My heart and I have been together for as long as I can remember

We encountered our first love together

Dealt with my brothers and my father

Wished joy to some people

Wished pain to others

But I think we’re beginning to grow apart

My heart can’t handle my fears

I’ve got too much on my plate

I make selfish choices

I spend all day acting

My heart is leaving me.

Do I take time to change things?

Go to counseling

Cancel obligations

Find time to be authentic

Is that even in my character?

I’m lost, how should I be able to find my way

Or do I just let myself die

Let the heartache take away everything

Commit to the void

The void that feels more real than living

How do I manage my heart

In that town the sons of working men live in piles of sawdust, shadowed by their father’s figures.

The daughters of the same settle for what is given them, hoping only to find love, in repression.

That town, where chalk sits flat and the rain is called on short notice to make us forget.

Crabapples, ammunition of the angry children, grow in plenty while the minds of those pitching dry from lethargy.

The lampposts that illuminate downtown are just a show for the bored youth, wanderers in avoidance of their home’s dusty leather glow

And just as the families of loving parents grow irritated in boredom and separate, the grass on every lawn splits and patches, leaving good ground for the bugs to nest.

Though apart from it now, far past that place,

I do feel that I belong there.

Even as I live free in thought and emotion, progressive and cut free from guilt,

I miss the stillness.

Getting work done is hard when you can easily move back home and do nothing for as long as you want.

Yes I have potential.

Yes I work on the things I enjoy.

That does not mean I want to perform to every expectation you have of me.

I can’t care enough.

You’re blessed to have been gifted with a solid platform.

Is it even worth explaining though?

You’ll carry on believing I have the ability to care.

It’s just not that simple.

Let’s hope we can come to terms.

Wrapped in a plaid scarf

Tucked into the futon

Einstein’s hair and God’s best pair of eyes

On top of the page you wrote down the number

Not an ordinary number

You’re giving me the urge to tell someone about you

So there’s this flaming gilded horse right?

He flies down from in-between two massive parting clouds in the sky

It seems as if he’s trotting on the air

As he lands you can hear a very faint metallic ringing

He turns away from you at a 3/4 pose

You step forward but stop as he begins to speak...

I am a really really special pony, Garth

I’m not sure you could handle all that I am

You quickly respond,

Well how do you know that, pony?

You have not proven yourself, this is obvious

The pony’s eyes spin and become pitch black

Suddenly the flames which once seemed so pure turn to a visible sickly green odor, billowing from his now exposed rib cage

You must trust me, Garth

I could not begin to explain my power

You spill the coffee you’re holding

Okay

If you are ever to read this I wish to thank you

You had more strength than anyone I know

You glowed brighter than any promise

You are a hero

An impossible and unnatainable persona

Your legacy of saving lives as a firefighter, alone, marks you as a saint

But your life did not amount to your occupation

You were a loving father, a mentor and a scholar

Your impact on the people who knew you was enormous

You taught humility, justice and perseverance

You wrote books from your heart

You painted the things you held dear

Even when Mimi passed on you never stopped making meaning

In the aftermath of heartbreak and dissolution you surpassed human limitations

You carried on your history of love, morality and art

Whenever I reflect on how broken and torn I may be I think of you

I recall that the blood running through me carries a message

Life is to be lived

and love is to be given

Thank you, Papa

The day was winding down with slow roll in Ashfield

Red and golden leaves painting every square inch of the county

A three-piece kit and tinny guitar felt almost diagetic

My mother catches sight of a tag sale

"Oo!"

I sink, thinking "not another..."

It wasn't buying anything that made the trips worth it

The colors, the bumpy roads, the cold air just outside the window

These were unforgettable

But I had little skill for expression back then

And so I hopped out

Stained glass lit up the house in jarring colors

The man was a painter, she said

Someone she went to school with

We got met with a kind smile

"Teddy! This must be Clay."

It seemed so odd that my mother was so well known

She never seemed to hang out with people very much

Hard to believe, given how a wonderful she was

As they talked I roamed around to check out his "works"

Copper fish, dangling glass, abstract canvases

No, I did not see the appeal

Given, all the art I knew was on lined paper

Must have been a cool guy though, my mom liked him

I then found myself in a gallery room surrounded by feathered thespians

So, feeling unqualified, I went to my mom and let her know I'd be sleeping in the car

She sighed and told me she'd be quick

I felt bad but the patchouli started getting to me

After a few minutes she hopped into the car

"Not really a tag sale, I guess." She said

"No. Kinda hippy dippy."

"Lets go home. I'll make spahgetti."

We laid like a cross in my bed

Sea foam soft hair

Tender emotions every so often spilling out

Hands, steel bars locking us in that cell together

I got up, only for a moment, and put our record on

Suddenly our hearts fixed to the rhythm with a slow snap

A sultry air melting the space between us

From some place deep notes of molten copper and zinc started bubbling

She looked to me

"How does it feel"

But I knew what we felt

Picture me, a caricature of temperamental failure. Young and consumed by the R, G and B

The dull hum of my Asus netbook being the closest thing I have to a loving girl’s voice.

So as I sit cross legged on my Patriots blank which nearly lay on my bed I come to the realization that I am lonely.

Why could this be? I had that one girl- oh but she had only a crush.

It seemed so unhealthy to be driven by this desire to find someone who would enjoy me. Someone who could look at me and see the wonder in how high my gamer-score was.

So I talked to my mom about it and she expectedly told my father.

My father seemed to think that all the time I spent in my room was why I was unhappy.

I knew that this solitude was almost definitely a reaction to him and stirrings of my home life.

He seemed to think that by breaking out of my self built prison I would metamorphose into something deemed as worthy.

It seemed possible. In retrospect it wasn’t.

Up to this point I had enveloped myself in the things that made me unattractive, sure, but the risk of faking felt much more destructive.

Though after long consideration and manipulation from him I decided I’d reinvent.

The things that illuminated my eyes became things to tuck away and mask.

So as I entered 7th grade I carefully laid out my flaws, as I saw them, and flipped them over whatever axis has been deemed standard.

That was probably not a good thing, in retrospect.

I looked like a fool.

I now believe that everyone understood the fakery of a small fat kid with glasses and an absurd sense of humor wearing a snowboard brand hoodie with a DC hat.

About the time 8th grade rolled around I had cemented my place and my friend group.

They enjoyed being around me and I was labelled “funny” for the first time.

Within the same year my father left for the umpteenth time and the blood started flowing in my family again.

Those layers of papier-mâché started beading off.

I was back to “pretty much myself”

I was still shy and nerdy and obsessed but I accepted it.

It’s impossible to wear that facade forever.

As I have grown I have realized how integral video games, art and science fiction have become to my sense of self.

If I am ever lucky enough to see my child through high school it will be my duty to foster their self acceptance.

He lives like a jellyfish

Tentacles numbered one to fifteen

One for each year his brain has aged into his pitiful “adulthood”

Women meet him with awe

His bioluminescent, alien quality driving them to follow and inevitably suffer from his quick trigger defense

And as they lay in wake of romance

One primarily founded in imagination

All they can do is piss on their wounds

And scrape off his stingers