dead? I imagine a future where we’re all either sent to code camps or mines, programming the comptuers or digging for metals and oil for the billionaires we admire and worship. Our admiration for wealth will kill our grandchildren, as it’s killing children all over the world, every day. I fear we’re making a mistake, admiring it all. Is anyone listening?

... and time,

could be considered a rhyme

ever divine,

but who is to say

how we live, work and play,

when all the world is a cage,

and not the so-called, grand stage.

If I stand in one spot,

on a day very hot,

and another stands beside me to cool down,

I quietly think, this is my spot, you clown.

Find your own place, go in haste,

and leave me to my single joy,

is what I would say to a girl or a boy.

The world is filled with many a person,

chiefly put, it's like an immersion,

swallowing water filling my soul,

knowing there is nowhere to go,

for each place turned to,

another body is right in front of you.

Whatever happened to the old wide-opened spaces,

where we could be neighbors at a distance regardless the races.

Whatever happened to the days of old ...

it's called the future, so I am told.

But space one day won't matter for me,

when my headstone lies under an old oak tree,

and if someone wants to invade that space; better think twice,

for the smell won't be nice.

______

1/11/2019

9:56 p.m. - 10:05 p.m.